#burning regret and grief and pain

[nothingbizzare]

Burn

[ryeonah]

tag dump

[aleksatia]

🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

Cut Scene (NSFW): 🍎 Caleb – The Tea, the Rice, and Everything Between

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting. 

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.” 

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him. 

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes. 

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone. 

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth. 

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it  — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity.  But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you. 

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag. 

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

[on-the-clear-blue]

Down in the streets of Gotham, in the side alley next to Express Urgent Care run by one Leslie Thompkins and that was funded by the Martha Wayne Foundation was a soup kitchen.

Well...a soup kitchen of sorts. Not in any way official but if you were hungry in Crime alley you knew that the food would be safe and warm...and it was a place where *you* could be safe and warm.

Danny had left a week after his parents found out that he was Phantom, a week after he had seen their grief, the regret and pain in their eyes. The week had been spent in suspense, he knew that they needed to talk about what had happened but neither of his parents were ever able to even start bringing it up before they were sobbing.

Danny knew his parents loved him, thst his father felt soul crushing guilt, that his mother spent hours staring at herself in the mirror, as if she didn't even know who was looking back at her.

And to spare them both, Danny left.

It wasn't hard to do, not when he could turn invisible and phase through walls, a final text to Sam and Tucker to say his good byes (he knew that they would break and tell his parents where he would be going) and a particularly hard hug to leave from Jazz, Danny flew off with only a back pack.

He had traveled across the US for a few months, occasionally snagging a post card from a super store to send off home, paying only when he had the excess funds (Sam's rants about mega rich corporate billionaires let him know just which stores wouldn't miss the few bucks the cards sold for)

He had met up with Dani a few times, when she was in the country, handing him Vlads credit card and telling him to keep it (though he never did) only ever using it to book a room for a few nights at a hotel to clean himself up and sleep in a real bed.

He settled in Gotham after a while, he had briefly stayed in Faucett but that place didn't have nearly enough ecto for him to live comfortably.

Gotham on the other hand? It had everything, cops that don't question why a teen is on the streets, natural ecto up the wazoo and well...a crime rate that would dissuade his parents ever looking for him there.

He had set up a more permanent shelter in an abandoned apartment building (after chasing out the low level drug dealers that were using it) and found that he kinda liked the vibes of the place under the blatant crimes being committed in broad day light.

Sure people could see you getting mugged and look the other way, but if you were still alive and there 5 minutes later, they would come back, hand you something to clean up your now bloody nose and point out the bodega that had the best sandwiches.

It was a sense of community that Danny didn't know he had missed for the many months he traveled.

His first "cook out" wasn't even supposed to be a cook out, his apartment building was mostly wood and he didn't trust himself to not burn it down, so he came outside, setting up a portable stove and setting up a pot filled with some, water to boil up a soup mix.

As he waited for it to come to temp, he saw the group of homeless rubbing their hands together, watching him with curiosity, though that quickly turned to hunger as the smell of the soup spilled out into the alley.

Instead of turning the others away Danny only shrugged, pulled out his spare paper bowls and handed them out, taking a few bites first to show that it was safe to eat.

What followed was a sort of tradition, Danny would come out a few times a day, take out his hot plate and pot and set up a soup, others started asking if they could pitch in, and well...Danny would have loved to keep providing it freely but his food was quickly dwindling.

So his soup got add in, some jerky that Crazy Tom had got tossed in, a few herbs (re:weeds) were added in by Miss O'Connor, and Danny didn't even know where Lady Dimond pulled out some spices from, but he wasn't about to question the her, he had learned never to question where the working girls hid their things.

And it sort of grew from there, who ever was around came by, some came out of their way to share a meal, but it became a meeting place of sorts "Come by the Kitchen at noon, Tom got his hands on some steak! And it ain't even smells bad!"

Sure gangs tried to pull up on the meeting place, tried to intimidate the people there or coerce them into doing something...well that was until the host, some punk teen with hair darker than black and blue eyes that were so light they were white came up, and dished out a heavy handed fist into their jaws and sent them packing.

And so the Kitchen became a safe space, if you were hungry, if you were in danger, come by the little alley way, right next to the Express Urgent Care, the Host will take care of you there, if your willing to share, to stay peaceful with the rest of the gathered people, then you were welcome to grab a bite and relax, because the Kitchen was always safe.

---

It would be a few years since the Kitchen started, since people had brought chairs and tables, since an old grill of questionable origin was left out side it, since tarps with only a few holes were hung up to keep the place dry when it rained, since rugs covered the ground and the the alley it was in was swept clean of any needles or cigarette butts.

But for one boy it had only been a few short days since his Mama died, since he had found her cold and dead in the bathroom, a belt tied around her arm and a needle still in her hand.

Jason was miserable, he had stayed with her for the a single day before he knew he would have to leave, the body of his mother would start to decompose soon, so he did what he had too, calling the police with his mother's phone that didn't have a lot of minutes left on it, telling them the address before hanging up and leaving it there so he couldn't be tracked.

He couldn't be there when the cops showed up, foster care would do shit for him, and at least his Mama would be buried, and not left to rot in their bath tub.

So a young Jason Todd, scared, alone and hungry came to the Kitchen, as his mother had told him to many times before, had told him to seek out it's Host if anything ever happened to her...and well...at the very least he would get something to eat...

[miupow]

hi, i was reading your post on kinktober and i was reminded about how you talked about maybe writing some step brother beomgyu content, maybe that could be fun for the event

𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 ‘24 ── 𝐁𝐄𝐎𝐌𝐆𝐘𝐔 + 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐏𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐓

𝜗𝜚 ㅤ― 󠀬󠀬[ minors do not interact! ] choi beomgyu x fem!reader . stepcest , stepbro!beomgyu , mean dom!beomgyu , doggy style , gagging(?) , manual restraining , dirty talk, degredation kink , name calling , orgasm control

a/n ⸝⸝ my first time dipping my toes into stepcest... don't make me regret this !! ( ; ω ; ) this is so filthy omg…. i cannot believe i wrote this

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

your least favorite thing about your mother’s new husband was his son.

he was loud, brash, and annoying. he constantly invades your personal space just to tease you relentlessly, snickering as you throw things and yell at him to leave you alone. he’s reduced you to tears more than once, laughing gleefully at the way you sniffled and cried from his nasty words. you cry to your mother about it, tell her how much you hate him and all of he grief he causes you; she just shakes her head and tells you to get over it. after all, that’s how all big brothers are.

but big brothers aren’t supposed to sneak into your room at night to fuck you stupid. you were sure of that.

“quit whining,” beomgyu hisses in your ear, the loud wet slaps of his hips against your ass echoing throughout your quiet bedroom. “you don’t want to wake up our parents now, do you?”

your face burns with arousal and humiliation, the two emotions swirling together into a confusing, overwhelming mix that made your pussy throb. your tight gummy walls clench around your stepbrother’s cock as he aims a perfectly practiced thrust to hit your sweet spot. he can manhandle you however he pleases with his big hand holding your arms behind your back, using your body like nothing more than a pocket pussy. there’s no care at all for your own pleasure as he chases his orgasm, bulbous cockhead ramming against your cervix. he throws his head back with a low, filthy moan, his adam’s apple bobbing, such a handsome sight you glanced over your shoulder to admire. he was so hot it made your head spin… just another thing you hated about him.

“fuck, this pussy’s so greedy— such a fucking slut for your big brother’s cock, huh? do you want more?” beomgyu lands a harsh slap to your jiggling asscheek with his free hand, the sudden stinging pain making you yelp; beomgyu quickly muffles you with that same hand shooting up to cover your mouth. “god, be quiet, bitch. you’re gonna wake up the whole neighborhood; do you want them to know how much of a cockwhore you are? want them to know that you’re getting your pussy bred by your stepbrother? huh?“

“no!” you sob, shaking your head desperately, your pleas barely audible behind beomgyu’s palm. his thrusts just grow faster, hit inside of you deeper— you swear you can feel his big long cock carving a bulge in your tummy. your cunt aches for more stimulation, your pleasure ignored outside of your messy hole getting fucked. you fight against beomgyu’s grip on your wrists, squirming and twisting beneath him, desperate to touch yourself and finally relieve the building tension that was growing harder and harder to handle.

“you’re gonna take this cock.” beomgyu grunts, his hips growing sloppy and uncoordinated. “i’m gonna dump my cum deep inside this pussy and you’re gonna take it all, right slut?“

“mmffh!!”

“good whore.” beomgyu laughs.

[moonlight-prose]

this prompt with husband tommy miller because i know damn well that man writes love letters, i just KNOW it "I tried to burn the letters, the memories, but the fire wouldn’t take them! It’s like the universe won’t let me forget you!"

an old owl calling

a/n: the speed at which i wrote this request shocked me honestly. i haven't had this much inspo for tommy since s1 came out. but us watching the first episode together and barking over how good this man looks is sparking the creativity again. also i'm just a massive sucker for angst and he called for it immediately. i genuinely can't even explain how much i missed him, but hopefully this does that for me.

summary: memories were bullets you could never dig out from a body that had seen too much. flashes of when you were happy together, moments in time you ached to return to. loving tommy was easier than breathing - letting him go took everything you had. he only wished he could say the same.

word count: 3.8k+

pairing: tommy miller x reader

warnings: not explicit, angst, gratuitous prose for the angst (i'm back to my roots), heartbreak, blood + wounds as an allegory for love, past relationship, arguments, tw addiction, ptsd, mutual pining, they're a bit toxic ngl, second chance romance, confessions, idiots in love.

Snow packed under your boots as you trudged forward, a rile slung over one shoulder and a pistol at your side older than you ever thought you’d get to be. Hard to believe three years ago you dug it out of a garage that might as well have belonged to a grandfather. Maybe it did—what with the records piled in disintegrating cardboard boxes, and photo albums housing reminiscent black and white photos of a time where there was no one left.

No person to tell the stories, no one to even remember them.

You supposed that was the way of things now. Memories held weight—too much of it to carry. The significance of time you’d never get back, people who you knew to be dead back in a place you tried to wipe from your memory. Alcohol helped. Pills subdued the grief, the agony of remembering. But their faces took up space in your mind, spreading like a tumor along an already weary amygdala.

“Good morning.” The pleasantry tasted false on the tip of your tongue. Lies you told yourself to appease the ache in your throat; if you ignored the pain it might go away.

Joel’s grim expression never failed to spill comfort into your chest—your own version of old reliable. “Good would be less snow on the ground.”

“Then just a plain morning,” you dryly shot back, glee itching at your heart with the peek of his grin. “Do I have watch today?”

“Not today.” He groaned with the effort of standing too quick, his knees popping subtly. A sound overshadowed by the heavy thump of his boots. “List says you’re out on a patrol nearby. Just to check for any strays that might show up with the cold weather comin’ in.”

“Sounds easy enough. Who’s the partner?” You could feel the regret echo in your stomach, pulling sharp at old wounds you never bothered to stitch up.

“Tommy.”

One day in the near future the mere echo of his name off someone else’s tongue wouldn’t violently split you open. The curve of each letter, the scribble of his own hand writing on that fucking paper beside yours, might be just another person in the long run. Hoping for it felt like a sin, yet ripping him out of your life altogether echoed with a salvation you weren’t strong enough to give yourself.

You tried not to gasp in anguish, but Joel—ever the perceptive man—caught how your face twitched. The shake of your hand, blunt and ripped fingernails buried in the calloused skin of your palm.

Memories were a bitch to hold onto; each one shining with their own brutality. His smile, the feel of lips along the column of your neck, the touch of hands gripping your thighs. He echoed with sentimental domesticity that would never be. A man who allowed his promises to fray at the end of their already thin rope, having forgotten that you were clutching the other end with sore fingers and a hoarse cry for help.

“You don’t have to go,” Joel offered.

A quick fix to an already lethal disease.

“Yes I do,” you replied, blunt and void of what you struggled to swallow down. “It’s what I was assigned. I’ll keep to that schedule.”

“I’m just sayin’ if you wanted somethin’ else-”

“When have you ever known me to run from responsibilities?” The pen held little ink left, the signature of your past scribbled and faded beside Tommy’s. “Let him know I’ll be by the stables.”

“I just…” Joel coughed, thumbing the edge of his jacket. “You should know this. Even if he’d hate me for admitting it. But Tommy requested you.”

Your brows furrowed; the little anger you held onto shuffling to the back of your mind. “Is that even allowed?”

“What can I say he’s got pull with the right people.”

“And he used it for this?”

Joel huffed, scrubbing at the side of his face. “He didn’t use it for just this darlin’. He used it for you.”

“Yeah right-”

“But you knew that already.” He saw through your false need for stability and dug into hot flesh and pulsing veins—determined to find that one singular wound which hurt the most. “I don’t need to know all of it. What my brother does is up to him, but you’re both hurt and this town is too small to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

How could you tell Joel it was easier to forget the existence of someone so hazardous to your already brittle soul? Tommy didn’t remain a man at the end of it all. He existed as the arrow already embedded in your heel, the knife that turned sharp and jagged in an already fragile heart.

No matter how you tried—burying volatile emotions in a grave that reached the core of your being—you couldn’t stop yourself from loving him.

One way or another you’d claw your way back to him, dragging along the dirt and filth to feel the warmth of his smile against your skin.

But to accept that would crack open a part of your heart you weren’t ready to confront yet. Satisfied to float in the oblivious bliss of being a heartbroken hollow shell of who Tommy once loved.

You last saw him a week ago in passing. He was engrossed in a conversation with the town’s council, the lines beneath his eyes dark and apparent, his face paler than you were used to seeing. Passing it off as the cold air—winter making itself known with the hastening snow storm—you did what you could to rip out the feelings of guilt that rose to the surface.

He wasn’t sleeping, this much you knew. Not when he once stumbled into your bed, exhausted and broken from yet another day of fixing what continued to break. He’d find his spot beside you, hands entwined in yours against the steady thump of your chest, face buried in the back of your neck. Healing always came easier when he woke up to the sight of your eyes—the curl of a sleep addled smile pressed against his chapped ones.

The papers stuffed in your coat pocket burned your skin. Familiar scrawls of a handwriting you could picture with your eyes closed, his words carved with ink to haunt you at the end of it all. He wrote three of them—one for each year he loved you.

Paragraphs of the emotions he’d never admit out loud. Pleas and apologies to forgive how he pushed you away, rambling promises that depicted a better man. Someone you could take back with open arms and a delicate heart.

The fictional idealized version of himself he longed to become.

You bundled them up wherever you went. Toying with the thin strand of twine he used to wrap the papers together. A soft touch—the thread entangled and twisted with a love you couldn’t forget.

You didn’t bother to wait for Tommy to arrive at the stables, swinging your leg up and over Comet. His black coat was a stark contrast to the first snowfall of the season. His hooves already packed with white fluff as he trotted out towards the familiar pathway through town—the sway and dip of each shift a comfort you could lose yourself in, your fingers tight around the reigns and knees tapping slightly to quicken the pace.

Tommy would catch up.

“You’re meant to have a partner before heading out.”

The frigid air burned your lungs with each breath. “I’m capable of handling myself out there.”

“Doesn’t matter Soot.”

“We’re resorting to name calling?”

Jimmy scoffed. “Last I checked I wasn’t the master of lighting fires.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The echo of hooves on the ground should have alerted you. The hair on the back of your neck rose fast enough to give you whiplash at the sound of his voice. Just a small shout of hello and yet your insides were turning over, heart squeezed with the strength of his fist as it curled around the helpless organ. He smiled at Jimmy, coming to a stop at your side—the horse’s chuffed breath forming a cloud in the air. As if offering his own greeting to the people who knew him best.

“You plannin’ on taking off without me?” he asked, finally turning his head to meet your gaze.

Eyes you looked into more times than your own burned a hole in the center of your chest. The hue of brown sparked with something dangerous. An understanding that this was more than just a patrol. This was Tommy finally pinning you down, getting you in a space where you couldn’t avoid his words.

The confrontation you never allowed to happen was down the snow covered pathway; you longed to crawl back into your house and cower beneath the covers.

“You took too long,” you snapped, clicking your tongue to kick Comet into gear.

“And waitin’ was too much work?”

He followed close behind just out of sight. A part of you felt grateful for the small convenience of taking the lead, but you could feel his stare burning a hole in the back of your head. No matter how much you tried to run from it this was bound to happen eventually.

What were you to do when your souls were bound long before tragedy struck the world? When you knew him as a younger man—his face free of lines and hair still short enough to fall along his forehead in curls.

“You’re the one who set this up. I just did my job and showed up.”

“I don’t like this,” he grumbled.

“Like what? Patrolling? Then why did you pick it-”

“What you’re doin’!” Clicking loud enough to ricochet off the trees, he caught up to your side. “I don’t like you talkin’ to me like I’m a fuckin’ stranger.”

You sighed, leading Comet down the path lined with hoof prints. “How else am I supposed to talk to you Miller? We’re…”

“A hell of a lot more than strangers.”

“Yeah. You can say that.” Stubbornness is what kept you alive. The instinct to dig your heels in and wait it out was how you found your way to Jackson, surviving alone all those years before Tommy came across you. Half dead, buried beneath snow, and yet still the whisper of your name from his lips sent you careening back to life.

“Fuck this shit,” he muttered, flicking the reigns until you were cut off—Comet reeling back with a displeased sound you felt in the base of your throat. “Talk to me Soot. Yell at me. Call me a fuckin’ bastard for pushing you away. Curse my existence and spit at me, but please stop treatin’ me like I don’t exist.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Tommy.”

The break in his anger, the pain in his eyes, filled you with a sick satisfaction you loathed the second it entered your heart. You didn’t want to hurt him. Not like he hurt you. You were just trying to survive.

“We can walk it from here,” you said, dropping to the ground and slinging Comet’s reigns around an old post hammered into the dirt.

He followed in quick succession, matching your stride as he yanked out the gun attached to his hip—always on edge when it came to protecting you. The anger was palpable, thick enough to slice through as it hung over your shoulders like an ashen colored storm cloud waiting to drown you both. You stewed in what flared to life at the base of your stomach. The rage of a fight never had lingered, peeking its head out no matter how hard you tried to rid yourself of what remained.

The love would always exist. A passion you couldn’t bring yourself to release. You knew that was why you came here today—expecting a fight with bared teeth and growled curse words that would make even Joel blush.

An inevitable explosion of all you were to one another. A ticking time bomb, counting down faster than either of you expected.

“I know what I did was fucked up,” he began, the truth flowing with ease past a mouth you dreamed of at night. “You think I wouldn’t have written those letters if I didn’t know? You deserved a better man than I ever could be, but I wanna be that man baby.”

Your teeth sunk into any part of your cheek hard enough to make you wince. “Let’s just get this over with okay?”

“No. We’re gonna have it out. Right here.”

“We’re in the middle of the woods Tommy. Stop pulling this shit would you? This isn’t the time for your games-”

“Well I wouldn’t have had to pull a move like this if you would acknowledge my damn existence in town.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The stoic expression threw him off guard, his eyes narrowing with the challenge of splitting you right down to the marrow of who he knew. Someone he longed to recognize.

He scoffed, meeting your bullheaded response with horns of his own. “You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about huh? Well forgive me Soot if I call fuckin’ bullshit.”

“Tommy-”

“You’re lying right to my face thinkin’ I won’t see it. But you forget I know you. I know you better than anyone in town ever wished they could.” Your first mistake was leading him to familiar ground—the hard headed version of you that kept him on edge twenty years ago, intent on getting what you wanted. “Better than any of those old men who practically lick their fuckin’ lips at the sight of you.”

The words struck you—caving in a small opening he pried open with his hands until blood ran down his knuckles. He was keeping tabs on you in the two months you were separated. Watching how certain men in the town nearly cheered at the knowledge you were single again. Jealousy ran deep in Tommy’s veins—a trait you learned to love and accept. But this was different.

This held an edge he no longer walked with the trepidation of a man scared to lose you.

He didn’t give a shit about the consequences when he was living them. Tommy reaped what he sowed and sunk his teeth into the end result—a flare of covetousness surging back into an older version of himself. He never liked when you had lovers in the past, always greedy for what they’d never get. Your friendship, your shining attention.

But to see it turned on himself left you gasping for breath. Lust wrapped tight and hot around the base of your spine, sparking feelings that never went away.

“You think I never saw the way they looked at you? I know what I had—what I lost. So you’re gonna stand there and talk to me. I know you probably didn’t read those letters, but that isn’t stoppin’ me from telling it to your face that I’m sorry. That I would take everything back in a heartbeat.”

“Tommy…don’t-”

“And yes I pulled every string available to get you here. Yes I’m a selfish bastard who probably doesn’t deserve your attention anymore. But I need you to hear me-”

“Shut up!”

He straightened, his jaw clamping shut at the roar of your voice echoing off the trees. His words overwhelmed you, dragged you into a place you barely escaped from a month ago. Pain laced each breath you took. But that wasn’t what had your temper flaring, bringing to life the person who fought for everything they had. Someone who learned that life didn’t offer good things unless you were willing to fight tooth and nail for it.

“What the fuck are you smiling at?” you growled, watching his lips curve into a crooked grin.

“There you are,” he murmured. “I thought I lost you.”

The fighter he knew still resided just below the surface of your cold front. The person who dragged themselves through hell to get here, seeking a place of comfort after years of torture. You did it without help. You managed without him. And yet you no longer had to, you didn’t want to; the lack of his warmth evident in how numb you felt, how your heart barely fluttered anymore.

Tommy Miller didn’t save you, but he sure as hell was determined to protect the parts you kept alive.

“I read the letters,” you hoarsely admitted, ripping the band aid off without hesitation.

“I know you did.” He sighed, his breath forming in the air and obstructing him from view. “I know why you won’t talk about ‘em.”

“That’s not it.” Sucking in a breath felt like needles puncturing the crumbling remnants of a person who deserved love. You know you did. So why couldn’t you accept it when it came crawling back? “I just… I wanted…”

His solemn nod sliced off another piece of you, dropping it to the ground without a care in the world. “To forget me.”

“You’re so…” Hot tears collided with your frozen skin, the words thick like molasses in the back of your throat. “You were everything to me Tommy. And when you gave up on what we had-”

“I didn’t give up. I’d never do that.”

“You left me!” you shouted, voice cracked and chest heaving for air that wouldn’t come. A match that refused to ignite, striking haplessly against whatever it could reach. “You walked out when all I wanted was to know this version of you. Every part.”

Stumbling towards you he reached out, brown eyes muddled by wounds he tried to hide—grief he couldn’t weigh on your shoulders. He could barely carry it on his own. You knew the man he was before kissing him, long before you dragged him into that bed and let him between your thighs. Horrors trailed after him in a red streak of what he did, the torture he caused, the deaths tainting his hands.

But you still let him touch you. With red stains and all you allowed him to grip your body like a lifeline, mouth meshed with his as tears trailed past your temples.

You loved him in spite of the darkness.

“I wrote it down for you,” he said, eyes cast to the forest—on guard in more ways than one. “I put it all in those letters. All the bad shit I’ve done, all the people I killed. I laid it all out for you to see. But if you want to forget me-”

Throwing your hands up, you no longer tried to stifle the tears—the anguish he should see play out on an already exhausted face. "I tried to burn the letters, the memories, but the fire wouldn’t take them! It’s like the universe won’t let me forget you!"

“Baby…”

Your sobs echoed off an empty forest blanketed by picturesque scenery—such an opposition for the cracking of your heart you were certain he could hear. “I couldn’t start a fire to throw them in Tommy. I couldn’t… I don’t want to forget you. Why would I? When I still love you.”

Silence filled the air, the forest taking over for the words left unsaid. You could hear an owl calling in the distance, the rustle of a rabbit in the bushes as it ripped what leaves still remained to pieces. The forest thrived in the absence of humanity. You could see how it ignored the anger, the frustration that fell a part on the floor.

The forest didn’t need you.

Not the way Tommy did.

The shock dissipated as you stood there heaving in gasping breaths, fighting back whimpering pleas for him to say something—to not let the final piece of you break and land in the snow. He surged towards you, gloved hand gripping the back of your neck to yank your face close, his still chapped lips finding your frozen ones with ease. And for the first time in two months you could breathe.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your open mouth, tongue delving into a space he longed to taste again. “Can’t fuckin’ survive without you baby.”

You didn’t bother responding, slinging an arm around his neck to drag him even closer. His kiss burned you, the match finally striking with perfect ease to light that roaring fire. Loving him came quick, overtaking who you once were in order to build someone new. Someone he could cherish and keep safe at the end of the world.

His grip dropped to your hips, pulling you close enough to feel through the layers of coats and sweaters. Later you might laugh at how careless you were so out in the open. A story told over whiskey, the tipsy relief of contentment fueling teasing words and touches that strayed far past appropriate.

Tucking his hands into your back pockets, he ran his nose along the side of your still frozen cheek—lips curled into a smile you mimicked. “I liked writin’ you those letters.”

“Yeah?” you sighed, catching his lips softly.

“Mhm.”

“Write me some more.”

He chuckled, cupping the side of your neck, thumb running along the fluttering vein. “I can do that.”

“I hope you know… I really missed you.” Breathing the words against his cheek, you felt his hold tighten—as if terrified to let you go after all that happened.

“Me too,” he whispered, pressing his face into your neck, breathing the scent of your cold skin. “It nearly killed me bein’ away from you.”

“Then stay.”

His head shot up, clear eyes catching yours. “I’m never leavin’ you again honey. Till the day I fuckin’ die I’ll be by your side.”

Heat bloomed beneath your cheeks, eyes shining with unshed tears. “That might be sooner than later if we’re out here any longer.”

That familiar bright smile brought back the feeling in your chest—heart fluttering in time with his. “Then let’s head home yeah?”

Home. A word uttered in the darkness of long days and weary limbs begging for reprieve in the comfort of a squeaky old mattress. It sounded jarring coming from him with ease. As if he’d been longing for your shared space, where love could flourish and a future solidified with each day spent within the walls of an old house.

The space had seen people before you, it might see others after you, but for this brief time on this planet it was yours.

“Okay,” you replied softly, reverence dripping from the word. “Let’s go home.”

[lurochar]

To Give Comfort

After his mother dies, Alastor turns to you for comfort.

Part 2

18+ MDNI

–------------------------------------------------

Alastor pants into your ear, feeling you shudder beneath him as your arms tighten around him. His mind is in a haze of both pleasure and intoxication – the sex and whisky serve their purpose as a relief from the drowning grief he had found himself spiralling into.

He knew it was coming, his mother has not been well for a while now and he thought he had been prepared for her inevitable death, but no – he had never expected it to feel like this.

But he had a reputation and image to uphold, he was a man and he couldn’t be seen as weak.

He did not cry once and his usual smile seemed to fool everyone, his co-workers at the radio station, passersby from his daily life, acquaintances from his favoured speakeasy. Even Mimzy.

It fooled everyone but you.

Alastor really should have known.

“I know you’re hurting.” You finally manage to corner him at his home after a week of him avoiding you every time you try to reach out. “Alastor, please. You don’t need to pretend with me. Is there anything I can do?”

Alastor stays silent for a moment, staring at your distressed face and feels his drunken thoughts wander in many different directions. He is a little tipsy at this time, most of his rationality is still there, but there’s a part of him that’s still in pain – he’s unfamiliar with it, he hates it, he wants it gone.

Can you relieve him of his misery?

“Anything?” Alastor, though not completely sober, still moves with the skill of a hunter and he has you pinned against the wall before you even realize what happened. “If this were to happen, we can’t go back. I won’t let you go back. Is that what you want?”

You seemed a bit shocked, but slowly wrap your arms over his broad shoulders and press yourself against him. “I hate seeing you like this.” You feel Alastor practically slump against you. “Wherever this takes us, we can see when we get there.” You can feel his eyes staring so intently at you that it almost makes you shiver.

Would you regret your actions?

—---------------------

“Fuck!”

Alastor smirks, rubbing your flushed cheek affectionately. “How unlady-like.” He teases, gripping your hips so you couldn’t squirm away when he quickened his thrusts, making sure his cock hit that special little spot of yours deeper and harder each time, causing you to let out a high-pitched cry. 

“A-ah, feels good.” You tossed your head to one side, jumping and feeling your body spasm when you feel Alastor’s fingers slowly rub at your slick clit. The jolt of sudden pleasure has you clenching around his cock and he grits his teeth, barely holding back a groan.

Alastor slowly lowers himself to lie completely on top of you, careful not to hurt you under his weight. His eyes half-lid when he feels your hands card through his brown hair and shudders a sigh, slowing his thrusts until his hips are barely even moving anymore.

He wants to bask in this– your warmth for much, much longer. It’s burning away the ache and the pain, it’s lighting the dark depressing grief, and if he leaves now, what would happen?

Alastor knows, of course.

He would go hunting, less careful, sloppy, uncaring if his targeted victim truly deserved their gruesome fate at his hands. More than likely, he would be caught as the Bayou Butcher if he leaves your embrace now.

“Is everything…all right?” You ask after a moment, your breath still caught in your throat when Alastor keeps stroking your clit. “If you need to stop, that’s okay.”

“No, Darling,” Alastor rests his head on your chest, closing his eyes as he listens to your beating heart and he realizes he would like to listen to it for the rest of your lives, “just let me stay here for a minute.” He tilts his head and gives you an almost sultry smirk. “But then, I want to hear you beg for my cock.”

Did you regret your actions? 

You did not.

[oldermenlvrgrl]

Filthy animal

Logan doesn’t regret much in his life but pushing you away is his biggest mistake.

Logan howlett x human! reader.

Word count: 6.5k

Warnings: hella angst to cry to, swearing, excessive drinking, loss & grief, his fighting era, dark themes, he’s an alcoholic, stalking, insecurities, depression, anxiety, memories of sex & sexual themes, kissing, talk of breeding/pregnancy, hormones, ovulation, mentioning of self harm, a/b/o themes, he eats raw meat like a feral animal.

A/n: to the one person that wanted me to write this, between when origins end and x-men begins era. He has a bike in this before he goes to the academy idc he’s hot when he’s on a bike

The house is too quiet. The log cabin stood on a mountain top overlooking the vast earthly landscape below. His fingers trace over the wooden bannister of the front door. Feeling every crevice and panel. His mind is numb to the feeling of longing. He doesn’t even know why he did it anymore. The pain in his chest that never yields is too unbearing. He sighs, locking the door and leaving it behind him, like he did with you. Locking away the love he had for you in a cage and leaving it behind.

He goes to the bar, the only place known to give him comfort is at the end of a whiskey bottle. A fat stogy lit between his fingers. The smoke dancing in the air. He doesn’t care that he’s told to not smoke. He nurses the glass, hunched over the bar. Aggression flaring up his face. A hungry dog with food aggression bowed over lapping at liquor. He clenches and opens his hand, feeling the metal under the skin gyrate.

For weeks this is all he has known. Lumber yard (when he shows up), fighting cage, bar and home. It wasn’t even home without you there. You were the only thing that was home to him. Now that you were gone he didn’t have a home.

“Now introducing…the Wolverine!”

Logan gets up staggering along the sea of people. Putting the head of the cigar in the drip of whiskey that resides in his glass. Shedding his flannel and his tank to his bare chest. His veins pulsing and his vision impaired. They open the fenced gate and his head is hung down as he focuses on walking straight. He never planned to win this fight. He didn’t want to. He wanted to get the shit beat out of him so he can feel something other than grief.

The man before him is about seven foot, a mutant with the way his skin is stretched. The bell rings and they size each other up. Walking around the cage. They don’t speak and he prefers it to be that way. He raises his fists and cowers his head behind them. The abomination swings and hits him in the side of his head where his ear is. The hit wasn't normal, the hit felt like he got his head run over by a train. He smiles knowing that this beating was exactly what he lusted after.

He staggers up against the side of the cage. The coldness of the metal burns his hot skin. His drunken eyes look at the crowd and he faintly imagines that he sees your silhouette. Another hit to his abdomen. He holds his arm over his stomach and holds onto the fence. He stares out with unsteady eyes to where he sees a mirage of you wearing his dog tags around your neck. Your pretty neck, your pretty hair, your pretty face. His pretty girl. He starts to smile wider, white bloodied teeth. The blood poured behind the crevices in his mouth. Down his chest. Speckling his skin with rogue.

His head rears back as the abomination throws his fist into his nose. Blood starts flowing down his nasal passages. The square part of his chin where it’s shaved is covered in fluid. Another, another, another. He’s surprised he’s not missing teeth as he’s sprawled down on the white plastic floor in a splattered bloody pool. His torso, bruised and battered. He’s laughing. It’s taxing as he feels his broken ribs poke into his lungs. He watches the man parade around him in a victory lap, money starts being handed to and fro. Cradling his ribs as he continues to laugh. He laughs at himself, at how much of a joke he is. How he doesn’t have any restraint or respect for himself. He’s a mockery of who he once was. He looks to the crowd once more to see your face and he doesn’t.

The usher lifts him up and shoves his balled up clothes into his chest. Telling him that he’s banned from the establishment. He’s a joke to the fighting scene and to the bar. Logan isn’t sure if it’s the concussion or the liquor that makes him hear “come back tomorrow.” So he pats the man on his shoulder with a bloodied grin and goes back home.

He drinks himself to sleep that night. If he doesn’t drink, he can’t forget and he’d rather go bankrupt with all the liquor he buys than to remember you. There’s a part of him that desperately latches onto your memory. The bits and pieces that were domestic.

He doesn’t even bother going to the yard. Deep down he knows he’s fired, he couldn’t care. He sits in his big empty wooden cage and just watches the sun change into the moon and stars. Fighting off war flashbacks and memories of you. The only cure is whiskey, and he hadn’t eaten in days. His hunger only grows with each passing day. He can’t eat anything after remembering those home cooked meals you made him.

Nothing suffices. His house was destroyed after he purged it. His couch was torn to shreds, his clothes, and walls. Everything. He didn’t have a television or radio.

So he sits in a leather chair overlooking the mountain in the loose boxers that hang loosely around his hips. His legs spread wide and out, his arms lazily laid over the rests. His bicep only flexes as he sips from the lip of the bottle. A lit cigar he lethargically puffs on occasionally, feeling the burn in his chest simmer down his stomach. The tendons in his neck bulge as his heart rate rises. Fuck, he thought about you.

He thought about the times he’s hurt you.

Once it was deep in his sleep, you cradled against his broad sweaty chest. The sheets scattered in the dark. One of your legs kicked over his torso. His arm around your back, pushing you closer. His body is rigid and tense. His body feverish as he perspires. Sweat drips along his brows and temples.

His face winces as he watches his brother dismember innocent people before him. The hopeless desperate yearning he feels in the pit of his stomach grows. He feels nauseous as his face twists in agony. He shouts and shouts to no avail. The metal between his knuckles, pushing out. He grows anxious.

He feels you shuffle and that’s when he slices your upper arm. Your breath staggers as you jolt awake with fearful eyes, he’ll never forget you pulling away from him. He stands from the bed, watching you with horror, stricken across his pale face. He watches your feeble hand touch the blood that welts from the wound. The sheets draped over your torso as you stood and walked to him. He doesn’t look into your remorseful eyes as your soft red painted hand comes to touch the hair on his face. Cradling his jaw in your palm. He doesn’t welcome your warmth, he doesn’t deserve it. As your touch lingers, his claws retract.

“It’s just a scratch.”

You whisper softly. He doesn’t listen.

“It’s just a scratch.”

He mutters to himself as he takes another drink from the bottle. It wasn’t just a scratch, not to him. That single cut meant that he couldn’t even protect you from himself. How was he supposed to protect you if he contributed to your harm? He thinks of another memory.

He was close. His abdomen tightening and his balls drawn tight. He feels your walls constrict around the thickness of his cock. Pulling and tugging with each bounce of your hips. His head thrown back into the pillows as he grits his teeth together, thick eyebrows furrowed as he concentrates on feeling your wet slick coating his wide thighs. The smell is brutalizing him. The smell of your cunt weeping for him.

He peeks and watches your breasts bounce and your nails dig into his hairy chest. The hair on his lower stomach glistening with your slick. He bucks his hips up into your core, hitting that spot deep inside your womb. He feels your heated breath on his neck. Your nipples brushing against his own as you lay on top of him, the metal of his dog tags pressed between each of your chests.

Allowing him to bury himself inside you. His strong hands hold your hips in place, your legs widening to let his aggression grow. He pours everything he has into breeding you. His heart hammers against his chest as he hears your whimpers. The silent cry of yours to breed you full of his pups.

He growls deep in the back of his throat. Jackhammering his thrusts, the filthy sound of your squelching cunt is music to him. The sweet smell of your ovulation makes him drunker than any whiskey. He can’t control himself anymore. He ruts and ruts against your puffy pussy as you squeal for him to slow so you can breathe. He doesn’t and continues to pound into your pelvis, rocking your entire body against his. It’s painful how hard and fast he’s pulling you down. His legs half bent as he pulls your ass down to touch his thighs with every thrust. He growls as he pushes all the way inside and releases his seed into your weeping cunt.

The pain from his bleeding knuckles is excruciating but not as much as the quiet squeak from your little mouth. He pulls his head up and sees the little slits he made on your thighs. He lays his head against the pillows with a long sigh. Knowing that he couldn’t bear hurting you anymore. He couldn’t have you baring his pups and risk hurting you.

He couldn’t even get hard anymore without you. He couldn’t smell your hormones, couldn’t smell how desperate you wanted him. It wasn’t the same without you. He drinks. The cigar burns the inside of his index and middle, he doesn’t care. He lets it scorch his tanned skin. If it burnt the entire cabin he wouldn’t care either. He remembers the night he ended it with you.

He was drunk to the point where he was a vegetable on his leather couch. Shirtless and only in his dirtied torn blue jeans. He waited until you got home after work. He made up his mind a couple days ago and he didn’t have the courage to do it sober minded so he drank himself to it. He smelled you before he watched as the door knob wobbled and you stepped forward. He hated how beautiful you looked and his stomach twisted. You had groceries and a pretty smile on your face. It turned into a frown as you saw him with the bottle.

You asked him if something happened at the yard and he said no. You took the groceries into the kitchen after kicking the door closed with your foot. You started taking the groceries out and putting them into the cupboards. The raw meat you had to get from the local farmers was bloody as you put it in the fridge. You turned to get another item and were met with his glossy eyes. His mouth turned into a snarl. His eyes glanced over your confusion and his heart weakened. He desperately wanted to comfort you, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t in his nature to. His chest heaved as he looked at the inscribed dog tags around your neck.

“I want you out of my house.”

His words were heavily slurred, but he knew you understood them as your brows pinched together and you stopped looking for things to put up.

“What?”

It was weak and it killed him. He stared at the wooden floor, taking another swig. He raised a thick eyebrow and looked down the curve of his nose at you with blurry hazel eyes.

“You heard me.”

You shook your head and placed your hands on the counter, trying to ground yourself. Your world was falling apart in front of you.

“You’re drunk.”

You say meekly, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t reply. That was true, but the saying drunken words are sober thoughts still apply. A wave of emotion hits you, and your eyes water. You sniffle and turn to him. Your Logan wasn’t there. His eyes were glossed over and he was a shell.

“You don't mean that.”

He watches your bottom lip wobble and tears fall down your face. His heart drops and he drinks. His lips polished over with alcohol. The tension is thick and restricting.

“What happened to our future together? Where you wanted me to be your wife and to have your kids?”

You look down at your feet as you cry.

“When you said you’d never leave and that I’d always be your girl?”

He doesn’t speak and resentment grows in your heart.

“Is there another girl?!”

He doesn’t know why but you insinuating that he’d be able to love another woman than you angers him. His snarl grows and he shakes his head.

“Answer me!”

You push his chest and he stumbles back. That enrages him, his claws push out. He puts the bottle on the counter and pins your hands together and pushes your hips against the wood. You try to move and get his grip to loosen but it doesn’t. He pins you with your hands together behind your back and his body pushed against yours. His hands pulled into fists as he attempted to control his anger. He smells like liquor and his musk. He smells your fear and sees the same sorrow he feels.

“No. There’s never been and never will be. If you come back to my house and if I ever see you again..”

He trails off and looks to the bottle of booze, not wanting to admit it but deep in his heart he knows it’s for the best.

“I’ll kill you.”

You frown and choke out a sob as he lets you go. He stands in the middle of the kitchen with his head downturned. He hears you weep as you gather your things. Dreading the sounds of hearing the wheels of your suitcase trail down the wood. He hears the door open.

“You don’t mean that.”

He listens to the door close and the scent of you leave. Fury rages through him as he destroys everything around him, it doesn’t matter if it’s handmade or expensive he ruins it. He destroys his entire house trying to defile the thought of you. Destroying everything you’ve touched or reminded him of you. He wanted to destroy himself.

He decided later that night he had to see you. Had to breathe in your smell and that’ll fix him, put his mind on track. He was still scared as hell to hurt you, but the agony of being without you is greater than the risk of hurting you. Logan was selfish and all he wanted was you.

He sat outside the building where you worked on his bike and waited. Perched like a predator waiting for prey. He was surprised that he was steady enough to even get there unscathed. He sat on the side of the road, not in the parking lot. The engine turned off and he listened to the birds chirp. He made sure to not let you see him. Digging into his pocket he takes the fat cigar out and places it between his lips. Taking the lighter and cupping his hands around the flame as he puffs it to life. The embers burn and the smoke swirls around his head. The evening slowly dying into night.

Raising his nose to the air and sniffing as he smells your hormones. Your car pulls out of the lot shortly after and passes him. He sees the side of your face through the window and his heart burns. Your face is puffy and gloomy, completely contrasting the sunshine you exude.

Chewing on the end of the cigar, he starts the motorcycle and turns behind you. A good couple cars between him and you to separate the distance. He follows you down the familiar path down to your parents house. The long pine trees and barren fields full of crops. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he’s doing or what he’s going to do. All he knows is that he needs to see you, something primal deep inside him tells him that.

He pulls into an open field, overlooking the farm house. Staring with foggy eyes as you pull in. Gazing at your car door as it opens and you step out. He leans forward to fully look at you as much as he can from the distance. Whistling low at the pretty sight. Then as if you were never there you leave his sight and enter the house. He sighs, leaning back on his bike. Looking to the sky he determines that night shouldn’t take no longer than an hour. He waits.

He waits with a cigar between his plush lips. His hands flexing on top of his thighs. Clenching and opening, enticing the burn of his knuckles spreading open. Observing with eager eyes as each light in every window turns dark, except yours. A wishful smile spreads on his face. Knowing the next thing you’re about to do before going to bed is cracking your window open, and without fail he sees your little hands opening the pane. His heart soars as he’s proud that you’re still his girl. Still, having the same habits and quirks he’s grown to admire.

With that, he takes the cigar from his lips and pushes the end into the palm of his hand. Snuffing the smoke and flicking it into the field. He swings one of his long legs over the bike and starts his trail down to your window.

Begrudgingly, he comes to terms with having to climb up the side of your family's house to your room. The ivy woven into the side provides a grip for his climb. The poor gutter he tried to climb groaned and cried as the hinges unscrewed from the roof as he tried to pull his body weight up it, so the ivy would just have to be adequate. As he climbs, your scent grows stronger and his head starts to get fuzzy. The toes of his boots stuck between some panels. The broad pads of his fingers stuck on the window sill.

Propping his head up, he watches you lay on your bed watching television. Some movie played that you weren’t too keen on paying attention to. If you looked over you’d be able to see his wild hazel eyes and his tufts of hair poking far above his head.

You move to lay on your other side and he wishes to see your pretty face again. Without fail and as overplayed as it is, you truly were a sight for sore eyes. He listens eagerly to your mother’s voice beckoning you to dinner. Like the good sweet girl you are, you obey. Getting up from your bed and walking over to your door. A hand outstretched and touching the knob, but hesitantly, you pause. Logan’s heart drops and the hair on the back of his neck perks up. Can you see him? Your beautiful eyes wander over to the window screen and he ducks his head. Almost losing his grip and falling into the grass below. Your mother yells your name again and he doesn’t pull his head back up until he hears the door close.

He takes one of his hands and summons the metal between his knuckles to grow out. Cutting open the side of the window screen, he pulls it to the side. Hoisting himself up and over into the other side of the window ungracefully.

He’s not as nimble as he once was. He falls on his hands and knees with a loud thud, similar to a cat. He stills, anxiety rushing to his face as he listens for a reaction. Only hearing the chatter of common conversation between your parents and you, he stands. Reality hits him with a rush of adrenaline. He’s in your room. What the fuck is he doing? Guilt crawls up his spine and he flicks his head, ridding the fear. He needs this. His fingers trail over various objects in your room. Wooden dresser, mattress, vanity. His slow saunter stops as he looks at your vanity closer, his dog tags nestled with a Polaroid tucked under the chain.

The weekend your parents took you both camping. He was supposed to propose to you on that trip but got cold feet.

You’re sitting in a little dress on one of his spread thighs in a lawn chair. The neck of a beer bottle was between his fingers over the side of the arm rest. You’re wrapped behind one of his big burly arms. The veins and muscle in his bicep flexed. Caging you to his strong chest as he holds you close. He’s only wearing his white sweat and oil stained tank. He just got done working on the bike, trying to figure out why it’s making a funny noise and arguing with your father about something. It’s evening time and the sun is shining between the maple trees. Everyone waited eagerly as your father grilled dinner. Your cheeks are rosy with a big precious smile as his face is shoved in your neck, pressing kisses into the tender area making you giggle. Your mother took that picture.

He swallows thickly as he sits with that feeling deep in his chest. Logan knows what he did was wrong and he feels like a reformed prisoner in his own mind. The duality is that he is also the police officer always beating him with a bat, constantly repeating the same behavior that has caused him to get in the prison. He loves to self sabotage and he fears that this fatal mistake was the end of it all. All he was and ever will be is an animal.

A strong aroma hits him all at once, he lifts his face and sniffs the air. Oh, god. It’s your clothes. Your smell is on all of them and it's surrounding him. Suffocating him. Something spurs him to start opening drawers. He pulls out various clothing, shirts, and jeans are too faint.

Pulling out another drawer, he goes to his knees. Panties. He grabs a handful, one of them being a devious pair of white cotton that has your name embroidered on the top and shoves them into his leather pocket of his jacket, closing the drawer. Stealing one of your dainty shirts that had your scent on it the strongest and holding that to his chest. He holds it to his nose and takes a long breath in, holding the smell deep in his chest. He almost moans as he exhales. He feels the front of his jeans tightening and his metal belt buckle poking his abdomen. He groans and adjusts the crotch of his jeans, trying to ease the discomfort, but it only makes his fervor grow.

He stares at himself long and carefully in your vanity mirror. An animal is all he sees, stealing your clothes because he can’t bear not breathing your scent. A pervert even. He smiles at the names, pride swelling in his chest. The pride is shot with a steady arrow as he hears a set of footsteps coming up the hall. Looking frantically for somewhere to hide, he figures your closet would be as best as he’s going to get. He makes sure that everything was in place as he first saw it and barricades himself inside your wardrobe.

This great and powerful Wolverine had fought in many wars and witnessed things that not even the most seasoned veteran can survive. Yet, he’s scared of the judgment of a woman he’s in love with. He’s sweating bullets, fat dwallops of sweat rolls down his hairline and neck.

Through the slits in your door he watches eagerly as the towel wrapped around the bust of your breasts falls. His breath stutters and he balls the shirt up and presses it against his mouth to stifle his hurried breaths. His almost green eyes roll back in his head, watching your bare breasts contort along with your body as you bend over to find clothes in your dresser. The smell is unbearable, the fresh scent of your dewy skin. The warmth of the water falling into every hidden crevice that only he can see.

His stomach growls. His starvation is growing worse. He palms his hard length. Raising your arms you put on one of his old hockey jerseys he gave you. He groans and his head thumps against the back wall. He can’t bear it. What if he jumped out and ravaged you? Would you be upset? He’d never forgive himself for it, but the need for release is far too much for him to withstand. You’re just a little woman, he couldn’t do that to you. Defile his sweet girl and breed her, only in his thoughts he entertains the thought. Stepping into some of his old boxers too. He’s been wondering where those had gone. Maybe he and his girl weren't too far off. Cut from the same perverted cloth.

You crawl into your bed with a deep sigh. Cuddling up with some childhood teddy bear. He watches your heavenly face twist as you cry into the fur of the bear. His heart breaks. He’s defeated, he hates to see you cry and it’s even worse when he can actually feel the sorrow fill his heart. He stands there for what seems to be an eternity watching you break down into a helpless little girl. Broken and distraught. In that moment he knows that you’d never love him the same.

He waits until your puffy eyes close and the soft snore falls from your parted lips to leave your closet. Closing the door behind him, he stands before your sleeping beauty. Admiring your face from afar. Logan is a hated man and he’s never cared, but he cares all too much that you do. He goes to his knees, quietly. Tucking your shirt into the waistband of his jeans. He tucks a fallen strand of hair behind your ear and kisses your nose gently. As gently as an animal like him could. Pulling up your blanket under your chin.

“I’m sorry.”

He whispers. He stands to his feet again, marveling at the memories he’s had with such a dream of a woman in the glow of the moon. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear the wiggle of the door knob and your mothers breath of your name. He twists his body and jumps out of the window. Again, he lands on his feet and he runs. He runs on all fours. Dirt getting under his fists as the claws give him leverage to run faster.

Your mother places a gentle hand on your shoulder as she sits by your feet. Blinking your eyes open, you look at her with blurry vision.

“Logan?”

He’s panting and his eyes are wild as he flies down the road on his bike. Feeling as if he just robbed a bank. He’s a wanted man. You know that he was there. You had to. The deep pit in his stomach is too expensive for you to not have.

As soon as he’s up the mountain and parks haphazardly in front of the cabin, he’s stripping off his clothes. He’s burning alive. He’s left only in his tattered jeans. His stomach twists and turns and before he knows it, he’s pulling out every single meat he has in his fridge and tearing it open. He feasts like a wild animal. Tearing the plastic open and the blood dripping down onto him. His chest and jaw slathered in dead animals. Pork, poultry, cow it’s everywhere. He doesn’t care if it’s not cooked, his hunger is far greater than his rationality. He doesn’t even breathe as he devours. His hands were coated in blood like he murdered someone.

When he finishes he stares at his destruction. Only bones were left in various places. His torso was even coated in red. He groans, chewing the fat of some animal and swallowing with a gulp. He finds whatever beer he has in the fridge and pops the lid off with his claw. Taking a prolonged gradual swig. Your shirt, surprisingly, still hung sloppily and pure under his belt.

He roams to his trophy case, full of all his war memorabilia and opens the door. Taking the wooden case full of cigars out and putting one between his bloodied lips. He sets the bottle beside the case and lights the cigar. It’s almost as good as an orgasm. For the first time he feels full. His needs were almost completely met. The only thing missing was you. He walks sluggishly to his open front door, leaning his shoulder against the frame. Switching between smoking and drinking as he listens to the night's ambiance. Listening to the wild animals howl.

Just a game of hide and seek was all it was. It was Fall. The leaves were scattered like a carpet on the floor of the woods. It was a random day where both of you were off and rather going into town, he thought it’d be fun to teach you how to fish. After multiple failed attempts of you becoming bored, he decided to play a game with you.

The game was completely rigged. Who would’ve thought the man with insane primal senses would be great at finding things that didn’t want to be found. The adrenaline was catching up to you both as you sought after him. The widespread woods were winding and confusing, but you were determined to find the animal. The cold nipped at your face as you kept your perseverance. Suddenly, you stopped. Realizing that instead of you finding him, and him staying hidden he reversed the game and was trailing you. A peculiar feeling arose, the thought of him following you without you even knowing coiled your stomach.

All of your theories were proven right as his big arms wrap around your torso and pulls you down into the leaves. He laughs heartily against your neck as you push up, straddling his waist. You hit his chest softly.

“You filthy animal I was supposed to be hunting you!”

He shakes his head with a small smile, squeezing your hips as he stares up at you with childish eyes.

“Maybe you’re just not that good of a hunter.”

Your eyes widen and your mouth falls open.

“Hey!”

You hit his chest again, and he sits up. Kissing your nose.

“It’s okay, lil’ bunny.”

It sincerely unnerves him how unobservant you were. How oblivious you were to the world, but that same reason is why he loves you. He loves that you’re different, even if you were human you understood what it felt like to be a mutant. He flicks the end of the cigar down into the asphalt and closes the front door. The blood on his body is dried and caked on him. Stripping the rest of his clothes in the hall as he goes to the bathroom. His house is still trashed and he doesn’t care to clean it until his life is put on track again. Until you’re in his life again.

He turns on the faucet and lets the water warm. Looking at himself in the mirror while he waits. He looks righteously like an animal. His hair wild on his head, the blood goes from his mouth down to the v-line of his hips. It’s brutal and chaotic. He wonders if this is what life is going to be like for him for the rest of eternity. Nature made him a freak, man had made him a weapon, and god is making it last too long. The water blurs the mirror and he no longer sees himself in the reflection. He steps inside the scalding hot water and his thoughts don’t slow.

All he’s thought about is you, all he can think about is you. You’re the last thing that’s keeping his humanity. Without you he turns into this beast of regret. He watches the blood pool around his feet. The blood mixed down his chest and face and down the drain. He wishes to drown but knows he can’t. He wishes to die but that’s too humanly for him for it to be possible. Maybe even love was too human for him to obtain. He thinks about calling you and then it passes. He thinks about his mother for a minute and that passes. Every wave of emotion, feeling and thought passes through him as he cleanses his body. He stays in that sauna of a shower for an hour.

When he gets out he pats his skin dry from one of the towels you bought out of the cupboard and ties it around his waist. Pushing his wet hair back it slicks back and stays. He knows he’ll wake to the two tufts being straightened on his head in the morning, he doesn’t bother. Bending down, he picks your shirt up off of the hallway floor and holds it to his nose. Closing his eyes and breathing in your intoxicating bodily perfume. He can already smell it fading. It’s damp from the water still clinging onto his chest. He sits down on the leather couch that he’s shredded. Contemplating if he should call, it’s late and he knows you have work in the morning. He shouldn’t bother.

The smell of you gives him motivation. What if? What if she does misses me and wants me as much as I want her. That’s blasphemy, he thinks. Yet, he ponders it seriously. He breathes in your shirt once more and finds the phone he’s thrown against the wall a couple weeks before. He dials your number apprehensively. His nerves shot to hell as he holds the phone to his ear. The buzzing and monotone hum of service sends his perturbation to his chest. His stomach clenched tight with bated breath. He hopes that you don’t answer, but his soul wants you to. He almost thinks about hanging up and it continues to ring. What is he even going to say? He doesn’t know. He never knows. His eyes widen and he doesn’t breathe as he hears your sleepy voice.

“Hello?”

You whisper into the phone and he doesn’t say anything. He’s internally panicking, on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“Hello?”

You whisper again and he doesn’t speak, his head is in a frenzy and his hand is shaking.

“Logan?”

When you say his name he drops the phone. Trepidation strikes him. He hadn’t heard you say his name for weeks and the sleepy softness of your voice sparked something in him. He’s scared of that feeling, petrified even. Logan Howlett’s only fear is love.

He fell asleep with your shirt cradled tight into his chest. The morning’s sun is the only thing that awoke him. He didn’t fall asleep that night until dawn. He was too paranoid and scared to fall asleep, the anxiety of possibilities kept running through him. He sighed and the feeling he felt was worse than any hangover. He knew he was broke in every way possible, he didn’t have any money, he didn’t have anything. He didn’t even have you. He groaned and cursed himself as he saw last nights doing in his kitchen. He honestly doesn’t remember anything after what occurred at your house. He didn’t have any food left nor any liquor. He had to do one of the things he hated the most, grocery shopping.

His strong anxiety was almost numbing to him now. He’s felt so high strung the past few weeks that he’s used to it. He strolled through the store with a shopping cart that had one of its wheels broken and he almost thought god did it purposefully to mock him. He wandered helplessly through the aisles, grabbing miscellaneous food. Knowing most of it wasn’t going to even last him the rest of the week, but he needed something to get by.

Most of his cart was filled with strong liquor. He wanted to forget you and move on, and maybe finally kick the bucket with alcohol poisoning. He’s reaching into the fridge to grab another case of beer when he feels a soft tap on his shoulder. His stomach drops. It couldn’t be. He stands and looks over his shoulder and sure as shit, there you are.

You have a little smile on your face and your cheeks are dusted red by embarrassment. Looking to your feet, you see a pair of cotton panties peeking out of his jacket pocket. Your cheeks grow a darker red as you see that your name is embroidered on the top.

“I- uh, I-,”

You shut your mouth tight, cursing yourself for the hurried stutter and if he wasn’t so nervous himself he’d think you being flustered was cute. You look up at him through your lashes. He takes notice of the flint of his dog tags around your neck and his heart soars.

“I’m cooking dinner tonight at my parents house and was wondering if you’d like to come,”

You scratch the back of your neck, uneasily. Beaming timidly.

“You don’t have to come of course! And it’s just if you’d like if you’re not busy, I’m cooking steaks and I know you like-“

“What time?”

Your rambling stops and you give him the best kid going to Disneyland look he’s ever seen.

“Six.”

He nods and you smile. The trajectory of his life seemed to be on track again. This was the right timeline.

“I’ll be there at five.”

You smile wider.

“Thanks, Logan.”

He gives you a small smile and nod of his head in response. You start to turn to leave before turning back, looking both ways before you whisper to him.

“If you wanted a pair of my panties, you could’ve just asked.”

You give his cheek a quick kiss and walk away with a bounce in your step. Leaving him blushing and blinking at the case of beer in his hand, trying to figure out what actually just happened. Those small moments that are just so humanly indescribable makes him feel much less like a filthy animal.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

23: YOUR LOVE IS A LIE

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Summary: The morning after the wedding, you wake up to the crushing weight of betrayal, exhaustion, and heartbreak. Struggling to move on, you bury yourself in work, only to be confronted by Sam Wilson, who comes bearing truths you aren’t ready to hear. Meanwhile, Bucky drowns in guilt and regret, unable to reach out to the woman he’s fallen for— until Sam forces him to face the reality of what he��s lost.

Warnings: Angst, emotional distress, self-inflicted injury (scrubbing skin raw), heartbreak, betrayal, mentions of alcohol and unresolved tension.

Word Count: 3325

The next morning, you woke up to the harsh morning sun glaring down on your face. Your body physically ached almost as though you had been beaten by the events of the previous night. Exhaustion clung to your limbs, pressing you deeper into the mattress and you could no longer claim sleep for refuge from the pain.

Last night you had fallen into bed, your mind racing through the events of the wedding— which now felt like a cruel joke. You sat up to find your lehenga lying in a crumpled heap on the floor and your jewelry scattered across your dressing table— all abandoned in your haste to disappear under the duvet covers and shut out the world that had hurt you. 

You had been too miserable to remove your makeup and it was now streaked across your pillow. Your reflection in the vanity’s mirror was nothing short of tragic. Mascara was smudged under your swollen eyes, which were red and puffy from crying.

With a deep, shuddering breath, you forced yourself out of bed and into the shower in the hopes that the hot water would wash away the sting of deceit. Steam from the shower curled around you as you stepped into the hot spray. You tilted your head back in the hopes that the heat would soothe the ache in your heart, but even the scalding temperature couldn’t penetrate the hollow, searing grief that had taken root inside you.

You raised your hands to scrub your face, wash away the makeup remains with as much soap as you could tolerate. As the last few suds flowed away, you opened your eyes, the clear water running down your hands over the delicate swirls of mehndi still painted on your skin. You admired the beauty of the red lines on your skin, until you saw it.

BB

His initials nestled within the intricate design, hidden yet clear. The artist had tried to conceal them, but once you had seen the letters, you couldn’t tear your gaze away. The evidence of him was there, staining your skin, almost as though he was branded onto you. But Bucky wasn’t yours. He had never been yours.

Your breath hitched as fresh tears welled in your eyes, quickly washed away by the shower as they fell to your cheeks. You reached for the pair of exfoliating gloves you mostly ignored out of sheer laziness and slipped one onto your trembling hand. Then you started scrubbing.

Your intention had just been to erase him, to rid yourself of the cruel reminder of what he had meant to you… what you’d let him mean to you. But with each attempt to remove him, a memory of last night crashed over you and the pain heightened.

The betrayal in Aditi’s eyes.

The disappointment in Hanna’s voice.

Then Bucky’s voice. Doll, no, I didn’t—

You scrubbed harder.

Your skin burned, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

I thought you cared about me.

Harder.

I let you—

Harder.

I trusted you.

Suddenly the sting in your hand became unbearable and you’d only realized what you had done when you saw blood. Scarlet stains swirled around with the water on the drainage board in a delicate spiral pattern. You let out a choked sob as you looked down at your raw skin, your body trembled and your hand throbbed as you saw what you had done. The hot water falling on the wound made it burn and the pain only made you cry harder.

You grabbed the handrail and pressed your forehead against the cool porcelain tiles, taking in deep, shuddering breaths, trying to pull yourself together. Why should you fall apart? Over a man? You wouldn’t. Not over someone who had used you.

Eventually, with shaking hands, you turned off the shower and stepped out. You wrapped a towel around yourself and pulled off half a roll of toilet paper to wrap around your hand. Determinedly avoiding your reflection in the mirror, you dried yourself off and carefully bandaged your hand before getting dressed. The sting of the wound grounding you, reminding you that you needed to be strong.

You didn’t have time to wallow in your loss. No time to grieve your friendships. No time to lament the trust you had misplaced.

You had a job to do.

So you forced yourself to apply some makeup, don your jewelry and fancy shoes and bury your pain beneath a mask of professionalism before stepping out the door.

The morning passed in a blur of emotions. You went through the motions of your life— unlocking the door of the boutique, turning on the soft overhead lights in the backroom, pulling out the latest piece you were working on and placing it on the bench. Your body worked on autopilot, your hands working on your latest piece while your mind was somewhere else. Everything felt distant, hollow, like your heart didn’t have the energy to care.

Your head ached because your sinuses were stuffy from crying and you could barely mumble a greeting to the overly cheerful store manager, Anita. She placed a mug of coffee in front of you and didn’t ask any invasive questions about your puffy eyes or the bandage around your hand. Every time you moved, the skin where you had tried to scrub away Bucky’s initials stung and you cursed softly.

You wondered why you had even bothered to come into the boutique today. It wasn’t as though your presence was mandatory. But somehow the familiarity, the boring routine of work was the only thing you had left to hold on to. Because the thought of being alone in your apartment, wallowing in your thoughts, was unbearable.

After an hour of listening to uninterrupted emo songs from the 2000s you picked up your phone. Your fingers hovered hesitantly over the screen before giving in and tapping on the iMessage app. You opened the  “Power of 3” group chat with Hanna and Aditi.

They hadn’t texted since the morning of the wedding.

You hesitated, then typed:

10:37 AM - You: Hey guys. How’s Mr. Sharma?

You stared at your words, but the message sat, unread. You watched the screen for a while, waiting for those little “typing…” bubbles to appear. They didn’t.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and tried again.

10:41 AM - You: I’m so sorry about everything that happened. I swear I didn’t know. I love you guys so much. I would never…

You let the sentence trail off, staring at it for a long moment before hitting send.

You waited. Still, no reply.

The knot that had been sitting in your chest since you woke up tightened, and you leaned forward, resting your head in your hands and rubbing your temples.

Of course they wouldn’t answer. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

Why would they? You’d been part of the reason their family had been torn apart. Even though you hadn’t known, even though you’d merely been a pawn in someone else’s game, ignorance didn’t stop you being at fault, you’d played a role and you needed to accept your responsibility in that. You bit your lip in an effort to stop from crying.

The door between the workshop and the boutique showroom was open and everything outside was quiet. Anita liked to have you on display. Customers trickled in and out, but you barely noticed them since no one had come in asking for custom items. All you could think about was your friends— the pain in Aditi’s eyes, the anger in Hanna’s and the lost look on Bucky’s face— almost like he had lost something dear to him.

A moment of pity flashed through you before you remembered the way you had let yourself believe in something that had never been real, the way he had let you believe in it.

Suddenly, your phone buzzed, and your heart leapt for a millisecond. But when you looked down at your phone, it wasn’t Aditi or Hanna.

It was an Instagram notification from @CapsGotWings. You groaned.

Then, out of the blue, Anita was at your side, practically bouncing up and down.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, eyes wide. “Captain America is here to see you!”

You looked down at your phone.

12:17PM @CapsGotWings: Need to talk.

Your stomach dropped. Of course he was here. Of course he wanted to talk. Why wasn’t the universe done punishing you yet?

“You okay, sweetheart?” Anita asked, empathetically. “You look like you could use some rest. Too much fun at the wedding?” she smiled, her eyebrows insinuating that you’d gone a little overboard on your revelry last night.

“Something like that,” you gave her an empty smile before standing up.

“Well, can’t keep Cap waiting too long, huh?” She gazed out at Sam with star-struck eyes.

Forcing yourself to keep a neutral expression, you went out to meet Sam. He was standing near the entrance with his hands in his pockets, looking far too relaxed for someone who had played such a huge part in turning your life upside down.

You marched outside, not bothering to hold the door open for him. You stood outside the boutique, your arms crossed over your chest, waiting for him to floor you. The store bell rang one last time as the door closed behind Sam. You could see Anita watching the two of you from behind the counter, but you didn’t care.

“How can I help you, Captain?” you asked, your voice like ice.

Sam’s brows shot up. “Oh, it’s like that, huh?”

Your expression remained impassive. “What do you want from me?”

He sighed, his weight shifting uncomfortably. “I wanted to apologize— for how things went down at the wedding.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Not my wedding. Not me you need to apologize to.”

Sam tilted his head, studying you carefully and your lack of eye contact with him. “Bucky’s not the one at fault here,” he said slowly. “But I'll admit, we should have told you, but it wasn't his idea.”

Your jaw clenched. “What does it matter? It’s not like he owes me anything. Our deal is done.”

Sam frowned. “What deal?”

You let out a sharp breath, your patience was already hanging by a thread and Sam’s innocent act wasn’t helping you in the least. “The one where you got him to pretend to be my date so you guys could get access to my friend’s father.”

A flicker of confusion flashed across Sam’s face, his lips parted a little as if he was trying to catch up to the meaning of your words. “We didn’t—” he started, but you cut him off.

“I know it was all fake,” you snapped. “He didn’t feel anything. It was all for show. You guys took it to the extreme, even getting your sister involved.” You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You definitely fooled me.”

“Wait, hold on—” Sam tried again, but you were far from done.

“I can’t believe how far you took this,” you continued, shaking your head. “I needed a date, and you really pulled out all the stops, even using Sarah. Ingenious. Well, you got what you wanted from me. I have nothing left to give you.”

The confusion on Sam’s face transformed into realization, like the missing pieces of a puzzle just fell from the box and completed the whole picture. But you had no interest in his revelations.

You had spent enough time being humiliated.

You stepped around him and back into the boutique.

“Wait!” Sam called after you, reaching out but not touching you. “You really think Bucky was… pretending?”

You didn't answer. You couldn't. If you did, your heart might splinter completely.

Instead, you walked away, leaving Sam standing outside, his mind indubitably racing with things you no longer cared to hear.

Bucky hadn’t slept. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his suit from the night before. His shirt was wrinkled, sleeves rolled back, his hair was disheveled from the number of times he had run his hands through it. He was holed up in his apartment, thoughts spiraling into the darkest recesses of his mind.

His curtains were still drawn but the afternoon sun was filtering around the cracks giving the apartment a vibe of dereliction. A half empty bottle of bourbon sat on the small dining table. Drinking didn’t help— not that he could even get drunk— but old habits died hard. And sometimes just the act of holding a glass and letting the amber liquid burn his throat was enough to take the edge off.

His phone lay on the table, the battery running dangerously low. But it was on and your contact glowed brightly on the screen. He stared at the selfie you’d uploaded in your contact info, brushing your face on the screen. He had typed out message after message, only to delete them before he could hit send.

Instead he relived the way you looked at him, over and over, he saw the look of betrayal in your eyes, heard your voice crack as you accused him of using you. The memory made his guts twist around in a knot that just kept getting tighter and tighter.

A knock at the door pierced the silence.

Bucky’s head swiveled around to the door, body tensing as he debated if he should ignore it. What if it was you?

He jumped out of his seat and rushed toward the door, only for Sam’s voice to float through before he reached the handle.

“I know you’re in there, Barnes. Open up.”

Bucky closed his eyes and let out an almost angry exhale through his nose. Sam was not the person he wanted to see, but he also knew that Sam would not make himself scarce any time soon. So he unlocked the door and opened it, stepping back wordlessly to let Sam inside.

“Damn,” Sam muttered, looking around and taking in the mess that was Bucky Barnes. “You look like hell.”

Bucky huffed out a humorless laugh as he shut the door, taking one last lingering glance at your apartment door. He wondered if you were behind it.

“She’s not home,” Sam volunteered, like he was reading Bucky’s mind.

Bucky slammed the door and stalked back to the back of the apartment to get as far away from Sam’s wrath as possible.

“You really are a goddamn idiot, Barnes.” Sam paced the length of the room, running a hand over his face before turning to Bucky.

Bucky glared at his friend, taking another sip of bourbon. “Yeah, I got that.”

Sam rounded on him angrily. “No, I don’t think you do.” He gestured around the apartment at the booze, untouched food on the counter and the closed curtains. “You’re just in here, closed off from the world, like some brooding tragic romance novel character— you think this is gonna fix anything?”

Bucky didn’t respond, clenching his jaw and looking away.

“So?” Sam asked.

“So what?” Bucky snapped back.

“You wanna tell me why the hell I just had to find out from her that this whole relationship thing was a big ole fake?”

Bucky looked away, his jaw twitching dangerously. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh? Because from where I was standing, she sure as hell thought it was.” Sam waved his hands at him. “And clearly, you let her think that.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, dragging his hand over his face. He shook his head as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was about to say. “It started out as an arrangement. To get Aditi and Hanna… and you, off our backs,” he admitted. His voice was flat, now resigned to the story he was telling. “She needed a date. I needed… people to stop treating me like Quasimodo.” He chuckled softly. “It felt like a win-win deal.”

Sam raised his eyebrow, ignoring the clear dig at his efforts to set Bucky up. “And then what, Barnes? You just forgot to tell her when you caught feelings?”

“I told her!” Bucky blurted out, the words rough and frustrated in his desire to make Sam understand. “I told her it wasn’t fake.”

Sam blinked. “You told her?”

Bucky sank down into the chair, his face in his hands. His voice was quieter now. “I thought she understood.”

“You thought she understood?” Sam repeated incredulously.

“That it wasn’t fake anymore.” Bucky lifted his head and his fingers twitched. “I told her, Sam. I swear, I said it.”

“Was that before or after you started sleeping with her?”

Bucky clenched his fists, the weight of Sam’s words made his heart twist, as though someone had put it in a vice. He stared down at the floor for a few moments before answering.

“After,” he admitted, his voice hoarse and rough with guilt.

Sam let out a sharp hiss. “Jesus man,” he shook his head and rubbed his temples, pacing once again. “You didn’t think that maybe… just maybe… that wasn’t enough? That maybe you had to actually say it instead of hoping she’d figure it out?”

Bucky gritted his teeth. “I did say it!”

“Telling her it wasn’t fake is not the same as telling someone how you actually feel. You think someone like her— someone who’s smart, compassionate… that girl has a stubborn streak, no doubt— you think she’s gonna hear that and just assume it means you love her?”

Love.

The word felt like an elephant in the room, unmentioned until now.

Sam turned to face him, folding his arms over his chest. “You never told her, did you?”

Bucky sighed, running his hand through his hair. But he didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” Sam muttered. He dropped onto the couch suddenly looking exhausted. “Man, I hate to break this to you, but you can’t just expect people to know what’s going on in your head. Especially when you do that staring thing. You have to tell them. Especially when it matters.”

Bucky picked up the bottle of bourbon, peeling the label from one corner. “She won’t listen to me… not now,” he said, still picking at the paper. 

Sam leaned in Bucky’s direction, his forearms resting on his knees. “So? Make her listen. Have you even tried?”

“She made it pretty clear last night.”

“Last night was a shock, give her a minute to get over it!” Sam rolled his eyes. “Look, you’ve already dug yourself into a hole. You can either sit in and feel sorry for yourself, or you can climb the hell out and do something about it.”

Bucky looked at him skeptically.

“You love her?” Sam asked.

Bucky nodded slowly. Then, finally— finally— he said it. “Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence between the two friends before Sam spoke again. He rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Look man… for that it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Bucky frowned. “For what?”

“For putting you in this position in the first place. For making you keep all this to yourself.” Sam sighed. “I didn’t realize how deep this went for you. I should have known…”

Bucky scoffed and shook his head. “It’s not like it would have changed anything. She would have found out the truth eventually.” He sighed. “Now she thinks I never cared at all.”

“Then fix it,” Sam urged. “It’s already screwed up, but that doesn’t mean you have to let it end like this. Lay it all out for her, then let her decide.”

“And if she doesn’t believe me?” Bucky asked.

“Then at least you tried,” Sam shot back. “But if you sit here and do nothing? That’s on you, man.”

Bucky slumped back in the chair, his head dropping back against the wall with a small thud.

Sam rose from the couch and walked to the door. “Your choice, Bucky. But for the love of God, take a damn shower first.”

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[senseandaccountability]

the healer has the bloodiest hands

I wrote some thoughts after the finale of Veilguard. Solavellan heavy.

This is just me, parsing through some feelings. "My people had a saying long ago -'The healer has the bloodiest hands'. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. You cannot heal pain by hiding it. You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better."  Solas to Thom Rainer in DAI.  ***

One can wonder, of course, what Mythal has to do with a Solavellan reunion and Solas’s choice to become the Veil’s protector, but hear me out. 

It is significant that it’s Mythal because she is the embodiment of his terrible past, the epitome of their brilliance and boldness and good intentions turned to terrible truths. The horrors they did, they did together. It is significant that it’s Mythal that sets him on this new course by removing the chains of his guilt and regret. Lavellan can’t do that, she didn’t forge them. Solas’s journey as the Dread Wolf begins and ends with Mythal. 

Mythal literally pulls Solas out of the Fade to use his wisdom, first to not lose herself to the other gods' vanity and brutality, then to gain advantage against them in an endless power struggle that breaks them both, I’d argue, though most significantly it breaks Solas. Retribution and revenge has no room for understanding, there is no wisdom in conquering. And Solas, for all his faults, isn’t brutal or cruel, doesn’t want power for his own gain. Instead he’s wise and creative, doomed to see the faults of his actions even as he carries them out, arguing in vain that the Evanuris too must see it - don’t cross these lines, don’t do it like this, don’t warp and twist your powers to forces of destruction. You must know this is madness! He objects to the creation of the bodies for the ancient elves, objects his own People’s physical creation. Did the earth not shake? It did, it was horrific and it was wrong and he knows this and it doesn’t matter. What he wants has never been part of the equation. 

Even when he breaks free from Mythal, when he burns her mark off his face, he never stops fighting for the world she once wanted. Because otherwise? Should he stop? Then all that he has done, all that he has given up, all that has been demanded of him both as Mythal’s lapdog and the Dread Wolf, leader of the rebel armies for centuries, cloaked in a persona of strategy and battle orders - all of that has been for nothing. He has made a ruin of himself, of the world, for nothing.  So he begins again, he picks up the pieces, he swears to make it right, to fix what he broke. That’s how he perceives healing, that’s what he thinks he is doing. But you cannot heal pain by hiding it. That’s why the Crossroads are falling apart with the manifestations of Solas’s greatest regrets, that’s why he needs Rook to escape his own prison, that’s why a Regret demon burns through Skyhold.

Solas traps the Evanuris as a final act of the ancient times, the creation of the Veil an embodiment of everything he and Mythal ever were - protection, benevolence, retribution, wisdom, pride. He ties it to the blood of the Firstborn out of spite and anger and it wrecks the world in ways he could not foresee. In ways he cannot fix because you cannot fix what has already happened.

You must accept. Accept the blood to make things better. He holds himself like a broken thing in front of Mythal and you can see it as submissive or as a man finally letting his grief out. There, at long last, he stands beaten and bloodied and blighted and he cries for all that was lost, all that he did and all that was done to him, all the things he cannot, cannot undo. And then: a new way forward.

In willingly binding himself to the Veil he embodies the best of those old myths, the All-Mother and the Breaker of Chains, as he breaks the cycle of punishment and grief and protects the sun and the moon. This oath, as opposed to the oaths of the empire that made him, is not to someone but to everyone, to all the innocents of the world. Instead of being the one who makes the terrible sacrifices of other people - the things I have done - he becomes the protector of the world that his people broke once upon a time. Instead of being the Creator of a new world without the Veil - the god he vehemently does not want to be, that he arguably thinks nobody should be - he becomes a caretaker, a guardian. A healer with bloody hands. And yes, it takes Mythal to break Mythal’s hold over him. You cannot treat a wound without knowing how deep it goes. And this one goes deep.  But it’s Lavellan who brings him the light in this story. It’s Lavellan who breaks through the dark, transforms it into something hopeful. 

His prison construct in the Fade was terrible, an abyss of regret made to hold a god. An ancient punishment for ancient crimes but times change, people change, the People change for better and for worse and here Lavellan stands in all her mortal imperfection, offering him not a way to change the past - where all these ancient beings are stuck - but a way to mend the future. It will be a terrible place, he tells her, saying I am terrible because the Fade shifts around our beings. It won’t be terrible, Lavellan argues. Because I’m there with you, walking the dinan’shiral with you, all the way. He doesn't have to fix anything first, he doesn't have to change for her, he just needs to stop hurting the world, hurting himself. Because she loves him, despite all the terrible mistakes he has made. Because she knows all his names, from Dread Wolf to Vhenan, she knows the power of his mind and the fires of his love and she saw more than most of the man he is. The man he wants to be. For a little slice of time there in Skyhold he was that man, he was seen and he saw. He saw the world filtered through her and could forgive it, he saw her through his own ancient, tired eyes and he fell in love no matter how much he thought he did not deserve it. You don't have to deserve love, or mercy, it doesn't demand anything in return, holds you to no oath. It is a gift, freely given. That's what Lavellan offers him by holding out her hand there, at the edge of everything. That's where the light slips in.

She’s real, which means everyone is real and she changes everything, because she can.  Ar lasa mala revas. 

[mehiwilldoitlater]

Hi! i really love your writing about wukong and reader and i always waiting what's new from you 😄

can i request?,

am i the only one who put interest to the broken sage shell?

can you write about reader who in the past she was wukong's most beloved person, and she join Bajie (who also know the reader very close) to accompany destine one till the final fight with wukong's stone monkey. however the stone monkey or in broken sage shell mode, even as broken shell he still can sense her presence, and miss the reader so much even for just a touch, when he knock down the destine one so badly, he take his time to walk closer to the reader who watching the scene from a small boat behind transparant wall 🥺

Thank you!

Sorry for my english 🙈

As the story said, the Lady Bone demon was a mere spectacle, a monster that wanted nothing but to devour the Tang Monk. The story said that she was merely a cause of the first exile of Sun Wukong and that she had done nothing special per se.

But no one ever said the other side of the story. That the demon once was a servant for the Celestial Court, then the bride of the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, and only then became the monster that she was.

When the Destined One First Met you, what he saw was a mysterious ally to his quest, a Yaoguai that could manipulate ICE and had some strange abilities. What he didn't know was that you were an old acquaintance of old Bajie...and maybe something more.

When he saw you hug each other like friends that haven't seen each other for decades, he knew that he could trust you.

"Ah! Pesky Witch! Were you hiding yourself for so long?!" The old pig laughed, giving you some strong pats on your back.

"Hiding from that snout of your, old pig!"

Bajie explained then everything—or at least what Wukong wanted him to know. He did understand the surprise in the Destined One's eyes, knowing that the Great Sage did in fact have a wife that turned into a demon for grief. Well, it was a lot, but he was used to learning more about the old king that he was supposed to.

"I didn't know...no one knows...why?" 

Your gentile gaze was veiled by a sadness, old like the legend itself.

"Oh young one, if I knew the reason for it, I would have certainly found piece by piece."

And so, you helped him. 

Maybe it was that gloom that still unted your eyes when you were talking about your deceased husband; maybe it was Hope or just some silly fantasy of yours, but you did trust the destined one. You wanted to trust him and the idea that your beloved husband could be back together once more.

So you helped him, you followed him, and you assisted him, just like Bajie. Both of you became the nearest thing to a parent that the young monkey ever had, and this thing never bothered you.

And so, when the relics were reunited, you Hope still stood, only to be crushed by the painful truth.

Sun Wukong was long gone. Your husband was gone.

You didn't cry; maybe you knew that it was just a silly hope, or maybe you had already consumed all of your tears in the last centuries.

Or so you thought, because rivers of tears were falling when that stone creature, only a shell of what once was Sun Wukong, was slowly approaching the wall in his mind.

Even as a fragment, he was strong; he was able to outstrip your young protege in one strike.

"PLEASE DON'T HURT HIM! MY LOVE, DON'T DO THAT TO THE BOY!"

He stopped, and the staff stopped on his finale strike. Those burning flames that he had as eyes searched for the origin of the voice, and they met you.

A long past memory, regrets, hope, and love.

While the younger monkey was getting back on his feet, the shell slowly approached the wall where you were watching the fight, refusing to move forward there. Despite the heaviness of this aura, you didn't flinched. How could you? He was never a threat for you, and Brother was now.

He was there, only the thing Wall of his Mind separated the both of you, just like the thing line of life and death. Like Always...

His hand reached the wall, now resting where your own was. You could swear that you could sense that warmth that it was always meant just for you—the warmth of the sun and the kind fire of the house that you wanted to share with him.

Your cry stopped, realizing the most agonizing reality that your poor heart could feel: despite the time, the distance, and death itself, he had never forgotten you. As a mall portion of you was still alive in that shell.

Even now, he was trying to console your cry and tell you that it hurt him more than anything seeing you like that.

He loved you. After all that time, he still loved you.

You wanted to hold his hand; even though it was made of stone, you wished to hold him once again. Instead, your tears fell on the boat, Bajie watching this heartbreaking scene, uncapable to say anything that could help.

"I wished nothing more than to hold you again in my arms, my love." You said between hiccups and sighs. Your forehead touched the wall; he mimicked that action, trying everything to just feel you.

"But before me... I want your own happiness... it's just like you always said, I'm too nice."

The destined one was once again on his feet, the weapon of your husband in his hand. He approached the scene, his hurt grieving for you now.

"I love you...more than everything. Be free, my love."

And while two lovers shared an untouchable kiss, the final strike settled the fight.

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[white-poppie]

𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 ⎯⎯⎯ s.gojo x fem!reader (part 3/3)

SYNOPSIS — Your life was a mausoleum of sickening memories until light found you again at the end of the bleak tunnel, peering through his big cerulean eyes. Spitfires vanishing till you found your everlasting effervescent flame. And that's how it ends, because you still have your youth.

💿 — Mia and Sebastian's theme from La-la land

TW —breastfeeding, pregnancy, post-partum, grief, loss, crying (obv), jealousy.

WC — 5k

Series masterlist Moon Child ⏮ ⏸ ⏭ Now playing: Part 3

“Hey…shh..it’s okay…I’m here.” He mutters as he winces, closing his eyes while the remnants of his best friend's cursed energy remain.

The next few minutes go by Satoru holding you to his chest, silently as you sob. Now he’s sitting in the front seat of his car, the tinted windows drawn up as he regardless looks outside cautiously while you feed a hungry Tsukiko.

Satoru’s gaze falls to rear mirror, his eyes briefly catching your tender expression when you look at Tsuki as she stays latched to you and an inexplicable warmth erupts in his chest. He cranks up the AC silently, noticing you’re sweating a bit while feeding her.

You can’t help but smile as he turns up the AC, he notices these little things, the things Suguru should have been here for.

You sigh and lean on the headrest of the car, the smell of the faux leather making your head pound harder after crying. Tsuki suckles with soft whimpers, her face covered by your t-shirt. "It’s strange isn't it?" You murmur. "You are doing few of things Suguru was supposed to be doing for his daughter..."

He’s quiet for a long moment before he finally speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s his loss. He missed out.”

You look out of the window, tears pricking in your eyes yet again. Your eyes burn from crying, yet it seems as though gotten used to it, gotten yused to the uncomfortable warmth of excessive tears burning down your eyes.

You tell yourself you’ve gotten immune to heartbreak but image of Suguru tenderly holding Tsuki. His eyes filled with so much regret and pain like he would turn around everything if he could. It’s burned in your head. “I’m so tired, Satoru…” you whisper.

He’s quiet as he listens to you speak, his heart breaking as he hears the way your voice cracks again and how your words carry such a sense of exhaustion and pain, like you’ve been carrying burden that no one could understand. You’re not the same person that you were when you were just shy of seventeen. You’re not the same girl that he used to know at sixteen and he knows that better than anyone else..

"I feel so lost- I no longer know what I am working for. There is this anger that bubbles in me, This vile feeling of resentment towards everyone, everything...hell sometimes even towards Tsuki." You choke, "I feel so selfish for thinking all this when I have a sweet daughter. I hate myself that sometimes my mind conjures up this feeling of anger and blames this little girl who has no fault. I love her so much, but I can't help these sudden feelings."

His heart aches at the way you blame yourself, it all just feels so unfair. It feels…cruel. He can do nothing but sit here and listen to you talk it all out because you so clearly feel suffocated like you’re drowning.

"When he told me he was leaving the Jujutsu society. It felt as though my heart was being ripped apart, like I would stop breathing without him. I dug my nails into him. Clung to him that entire night. I got a call from Shoko in the morning when he had gone rogue and filled so many people. I wanted to rip my skin apart yet not wash the flesh he had touched" You sob viscerally, lowering your head in shame.

At times, it felt like you were living a bitter love song. Penelope unthreading the tapestry, grieving, loyal to gone Odysseus. Yet, ambivalent. Somedays, you unthread the tapestry, other days you beg Artemis to end it instead.

He can’t stop the feeling of pure agony bubbling in his chest, his throat dry. Your grief feels so real. So tangible. You’ve lost yourself to him. A part of you must have still been hoping he would come back, as foolish as that hope was. He reaches out to gently take your hand in his. “It’s okay…it’s not your fault.”

You gulp, wiping your tears with your trembling hands upon realising Tsukuba is done feeding, you fix your shirt, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief. Her litttle features relaxed into a blissful expression after having her fill, her pouty pink lips making you smile despite your sorrows.

“Can I hold her?” Satoru asks suddenly hesitantly. The corners of his eyebrows upturned and furrowed almost adorably.

"You are asking as if you weren't the first one to hold her in the hospital." You croak out humourlessly and hand her to him and shift in the front seat beside him.

His face softens as a small smile spreads across his lips and he gives off a quiet breathy chuckle as he sees the way your shoulders soften and the small, weary smile that spreads across your face as you hand him the baby. His eyes are so gentle and loving as he carefully takes Tsuki and cradles her against his chest. The way he’s holding her, it’s so natural - as if he was born to be a father.

Your heart feels so heavy at the scene. Its supposed to be Suguru...Its supposed to be Suguru holding Tsukiko, not Satoru. But there's this swell of affection when you look at him cradle her. She's so loved...

"She looks so tiny against you." You whisper, The way they look like yin and yang makes your breath hitch. Tsuki with her black her and eyes and Satoru with his white hair and blue eyes. Suguru and Satoru—Yin and Yang—the strongest sorcerers.

His lips quirk up in a soft smile as he gently pulls Tsuki just a bit closer to his chest, his hand gently wrapping around the back of her head in a tender hold. “She really is a tiny little thing, isn’t she?” he whispers right back as he continues to softly stroke his hand across her back. “She’s so precious and fragile, like a baby bird.”

“”It’s both a blessing and a curse that she looks exactly like him.” You whisper looking at his strong arms hold the baby.

Satoru looks at you, her eyes softening with a mix of pity and affection for the child in his arms. “She really is the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”

Your shoulders relax you take in a shaky breath, your head pounding like a those drums from from Physical education classes that banged rhythmically. Sighing you raise your legs up to your chest and lean the seat back.

The sight of you curled up in the passenger seat of his car, the car which, you’ve just about proclaimed as your property is so domestic to him that it hurts a little bit. “You’re tired,” he says softly as he continues to cradle Tsuki against his chest.

"Mhm." You nod as you look at him, eyes fluttering. "You should give her here or you won't be able to drive."

He lets out a sigh as he reaches over to gently buckle her into her baby carrier against you. His breath stutters as his fingers brush against your arms and he finds himself gazing into your eyes before gulping and drawing back.“She’s just so tiny and cute and precious, I just don’t want to let her go.” He mutters, his voice slightly deeper than intended.

You chuckle and carefully cradle her neck so she’s leaning against your chest "She's a very charming little girl." You press a kiss to her forehead.

He watches silently as your breaths even out in a semi- lucid state before he whisper to himself in response. “Just like her pretty mama.” He utters and starts to drive to your house.

The smell in the car is saccharine, your vanilla perfume, and the oddly sweet smell that comes from babies; combined with a heady mix of breast milk and baby products.

Tsukiko and you are settled and curled into his front seat as if you belong here. It's so natural. To think Satoru is being the haven Suguru could never be, he's picking up cracks of you shattered, broken heart; you don't know what to call it, but it feels right. Unclear, whether it’s pity or friendship that makes him care so much for the girl and the kid his best friend abandoned.

You arrive back at you place as he helps you out of the car. You look at Satoru with heavy eyes, "Come in, I'll make tea." you say with a tired smile.

Initially, he thinks of rejecting, yet seeing your swollen red eyes and that weary slouch of your shoulder blades; he surrenders.

The little apartment that's less of a home but a sanctuary, its a cute tapestry of memories. Baby products are neatly kept, such as cribs, baby toys, polaroids of the baby, plants, and, in progress, a crochet baby hat on the couch and adorable little trinkets around.

But to you, as night comes it becomes a glum, cold sanctuary for the most part-- filled with reminders of Suguru. Everywhere. His large shoes were on the front door, his coat was on the rack, his picture with me was on the fridge, and his cologne was on the dresser. Almost everything of his is untouched the way it was, despite everything, you don't have the strength to throw out his things the same way he threw you out of his life.

The more his gaze lingers, his mind immediately drifts to the last time he came here; when Suguru was in your life. The house reeks of his memories. The place doesn’t look like a home, it looks like a museum that’s dedicated to the relationship you had with Suguru, almost like a shrine. The longer he looks at it, the more his chest aches. When he speaks, it comes out as a barely audible whisper. “Y/N...”

"Hmm?" You mutter slowly, tucking Tsuki in her crib. You walk back into the kitchen, your house sandals dragging across the marble flooring.

“Can I just…hug you for a second?” he whispers.

Your eyebrows furrow at his words, pausing midway while putting the pan on the stove. "Where did that come from?" You ask confused, but your voice softens immediately, turning into a whisper by the end of the sentence.

"I just…want to hug you right now.” he says in a tender, whispery voice. “You look like you need it.”

You gulp, keeping the pan down and wrapping your arms around him he leans down, his arms wrapping around your waist. A shaky breath leaves your throat at how warm he feels, your throat constricting and nose and cheeks feeling warmer. You close your eyes, a silent tear rolling down your cheek.

His arms slowly snake around your waist as he wraps you in, pulling you to his chest, cradling your soft, exhausted body and holding you against his larger, firm form. His eyes close as he feels you shaking in his arms, his embrace so tender that it hurts. “It’s okay,” he whispers softly to you. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Your chest aches at how comforting his embrace feels. You are suddenly reminded of the way Suguru used to hug you- but for the first time, I push the thought of Suguru away quickly. It’s Satoru in front of you, not Suguru.

"I’ve got you,” he murmurs right up against your ear. “I’ve got you.” He lifts his hand to brush his fingers across your hair, his fingers running across your scalp.

You feel my heart beat faster inexplicably as you raise your head up to look at him. “Satoru, I need your help.” You whisper out as you gulp, briefly closing your eyes.

“Help me…help throw his things away please, I don’t have the strength to do it alone. it’s so haunting." You choke, "I want to move on, I want get better, in a more stable mental place for Tsuki, and I can’t do that with these reminders of him everywhere…” You vent out in one breath.

“You really…want to throw away all of his things?” He asks, his voice a mix of hurt, and relief.

“No.” You reply immediately, “but what other way is there? I don’t want Tsuki to grow up with me being an emotional wreck over a man who abandoned us."

Your eyes fall over to the tiny toddler in the crib, unable to peel your eyes from the beautiful girl.

"I want to keep everything of his, to look at them and grieve for a man who’s alive. I want to keep that damn scarf of his, I don't have the strength to remove his picture from my wallpaper, and his pillow that I sprayed with his perfume and hugged to sleep during pregnancy because his smell calmed me during morning sickness. It’s pathetic I know…but how long am I going to hold on?” You choke up, tears rolling down my eyes.

He feels his breath hitch at your words. He slowly lowers his head to rest his forehead gently against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he breathes in slowly and trembles slightly as he gently pulls you into him, his breath trembling and catching in his throat again. “Oh, Y/N,” he whispers in a voice broken with emotion. “Oh sweetheart…”

For a second he wants to gather all of Suguru's things and keep them for himself on the other hand he wants to shatter everything. He's been like the same paradoxical situation as you, day in and day out. He's been a hypocrite. Telling you to move on when he could not get over his best friend. The only person he could ever confide in without being superficial, the only one who cared.

He's aching, just as much as you are. And he aches even more to see his first love so terribly broken apart by his best friend.

"I want us to heal, 'Toru." You mutter. "All of us: Me, you and Shoko. Of course the pain can never truly be gone, but we can't let our lives stagnant like this." You whisper, cupping his face in your palms, your eyebrows furrowed as you stare into his cerulean eyes.

He feels his heart skip several beats in his chest as he feels your soft, warm palms gently cupping his face, your eyes peering into his. He takes in a slow, shuddery breath and swallows again in an attempt to get rid of the aching feeling in his chest - the aching he feels for you.

His eyes glance over towards the crib, seeing the small infant that ties you to his best friend in the most undeniable way that he could never possibly compete, yet she draws him and you closer than ever. From the day he laid his eyes on her, he loved her.

He raises his hand slowly and gently rests it over one of the ones that are cupping his face, his fingers intertwining with yours. He holds your gaze for a long moment in silence, just trying to calm the thundering of his heart in his chest. He let his feelings sit in the backseat when you and Suguru started dating. It hurt, but the ache soon simmered and he accepted reality, he knew his feelings had never left and yet it didn't feel hard to think otherwise. Hell, he was ready to be Suguru's best man. He's finally letting himself be selfish.

"Toru," You breathe out shakily, unsure why you uttered his name like so. This feels like the precipice, the intermission of the movie of your life, right at the climax. These inexplicable feelings brewing in your heart are so heavy. You feel guilty, for letting yourself feel this way, for letting yourself move on-- to develop an affection beyond friendship for Suguru's best friend and your friend.

His heart skips a beat at the way you breathed out his name like so. It almost sounds like a plea, almost like a desperate beg. Toru. It never felt this good, never felt this right, for you to say his name like that. It's so good to hear the way his name sounds when it leaves your lips, your lips that he has never once touched.

His throat aches as he leans down and captures your lips against his own he's wanted this for so long. For so so long he's ached for you. Satoru knows its wrong, you're both vulnerable, but he feels like he would break and sob like a child if he doesn't embrace you. If he can't love you. Its physically impossible for him to control his affection anymore. His nose is red, eyes burning.

A gasp leaves you as you freeze, your fingers clenching into fists. You stand unable to react, frozen still. Your heart beats in a sickly rhythm at the confusion swirling in your chest.

He swallows thickly and instantly pulls back, his eyes wide as he looks into your shocked expression. He takes in a shuddery, shaky breath. He's a idiot, he's an absolute idiot. He knows you don't feel that way about him, knows you're still broken over Suguru, and yet he still kissed you.

"I-" You stutter, your heart shattering at his slightly red eyes. "I'm...I'm sorry..." You breathe out, unable to utter anything else. You want to pull him in again, to kiss him with the same tenderness. His glassy eyes make you sick, but you are not sure you can do this to him, not when you are so conflicted about your feelings...he deserves better than that.

He shakes his head adamantly, his hands trembling slightly as he gently reaches up to place them on your shoulders to keep you at a distance. He doesn’t want your pity. He can’t take your pity.

"You don’t—" Satoru whispers shakily, his eyes still burning. "You don’t have to feel sorry for me. Please, don’t pity me because I feel this way for you."  

"I don't-- I don't pity you 'Toru, not a bit. But you are not a replacement, I never want you to feel like that. I am- there is so much to heal in my heart, I don't think I can love anymore. I am so damn scared after all that I went through." You breathe out reaching to him hesitantly. "You deserve better than whatever mess I am right now."

His heart shatters even more as he feels the way that you demean yourself so harshly - you have no idea how much you're worth. You have no idea how many times he's had to restrain himself from kissing you, holding you, loving you - so many times he's had to tell himself that he has no right to try and love someone that's not his. But his heart is a fragile, weak thing in the face of your sorrow.

"Your daughter needs you," he whispers, his voice cracking a bit. "You're amazing.

“Would you give me time to heal Toru? For myself? For Tsuki? Maybe even for us.” You whisper with a soft voice. “I want to reclaim myself, I’ve lost that ambitious girl somewhere, I want to get her back before I can ever try to find love again.”

.

6 months pass by in a blink of an eye, wasn't she born yesterday? Tsuki's already 8 months old, its a bittersweet feeling. Yet somehow when you think of the times your blood used to run cold when someone mentioned Suguru when you trying to heal; it reminds you how long the year really was.

Those six months were a lifetime for you and Satoru too. He was there all along, for you and Tsuki. He watched you grow and change - every day, every moment, he witnessed the way you healed and slowly came back to yourself. And with each day that passed, the more that he found himself completely and hopelessly in love with you.   

You smile, wrapping the scarf around Tsuki as she sits in her stroller, wide-eyed, observing her mama dressed up differently. A red, velvet a line dress. It feel so weird to wear old clothes again, like watching yourself in your middle school yearbook pictures, cringing at how you looked, but feeling warm as you remember how truly happy you were.

You gulp, fixing your hair for the nth time, waiting for Satoru to pick you. You roam nervously in the apartment, wound like a spinning top and you jump when the bell rings.

You quickly walk up to the door, there he stands in his glory, in a tailored Italian suit, an Armani watch, his fluffy white hair parted at the side with a bouquet of peonies in his nimble hands.

And he freezes just as you do, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing up and down trying ti muster, suave words of praise, but nothing leaves his starstruck self.

“You look so handsome, Toru.” You say fondly.

He slowly holds out the bouquet of peonies for you as his eyes scan over you again. His voice feels weak, barely a whisper as he speaks to you. "Look who's talking."

“Thank you, it’s beautiful.” You say taking a sniff of the fragrant flowers. Your heart feels warm, despite the chill in the air; warm toasted bread with sweet milk tea in the sheets, an odd sense of euphoric comforting.

"Just beautiful things for a beautiful woman."  He says, finally with his flirtatious grin which causes you to roll your eyes.

You chuckle and look over at Tsuki. “Let’s wait for Shoko” It’s the first time she’d be away from you, she’s too small, too tiny, it makes you anxious for her to be anywhere except in front of your eyes. This is the first time you've ever been apart from the infant who's been attached to your hip since she was born.

"Shoko's a doctor, she'll take good care of her. It's just for a few hours, sweetheart."  He says, interrupting your thoughts.

Soon enough, the bell rings, and the tired woman makes her way in. You go over the same things, same scenarios multiple times until you feel relieved and Shoko on the other hand, exasperated.

"And for the love of god don't smoke around her," you say and finally hug her. "Thank you for doing this Shoko."

Shoko freezes as you suddenly hug her; for a moment, she feels as though her eyes are getting bleary after seeing you smile so brightly after so long. "All good..." She murmurs, unknowingly tightening her grip around you.

"Let's go," you whisper to Satoru, holding out your hand. For a few seconds, he just stands still, unable to form a coherent emotion at the sight of your hand extended to reach his. Gulping he intertwines his large fingers into your palm. the path to his car feels sacred, intimate; he feels as though he's holding you as you walk down the aisle to him. It's an exaggerated, delusional reverie that makes his chest all tight.

The ride towards the restaurant is mostly silent, with you looking out the window and watching as the world passes by like a blur. Satoru steals a few quick glances at you every now and then as he drives, feeling the familiar ache in his chest everytime he looks at you in your beautiful, beautiful red dress.

"You look beautiful, you know that?" He whispers, his voice hushed almost as if he's afraid if he speaks too loudly, the moment will be shattered.  

Your eyes soften at his reverential tone, you tilt my head, staring at him. "You've told," you answer. "But I like hearing you say it."

"I'll say it till you get sick of it," he says with a soft chuckle, his bright cerulean eyes undoing all defenses, all inhibitions. They shine so bright, like stars.

"I don't think I can ever get sick of it," You whisper. It's peaceful, you realise. Not the wild, passionate sort of love you experienced with Suguru, where the flame was brightest before it blew. But this feels like a soft light, whispering in the dark, ebbing the strongest shadows away. It draws you in like a moth to flame. This tender light ignites my very being from the dull, colourless life you were trapped in. You never realised that what you wanted was warmth; you hunted it in a spitfire, but found it in an everlasting flame.

His heart skips a beat at your soft, but honest words. The car slows down as the light turns red, and he takes the opportunity to take a good a long look at you. You are sirenesque, it takes his breath away. He finds himself leaning closer, red lights of the signal reflecting off his face. The soft jazz he put to sound fancy is all static under your gaze. He is all static under your gaze.

Both of you flinch as a car behind you honks, pulling the two of you out of your reverie. You realise the light has already turned green and clear you throat.

He lets out a soft sound before he starts driving again, looking ahead at the road to distract himself from the way his heart still pounds in his chest.

The restaurant comes into view as he parks the car with a sigh. 

You smile as he helps you out of the car. It's a fancy restaurant, the kind you'd see in old Hollywood movies where the main characters take the heroine and a cute song starts playing. You wait for your orders, and there's an awkward silence; neither of you speak for a while. A mix of embarrassment and nervousness blended in with being clueless about what to talk about.

"So...I was thinking," he begins, his heart beating rapidly against his ribcage as he fiddles with his fingers. There is a moment of hesitation as he looks up at you for a second, his heart skipping a beat at your calm expression. He gulps and decides to say it, his words leaving him in a low murmur - barely above a whisper. "Wanna dance?"

"Dance?" You question your eyes fluttering in confusion as you look around and then back at him as if to question, 'here?'

He nods as his nervousness melts away into a small, genuine, bashful smile as he stands up and gently extends his hand towards you from across the table. "Yeah...dance." He mutter, his heart feeling a bit lighter at your innocent question.

He looks at the small dance floor in the restaurant, not even a whole dozen couples dancing on it. "Just one song." 

"Alright, until the food comes in." You smile tenderly and take his hand as the two of you walk to the small wooden flooring. You look up at him as he wraps his hand on your waist, another interlacing with yours. And the song plays, ironically enough, Mia and Sebastian's theme from Lalaland, and you roll your eyes. it's a fancy restaurant; they should at least play jazz or something. Nonetheless, you sigh and just look into his cerulean eyes, and your heart pounds in your ribcage.

He can't stop the way that a small chuckle leaves him at your eye roll. He is in utter bliss in this moment, being so much closer, so much more intimate than he'd been with you in ages: everything around them feels so surreal.

You two dance at first, for a few minutes, a sophisticated pair dance before the two of you just sway, eyes peering intently into each other. The light is dull, dim, centered just at the floor, but nothing shines brighter than his hopeful, loving eyes, and you can't help but feel like you are melting as he holds you in, swaying to the music.

He holds onto you as tightly as he can, his eyes never leaving yours, his breaths growing more labored with each passing second. He can't help but be utterly enamored by you. He can just barely hear his own voice over the sound of his own rapidly beating heart. "I love you." 

Your eyebrows furrow at his admission again, and you can't help but huff out a fond chuckle. He's so sincere, despite all, despite how torn you were, despite how you had hurt everyone, including yourself. He's been there. He's been there and made you realise you don't have to beg for someone's love. It's not transactional as it was with Suguru. "I've made you wait for so long, haven't I?" You whisper, your eyes a little bleary looking at him.

The corners of his eyes crinkle with your huffed chuckle. He smiles softly as you speak, his hand on your waist gently caressing your body lovingly. He smiles and reaches his hand up to caress your soft cheek, gently stroking your skin with the rough pads of his fingers.

"Forever." He mutters, his own eyes slightly glossing over as he looks at you. "You could've made me wait forever, and I still would've waited."

You wrap your arms tighter around him and lean up to kiss him, eyes fluttering close. He tastes like mint; its sweet, and it soothes you so. You let out a shaky breath, and he leans in and kisses you tenderly at first, but then with an adolescent vigour that has you dipping in his arms.

You can't help but giggle at his excitement, somehow, the sound gets him to tone it down, tender and soft, his fingers shaky. You part away to breathe and chuckle fondly. "You've got lipstick on your lips." You shake your head and wipe his lips clean.

"We still have a dance to finish," You say as I keep your hand back on his shoulder, and start to sway, laughing as he spins you around

Outside the restaurant after a late night tussle of the girls begging for icecream and him giving in, Suguru walks with Nanako and Mimiko. Their little hands holding the ice cream he brought, trying to not make it drip.

"Geto-sama, isn't she the woman in the photo frame?" Mimiko points out cluelessly to through the glass to you and Satoru dancing. A woman she's only ever seen through the photo frame he keeps close to him, fondly smiling at the,mystery woman that the twins love to inquire about.

"Hmm...?"

Suguru looks towards the glass, and it takes a few seconds for him to process what he sees. He sighs. It's hard to breathe, but you look so radiant it's like life is back in you. It's so different from when he last saw you six months ago in the grocery store. You looked like your world was crumbling down; you were tired, depressed and alone with his daughter you gave birth to. "Yeah." He says with a smile, his voice heavy.

"That's her."

He keeps looking at you, his smile still on his face as he stares at the sight of the two of you on the dance floor. He can't explain the feeling he has in his heart: hollow and heavy, a feeling of losing something he had and messed up so terribly. The feeling of watching you fall in love with someone else, while he still is in love with you. 

But this is different. He looks at your smiling face now, and all he can feel is a strange sense of peace. His chest feels tight, an inexplicable pang of nostalgia and loss as he watches you dance with his best friend, but the pain he feels in his chest is replaced with a strange sense of acceptance.

It feels nostalgic, you're dancing with Satoru the way you used to with him, old jazz music playing as you stood on his feet and he swayed you around, sneaking kisses on your soft lips, your arms wrapped around him. But just as he remembers these memories, he is reminded of what become of your relationship.

It hurts like crazy but still doesn't compare to the soul-crushing guilt he felt when he saw your in the grocery store with Tsukiko, the baby of his love that he left unknowingly and despite knowing her existence, he was far too gone to step up. All he can remember is the utter agony you held in your eyes when you stood with that little infant so tired, so terrified. He made you go through hell.

The two of you finally stop with the dance. You glance away for a second and freeze as your eyes fall onto Suguru. Your lips part, feeling these conflicting, wretched emotions of anger and bitterness.

He is stoic before he breaks into a smile, a content, tired smile. The smile you give to someone, a goodbye, a good-luck, a smile of nostalgia and well-wish.

You breathe out as if you feel a burden off you existence, your lips twitching up to a smile too.

He looks at you and then glances at the girls, and something in him just wants to approach and hug you so tightly, ask for forgiveness and stay like this, all of you together again.

And yet, when your lips twitch into a smile at him, he smiles back, lifting up his hand to wave softly before walking away.

Life didn't end when he left, though it seemed like it would. Sometimes, we find escapes closest to us, but grief makes us blind. Satoru and Shoko were there to help, but drowning in the agony of loss you didn't find the strength to reach. The point is, no one can help you, unless you want to help yourself.

And once its over, one day you'll find yourself at crossroads with your past again. And its then you'll have courage to look it in the eye and smile, because that's how it goes:

Aches of present become memories of past:

a testament of Our Youth.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

I remember on ao3 you mentioned you wanted to post Stan and Ford reacting to readers death, I wanted to ask if you could share it please?<3

grief wears your name | Stan and Ford react to reader's death

Grief hits everyone differently and the Pines family is no exception. Old men arent supposed to outlive you

a/n: certainly! thank u for reminding me, tw: death

Stanley

you'd think that a man who’s been through as much as Stan Pines would’ve learned how to process grief by now. but the thing about Stan is, he doesn’t process it, not really. he pushes it down so deep that even he forgets it’s there, until it sneaks up and slams him flat on his ass.

fuck that, fuck everything, fuck this world

hell, he wasn’t supposed to outlive you. not you. not with all the shit he’d done to his body over the years, the cigarettes, the cheap booze, the sleepless nights every time he looked in the mirror. it was supposed to be him first. the old man with bad habits and a lifetime of regrets weighing him down. that was the deal, wasn’t it? you're too young, bright, stubborn, alive, you were supposed to outlast him. supposed to be there when his time came, rolling your eyes at his dramatics and holding his hand as he went. that’s how it was supposed to go, fucking fuck

he got the call from someone he didn’t recognize. a voice muttered words he couldn’t make sense of. your name. your fucking name. his ears rang, his head spun and his fingers gripped the receiver tightly

“what the fuck do you mean, gone?” the person on the other end tried to explain, but Stanley slammed the phone back onto the hook before they could finish. no. no.

you couldn’t be gone.

he saw you last week. he watched you smile at him across the counter, teasing him about his fez like you always did. he swore you winked at him before you left.

and now you were just. . . what? erased from existence?

grief had a way of making him ugly, uglier than he already saw himself. his hands shook as if he’d been drinking all night, but the bottle on the table was full and untouched. even the burn of whiskey couldn’t numb this, so what was the point?

Stanley thought about the kitten he’d brought home when he was ten. it was starving, ribs like piano keys beneath its dirty fur, the meows little animal let out were so pitiful. he'd sworn he’d take care of it, even made a little bed out of an old shoebox and named it tiger. he fed it milk behind his dad's back. tiger died three days later.

Stan felt useless, he couldn’t save anyone.

Stan hasn’t touched the fez since you died. it’s sitting there on the bedside table, gathering dust. you used to steal it all the time, yanking it off his head with a grin. “this thing’s ridiculous, Stan,” you’d tease, shoving it onto your head crookedly. “i’m the boss of scam now. bow to me.” and he always played along, rolling his eyes, calling you a pain in the ass, but you only laughed at that. that laughter was gone.

when Mabel asked him about you last night, he had to get up and leave the room because he wasn't ready for that. she was just a kid, trying to understand why the world was so unfair and he couldn’t give her an answer because he didn’t have one.

“grunkle Stan? do you think. . . do you think they’re still watching over us?” how could he tell her he didn’t believe in anything like that anymore? that you were just gone, snuffed out, like you’d never been here at all?

Mabel’s curled in his lap like she’s five again, clutching her sweater-covered arms around her knees, her face a swollen mess of tears and hiccupping sobs. her little voice is hoarse from crying and she tries to explain, through broken words, about the stupid sweater she’d been knitting for you. she just finished it. it was supposed to be a surprise. she was going to give it to you tomorrow.

Stan wraps his arms around her, calls her “pumpkin” in the softest voice he can manage, but it trembles. he squeezes his eyes shut so hard it makes his head hurt, he hopes if he can just keep them closed tight enough, none of this will be real. but it is. it fucking is. and he doesn’t know how to tell a twelve-year-old that the world is this fucking cruel. he doesn’t know how to admit he feels like that little boy again, the one with a kitten dying in his hands and nothing he could do to stop it.

he buries his face in Mabel’s brown hair and mutters some useless lie about how “it’s gonna be okay”

Mabel's face against his chest as she sobbed. Stan held her tighter.

“i made them a sweater, grunkle Stan. i-it’s pink with little stars and they- they said they'd wear it when it got cold,” her sobs swallowed the rest.

what could he say to that? what the hell could anyone say? “they loved your sweaters, kiddo. you know they did.” he wanted to picture you in that dumb pink sweater, smiling like you always did when you wanted to make Mabel feel special. but all he could see was you gone. gone. and nothing he could do would change it

Stanford

when he got the news about you, his meticulously constructed walls crumbled in an instant.

he sat at his desk, the journal open in front of him, its pages blurred by the tears he didn’t realize were falling. his hands shook as he gripped the pen, but the words just wouldn’t come.

he’d been taught from an early age that emotions were illogical. when he was younger, his father had told him to “quit being such a baby” after Ford cried over a broken model ship. that lesson had stuck

he locked himself in his study, the same place he’d last seen you. everything was still exactly where it had been. the chair you’d sat in. the pen you’d picked up and fiddled with while listening to him ramble. he’d always been embarrassed by how much he talked around you, because words came so easily when you were there.

the guilt was eating him from inside

was it his fault?

had he been too focused on his work, too distracted to notice that something was wrong? had he missed a chance to save you?

he needed answers. needed to know. what had happened? why had it happened?

he buried himself in research, poring over every detail of the accident or the incident, as he came to call it. his obsession grew, consuming him. he didn’t sleep. didn’t eat.

Stan found him one night, hunched over the desk, muttering to himself about alternate dimensions and cosmic energy. “Ford, this isn’t gonna bring them back.”

Ford didn’t respond because Stan was wrong.

Ford wasn’t trying to bring you back. he was trying to rewrite the universe so you’d never been gone in the first place

Dipper tries to talk to him one day, pulling at the hem of his vest clumsily. “grunkle Ford, is it okay to miss someone this much? like. . .this much that it hurts? my chest hurts.”

Stanford doesn’t know how to answer that. he doesn’t know how to explain the way grief wraps itself around your lungs and makes it impossible to breathe. “it is, Mason, it means they mattered.”

Dipper doesn’t see how Ford presses his hands to his temples when he leaves.

Ford’s always been good at pretending he’s fine.

Ford’s grief was quieter, but no less consuming. the guilt, the helplessness, the horrible emptiness that stretched wider every time he thought about how he’d failed to protect you.

he couldn’t stop thinking about all the times you’d parodied him, mimicking the way he pushed his glasses up his nose or how he’d say “actually” before correcting someone. “actually, Stanford Pines, you’re so predictable,” you’d giggle, tapping the bridge of your nose in a mocking gesture

you used to drive him insane with it, in good way. his face would flush, his words would stumble, and he’d act all huffy while secretly loving every second. he never told you how much he adored the way you made fun of him

he found one of your notebooks the other day. it was tucked under a pile of his old research papers, pages scrawled with your handwriting. you’d doodled little caricatures of him in the margins, stick-figure versions of Ford with six fingers and exaggerated glasses, accompanied by sarcastic captions like, “the nerdiest but prettiest man i ever knew”

he stared at those drawings until his vision blurred from tears. then he shoved the notebook in a drawer and locked it.

...

Ford disappears the next morning.

he knows it’s selfish, leaving Stan and the kids to deal with all of this without him, a part of family, but he can’t be in that house another second. the walls are suffocating. so he grabbed his coat, your coat, the one you used to borrow when you’d say his was warmer and walked, his feet already knew where they’re going.

the woods. the same path you always loved, where the sunlight filtered through the trees beautifully, where you used to point out birds or mushrooms or anything that caught your curious eye. you’d tug on his sleeve to make him stop and look. and god, you were so beautiful when you smiled at him like that. Ford adored you.

Ford doesn’t remember sitting down in the clearing where you used to spend time together, his knees in the dirt, fists clenched in the grass. he hadn’t cried when he found out, hadn’t even let himself feel it because there were too many faces looking at him like he was supposed to have answers. now there’s nothing but the woods, only memory of you and the sound of his own ragged breathing breaking into loud sobs

Ford cries like a child. raw, aching grief pouring out of him in waves, making his glasses fog up, slipping down his nose and he doesn’t bother fixing them. his body doesn’t know how to process this kind of pain. his hands too busy clawing at the ground, hoping he could dig deep enough to find you again.

Ford Pines, the man who always thought he could think his way out of anything, is completely unmade.

he doesn’t know how long he sits there, crumpled against the base of a tree. his hands tremble as he takes the notebook out of his coat pocket, the one he used to write down little things you’d say or do that he didn’t want to forget. he flips through it now, pages ruined with his tears and it hurts worse than anything else. your handwriting’s there, little notes you’d leave for him.

“don’t forget your glasses!”

“your hair looks cute today <3”

“i love you, Ford.”

he shuts the notebook and presses it to his chest, it's the only part of you he has left.

the stars above didn’t care. the trees didn’t care. the world kept turning, indifferent to the fact that you’d been torn from it.

and Ford was left there in the cold void, feeling smaller than he ever had in his life.

[mira-atakirina]

And here we go again?...

- Dad! - You screamed in despair, running to the huge screen on the building that was currently broadcasting. Your father was going to commit suicide to save the earth and his loved ones.

How he regretted not telling Stone that he loved him, that he was not only his friend, but something more. How he wanted to tell his daughter to her face how much he loved her and was proud of her.

And that he regrets that he couldn't be a better father to you.

Ivo Robotnik trusted the first person he met, and now he regrets it so much that he completely forgot about his own child, focusing exclusively on taking over the world and Gerald's fake kind smile.

If he can't take over the world, he'll at least save it.

- My beloved and only daughter, I love you, baby. - He moved on to you after he opened up to Stone, he couldn't leave you without telling you his last words. He knew that Stone would take care of you, that he would be a better father than he was.

All the events of his life, from childhood to adulthood. Graduating from school with a gold medal, entering the best university, getting a high-paying job. Receiving fame for his inventions... And the birth of a child he loved with all his heart. The difficult fate of the Worker, which he overcame and became the best version of himself.

The last words he wanted to convey were said.

...

You and Stone returned home, neither of you talking to each other on the way back, just hugging each other tightly before going to bed.

[reader] was in shock, she was stunned and desperate, she wanted to cry and scream. She didn't want to admit that all this was real, her only loved one had died. To save their world.

But honestly, she would sacrifice the world for the person she loved.

Was that really what Shadow felt?

A burning pain in her chest, a desire to burn everything around her, to destroy everything, leaving nothing but emptiness.

The girl cried into her pillow all night, trying to drown out her pain, to be strong for her family and friends.

...She is not alone yet.

...

[reader] was still crying, although she had long since fallen asleep. She needed time for the pain to pass, that's what heroes say in movies, right?

The previously clean pillow absorbed all her grief, all her tears of regret.

Shadow appeared in the middle of her bedroom and stood there, sympathetically watching her cry and sob in her sleep.

Hedgehog walked up to her bed, stood by her face and gently brushed a strand of wet hair from her forehead.

He knew how much it hurt, but he couldn't do anything for you. You can't bring the dead back to life. No matter how much he himself dreamed about it for fifty years in the capsule.

Mobian could only wipe your wet face with his palms now. As if he could absorb your grief through the fabric of his gloves, he even wanted to do that. If only you weren't suffering.

Shadow leaned towards your face and kissed your forehead. Memories of her came to mind, how she could convey all the love through that touch.

He made the right decision, Maria would definitely want peace, for her loved ones to be happy.

He is not alone, he has you. I hope you think about him too.

[kinzhae]

"Too Late."

After a heated argument, Gojo Satoru pushes you away, becoming cold and indifferent. During a mission, you are severely injured by a curse, and Gojo arrives too late to save you. As you die in his arms, Gojo is forced to confront the painful consequences of his actions and the love he never expressed.

Warnings: Death, Emotional Abuse, Angst, Grief, Violence, Angst with no happy ending, mentions of death, ignoring.

This has been sitting on my draft but didn't know if I should post it or not.

Gojo x Reader.

You’d reached your breaking point with Satoru’s arrogance, his refusal to take anything seriously. After a mission where his antics nearly got a teammate killed, you confronted him.

"Why do you always act like nothing matters?" you shouted, your voice trembling with anger. "Do you think it’s funny when people almost die?!"

Gojo’s smirk was firmly in place, his hands stuffed casually in his pockets. "Relax, no one actually died. I was there, wasn’t I?"

"That’s not the point!" you snapped, tears burning in your eyes. "You can’t keep acting like this is all a game, Satoru. People care about you—I care about you—but you make it impossible to reach you!"

His smirk faltered for a split second before he recovered, his voice dropping to an icy tone. "If caring about me is so hard, maybe you should stop."

His words struck you like a physical blow, and you staggered back, staring at him in disbelief. "Is that what you really want?" you whispered, your voice cracking.

Gojo turned his head away, the faintest flicker of regret crossing his face before his usual arrogance took over. "I don’t have time for this," he said simply, walking away and leaving you behind.

From that moment, he froze you out completely. In the halls, he ignored your presence as if you didn’t exist. On missions, he stood back, arms crossed, watching you struggle.

"Having fun?" he’d call out mockingly as you fought against a curse, his tone laced with cruel amusement. "You said I don’t take things seriously. Show me how it’s done, then."

Each word was a dagger to your heart, but you refused to let him see you falter. You pushed yourself harder, determined to prove you didn’t need him.

But your body couldn’t keep up with your determination. On a solo mission, you found yourself overwhelmed by a curse far stronger than you’d anticipated. You fought with everything you had, but it wasn’t enough.

Gojo arrived just in time to see you collapse, your blood pooling around you as the curse disappeared into nothingness. For a moment, he stood frozen, his heart pounding in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

"Satoru," you whispered weakly, your vision blurring as he knelt beside you. "Guess you were right… You didn’t need me after all."

"Stop talking," he said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp as he pressed his hands to your wounds, his mind racing. He could heal himself, but not others. He had never learned. "Don’t… don’t do this. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine."

Your hand weakly reached for his, and he grasped it tightly, his grip trembling. "You’ll be fine," you murmured, your voice fading. "You always are…"

For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru felt powerless. As the light left your eyes, his entire world crumbled.

He sat there for hours, holding your lifeless body, his blindfold damp with tears. "You were wrong," he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. "I needed you. I needed you more than anything."

But no one was there to hear his confession, and the silence that followed was louder than any scream.

[sunlighthroughthe-ashes]

there's a translated scrap of plato that eventually found its way into a letter sent by emily dickinson: "i wish you a kinder sea."

seascape scenes in k-dramas can often be so trite — but love next door's characterization was beautiful. seunghyo pitching seokryu into the water might seem like an act of anger — but it's actually liberation. it's a rebirth; a re-emergence — a place of salt that can settle her tears. water is renewal: a washing place for wounds. a tincture to clear away the bitter and broken; and allow the touch of tenderness.

though seokryu is scared of water; in the sea she is safe: the waves hold the weight of her hurt and desperation as she screams at seungyo. he knows what she needs — he has always known what she needs. he stands still — takes the tips of her fingers striking him as what it is — finally, a surrender to all the emotions she refused to succumb to. a clearing of the air. an opening into a freer intimacy.

there were so many beautiful moments during this episode: the power of a simple "we'll hit rock bottom together." seokryu's ex was heartbreakingly right — what she needed wasn't someone to lift her up, but someone to fall down with her. when someone is in pain you sit with them in the dark; and look up at the impossibility of light together.

this is what seungyo has always understood so effortlessly about seokryu — that this is love: to climb down into the ravine of regret and raw hurt where the person you love has fallen — not to pull them out; but give them company. when people are in agony you must give them the dignity of their deep hurt — you must nurture the narrow, serrated edges of their sorrow. seunghyo taking seokryu to see off her ex — folding his coat around her to create a private hollow to express her heartache: it speaks of a man who understands that grief is not meant to be overcome; but gathered in the hands and given respect. attention. understanding.

this is love: to say "when you cry, it is my eyes that fill with salt. when you scream, it is my throat that burns. when you fall down, it is my knees that bruise in the color of your eyes."

this is love: to wish someone a kinder sea. a clearer day. a warmer hug.

this is seunghyo.