#cried while writing

[fairydrowning]

Quote to Owner / Somewhere, There's a Party by Holly Warburton / "The Prophet" Book by Khalil Gibran / Quote to Owner / Spirit Hold by Holly Warburton / "Freak" Book by Jonathan Harnisch

[amirasainz]

Hey can you make one where Lewis and Readers mom are in a relationship and Reader kind of grows up with Lewis ad her stepdad. Over time she stops calling him Lewis and instead calls him Dad.

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💜

The greatest title of them all

The sound of laughter echoed through the house as Marry stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup. It was a cozy Saturday afternoon, with the warm sun casting a soft glow through the windows. In the living room, a ballet video played on the TV. It was a recording of Yn’s recent performance, and even though it wasn’t perfect in her eyes, she loved watching herself dance, especially with her mom and Lew nearby.

“Mom, can we watch it again?” Yn’s voice, small and tentative, broke through the quiet.

Marry looked up with a warm smile. “Of course, sweetie. Go ahead.” She set down the spoon and wiped her hands on a dish towel.

Lewis, who had been sitting on the couch, looked over at Yn. His heart swelled with affection every time she called him by his name—‘Lew’—a title he hadn’t even dreamed of when they first met. It wasn’t always this way. In the beginning, Yn was shy, cautious of him, unsure of his place in their home. But now, as she was snuggled up with him on the couch, her tiny frame leaning into his side, Lewis felt like the luckiest man in the world.

“Are you sure about the soup? You don’t need any help?” he asked, his voice gentle, watching her stir the pot. He didn’t want to pull her away from her task, but he also wanted her to know he was there if she needed him.

She chuckled softly. “I’m good, honey. Just enjoy your time with Yn. I’ll be right here.”

And he did enjoy it. Every single moment. Because Yn had become his little girl in so many ways, and he had become the father figure she never thought she needed.

---

Two years ago, when he first started dating Marry, things had been complicated. Yn was only five at the time, and she didn’t know how to process the idea of another man being in the house. Her dad had left when she was three, and for the past two years, her only family was her mom.

At first, she had called him “Lewis.” It had been strange for her, especially when he would show up to spend time with Marry. But over time, he began to do little things for Yn, making sure she felt included, loved, and heard.

Lewis had been there for her first ballet recital, sitting proudly in the front row with a bouquet of flowers, cheering her on just like a real dad would. He didn’t need to be asked—he wanted to be there.

“Good job, sweetheart!” he had shouted excitedly when she took her final bow.

Yn had smiled shyly, but the connection between them had deepened after that day. It wasn’t just that he showed up—it was that he cared. When she wanted to go to the waterpark for her birthday, Lewis had taken her. He had watched her face light up as she slid down the water slides and played in the wave pool.

At night, when they sat down to watch movies, he’d let her pick the movie—even if it was a Barbie movie she watched for the hundredth time. It didn’t matter to him. What mattered was the smile on her face.

“Let’s have a picnic, just the three of us!” Lewis had suggested one Saturday afternoon. He laid out a blanket in the living room, and they ate sandwiches, laughing as Roscoe tried to steal a piece of ham.

But more than the big moments, it was the small ones that cemented his place in Yn’s heart.

The nights he spent waiting for her to fall asleep on the couch so they could decorate her room together.

Or when they baked cookies in the kitchen, and Lewis taught her how to mix the dough just right, making a mess and laughing the entire time.

That's when 'Lewis' turned into 'Lew'.

Sometimes, it was the quiet moments that meant the most and change everything. Like the night Yn came to him after a bad dream.

---

The night had been quiet, the house wrapped in a blanket of calm. Marry was asleep beside Lewis, but a small sound stirred him from his slumber. He heard it again—soft, a hesitant knock.

“Mom?” Yn’s voice was faint.

Lewis heart leaped in his chest. He turned toward her voice. “Hey, Yn, you okay?”

Yn’s small figure appeared in the doorway, her face tight with worry. Her eyes, wide with fear, met his. “Lew… I had a bad dream,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.

Marry stirred in bed but didn’t fully wake up. Lew gently pulled back the covers, his heart aching at the sight of Yn standing there, so small and vulnerable.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he whispered, patting the empty spot beside him.

Yn climbed into the bed, curling up next to him. Her head rested on his chest as he wrapped an arm around her protectively.

“You’re safe here, okay?” Lewis whispered, his fingers running through her soft hair. “Bad dreams don’t stand a chance when you’re with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Thanks, Lew,” she mumbled, already beginning to relax in his arms.

He smiled down at her. And then, in that moment, something he never expected to hear passed her lips. “Dad?”

Lew’s heart skipped a beat. He held his breath, unsure of whether he had heard her right.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m right here.”

It didn’t take long for Yn to fall back asleep, her hand still gripping his, but from that night on, everything had changed. The way Yn looked at him, the way she started calling him Dad instead of Lew, felt like the most sacred gift he could ever receive. It wasn’t just a title. It was the confirmation of the bond they had formed together.

He had been there for her, in every way a father could be—attending her recitals, helping her with homework, making her laugh, teaching her how to ride a bike, taking care of her when she was sick. But it wasn’t until that night, when she whispered ‘Dad’ into the quiet of the night, that he knew he had become something much more than just her mom’s boyfriend.

---

As the days passed, the bond between Lew and Yn deepened. They were inseparable—Yn seeking comfort in him when the world felt a little too big and scary. When her dad stopped picking up the phone calls, when she felt abandoned, Lewis was there. He was her constant, her rock.

One evening, as they sat down to dinner, Yn hesitated, her little hands resting on the table, fiddling nervously with her napkin. She looked up at Lewis, her eyes big with a question she wasn’t sure how to ask.

Lew met her gaze with a smile, noticing her uncertainty. “What’s on your mind, kiddo?”

Yn bit her lip, then asked softly, “Do you think my papa will ever come back?”

The question hit Lewis hard, but he knew better than to lie to her. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said quietly. “But what I do know is that I’m here for you. Always.”

Yn nodded, her shoulders relaxing a little as she reached out and took his hand. “I’m glad you’re here, Dad.”

That was all Lewis needed to hear. He squeezed her hand, his heart full.

“I’ll always be here, baby,” he promised, leaning in to kiss the top of her head. “And no matter what happens, you’ll never be alone.”

Yn smiled, her trust in him unwavering. For her, Lewis was more than just a stepdad. He was her dad, the man who loved her, protected her, and gave her a sense of security that she had never known.

And for Lewis, there was no greater joy than knowing he had earned that place in her heart. He would always cherish the title of ‘Dad’—because it meant more than anything he could have ever imagined.

As they sat there, together at the dinner table, the sound of Marry’s laughter filled the room. And in that moment, Lewis knew that this—this family—was exactly where he belonged.

[killerplink]

LET ME IN

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Plot: You don't cry. Not anymore. No matter how heavy the weight of the world gets, no matter how much it hurts, you swallow it down and keep moving. Because if you don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist, right?

CW: angst, emotional breakdown, parental neglect/emotional abuse mentions, stress, exhaustion, reader bottling up emotions, crying, hurt/comfort

A/N: This one's for the bestie who wanted the reader to be in desperate need of a good, soul-crushing sob, and for Dick to be the one to help her let it all go. Hope it hits right 😭 sending you hugs 🫂

The day starts bad and only gets worse.

You oversleep, which means you're rushing from the second you open your eyes. The coffee machine decides today is the perfect day to break, so you leave the kitchen already irritated, running on nothing but fumes.

You rush through your morning routine, skip breakfast—no time—then practically run out the door, only to step straight into a deep, grimy puddle from last night's rain. Cold, murky water soaks through your shoe and sock instantly. A bad start, but whatever. You can shake it off. It's fine.

Except it's not fine, because traffic is a nightmare, and by the time you make it to work, you're twenty minutes late. Your boss is watching, you can feel it, but he doesn't say anything. Just a glance, a sigh, and then he keeps moving. That's almost worse.

Work isn't any better—your inbox is flooded, your computer freezes mid-task, a coworker "forgets" to credit you on something you worked your ass off on, and it feels like every single person in the world suddenly needs something from you.

By noon, you've barely eaten because your lunch order got mixed up, and you're stuck with some sad, soggy excuse for a sandwich that you could barely stomach. Your head is pounding, your eyes hurt, and the weight of it all is pressing down on your shoulders like a vice.

And then, to top it all off, the printer jams.

It's stupid. Small. A fixable problem. But when you stand there, pressing buttons that do nothing, trying to yank the damn paper free while the red error light mocks you, something ugly flares in your chest. Your hands shake. Your throat feels tight. And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you might snap.

But you don't. Because you never do.

You shove it down, smooth it over, and try to push through the rest of the day with that same forced steadiness you always do. But the universe isn't just unkind today, it's downright spiteful. The bus is late, and when it finally arrives, it's so packed the driver barely glances at you before shutting the doors in your face.

You wait for the next one, shivering as the wind picks up, slicing through your jacket like it's nothing. When it comes, the only available seat is damp—why, you don't know, and you don't want to.

So you stay standing, crushed between a drunk who reeks of cheap whiskey and a woman who glares at you like you personally ruined her life. You try to ignore the occasional, too close brushes against your ass, chalking it up to the crowded space, but every stop, every slight jostle, makes your stomach twist tighter with unease. The bus ride feels endless. By the time your stop comes, your skin is crawling, and the air outside feels suffocatingly thick, the city pressing in on you from all sides.

Then, just as you're almost home, a car speeds through a pothole, sending a filthy, ice-cold wave of street water straight up your legs. You're soaked. Freezing. Teeth clenched so hard your jaw aches.

And as if the universe is actively laughing at you, your bag suddenly feels lighter when you grab your keys. You check, and yep, your wallet is gone. Either you dropped it, or someone swiped it in the mess of the commute, but either way, you're officially screwed.

Then, just to twist the knife a little deeper, the elevator in your building is out of order. Again. Because of course it is. So you drag yourself up five flights of stairs, legs burning, breath coming in short, frustrated huffs, each step making the day feel heavier, pressing down on you until it feels like your body might give out entirely.

By the time you finally make it upstairs, you're exhausted. Dick isn't there, but you already knew he wouldn't be—he mentioned yesterday that he had to meet Bruce today.

That's fine. It's fine. You're fine.

Except the apartment is too quiet, too still, and for some reason, the silence makes everything worse. You toss your bag down and scrub a hand over your face, exhaling slowly as you make a plan.

A shower. A meal. Maybe then you'll feel human again.

Your phone rings before you can even move. You don't want to look. You already know who it is.

But you do, and when you see your mom's name on the screen, you hesitate, staring at it like it might burn you. You could ignore it. You should ignore it.

But that little, nagging voice—the one that says it's better to just deal with it, to get it over with, to be the bigger person—wins out, and you answer.

The first thing out of her mouth is a sigh. Disappointed. Irritated. Like she's already exhausted by you, and you haven't even spoken yet.

"You never call," she says. "I have to be the one to reach out. Again."

You grip the phone tighter. "I've been busy."

"Too busy for your own mother?" she tsks. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You always have been selfish like that."

The words hit harder than they should, and you swallow against the sudden sting in your throat. "I'm not—"

"Don't start," she cuts in. "I don't have time for your excuses. I just called to remind you that your cousin is getting married next month, and it would be nice if you could, for once in your life, show up looking presentable. You embarrassed me last time."

That last part is what does it. Something in you cracks, just a little. A hairline fracture along something you've spent years reinforcing.

"Right," you say, voice clipped, because if you say anything else, it's going to shake.

She keeps talking—about how you don't visit, about how you've always been difficult, about how she doesn't understand why you can't just be normal, how she can't stand Dick—but you stop listening.

You tune out halfway through, staring blankly at the wall as her voice drones on, sharp and cutting. Your fingers dig into your palm, nails pressing into skin. You shouldn't let this get to you. You don't let this get to you.

You've trained yourself not to, but by the time she hangs up, you feel hollowed out. Stretched thin. Like there's nothing left inside you except the sheer force of will keeping you upright.

And when you put your phone down, your hand is shaking. You swallow hard, try to breathe through it. You won't snap. You don't snap. That's not who you are. You've held it together through worse.

You sigh, shaking your head as if you can physically dislodge the thoughts swirling inside it. Your whole body feels heavy, weighted down with something you can't name, and all you want is to shut it all out. To turn your brain off, even if it's just for a little while.

You toe off your shoes, letting them drop carelessly by the door before shrugging your jacket and dragging yourself to the bathroom. The mirror catches your reflection as you pass, but you don't stop. You don't want to see yourself. You don't want to acknowledge the exhaustion painted into your face, the tension in your jaw, the dullness in your eyes.

The water is warm when you step under the spray. Hot enough to sting a little, to prickle against your skin, but you don't adjust it. You let it wash over you, standing there with your head bowed, arms wrapped loosely around yourself. It should help.

It doesn't.

You're warmer, sure, but your mind starts to drift. Funny, really, how you always put others first. How you bend over backward for people who wouldn't do the same for you. How you let yourself become a doormat, over and over, because it's easier that way. Because it keeps the peace. Because if you don't, people leave, and isn't that worse?

Life has never been kind to you. Not as a child. Not as a teenager. Not now.

You were born into Gotham's cruelty, into its teeth and its grime and its cold, uncaring hands. You learned early on that you had to be strong or you'd break. That if you wanted to survive, you had to swallow down the hurt, the anger, the exhaustion, and keep moving.

So you did.

And you kept doing it, even when things got worse. Even when life knocked you down again and again, taking pieces of you each time, until you weren't sure what was even left. You haven't cried since you were a teenager.

Not since that one time, when you were younger, when everything had finally piled too high, and it all came crashing down. You'd sobbed until your chest ached, until your body shook with it, until you could barely breathe. And someone had found you—your mother, maybe, or some authority figure who was supposed to care, you don't remember—and their response had been disgust.

"You're making a scene."

"Enough already."

"You're being dramatic."

So you stopped. Because they were right, weren't they? Crying didn't change anything. It didn't fix anything. It didn't make you feel better, it only made you feel exposed, raw, like an open wound waiting to be picked apart.

Are people who cry weak? No. Of course not. But you? You've always been the exception.

It's okay. You're fine. Stop worrying. If you don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist, right?

So instead, you focus on other people. Because they matter more. Because if you make sure they're okay, you don't have to think about the fact that you're not.

You sigh and think about Dick.

About the life you've built together, the only good thing you've ever truly achieved. It's solid, unshakable in a way nothing else in your life has ever been. A foundation you never thought you'd have, something stable and warm and safe. A love that isn't conditional, isn't a burden, isn't something you have to work yourself to the bone to earn.

And with him came the rest. His friends, who are now yours. People who hype you up, who care about you, who make you laugh, who make you happy. You never thought you'd have that either.

A real support system, people who look out for you just because they want to, not because they have to. It still feels foreign sometimes, like something you don't quite know how to accept.

But that's what should matter, right?

Not a shitty day. Not your mother's words digging into your skin like hooks, pulling at every old wound you've tried to ignore. Not the exhaustion coiling tight in your chest, suffocating and sharp.

You should be able to swallow it down like you always do.

You tell yourself that as you rinse the soap from your skin, as you turn off the water and step out. The steam clings to the air, swirling in the dim glow of the bathroom light, wrapping around you like a weight. You grab a towel, drying off with slow, heavy movements, trying to shake off the feeling.

It doesn't work.

Your hands move on autopilot, tugging open a drawer, reaching for something comfortable. Something soft, warm. You grab one of Dick's shirts, slipping it over your head, and for a second, the scent of him surrounds you.

It should make you feel better.

It doesn't. Your throat feels tight, your limbs sluggish, like the day is pressing down on you, sinking into your bones. You know you should eat something—at least something small—but the thought of moving, of going into the kitchen, of putting in the effort, feels impossible.

Instead, you drift into the bedroom.

The sheets are cool against your skin as you drop onto the bed, but you barely register it. You don't bother with the lights, don't bother pulling the blankets over yourself. You just lay there, staring at the ceiling, mind blank but buzzing all at once.

You don't know how long you stay like that.

Minutes. Hours. Long enough for the room to grow darker, for the quiet to settle too deep, for the heaviness in your chest to spread until it's all you can feel.

Dick rushes home, his heart pounding harder with every unanswered call, every text that sits on "delivered" without a response. You always answer, even if it's just a quick I'm busy or a little voice note letting him know you'll text back later. But tonight? Nothing. Radio silence.

He tells himself not to panic, that maybe you just fell asleep, but the unease sits heavy in his gut, twisting tight as he takes the stairs two at a time. By the time he reaches the door, he's bracing for the worst.

Then he steps inside. Darkness. No lights, no TV humming in the background, no movement. The apartment is eerily still, and for a split second, his heart stops.

But then he flicks on the hallway light and spots your shoes by the door. Your bag. Your jacket draped over the back of the chair. A slow exhale leaves his chest. You're home. You're safe.

Still, the unease doesn't leave him.

He moves through the apartment, searching for you, until he reaches the bedroom. And there you are, lying on your back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like you're not really there. Like you've detached from the world completely.

Dick flips the switch to the bedside lamp, flooding the room with soft, golden light, but you don't even blink.

Kicking off his shoes, he moves toward you, plopping onto the bed next to you. "Hey," he says, nudging your arm. "Hi, baby."

You hum. That's it. A noncommittal sound, barely even an acknowledgment.

His brows furrow. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

It's flat. Distant. A response you could've given on autopilot. And maybe you are.

He tilts his head, watching you, waiting for something—anything—but you don't say more. Still, he tries to tease you out of it, offering that easy, boyish grin as he leans in closer.

"Damn, you just gonna lie there and ignore your very hot, very charming boyfriend?" he smirks, nudging your arm again. "Cold-blooded, sweet girl."

You don't bite. You don't roll your eyes or shove him playfully, don't give him any of your usual sass. Just another quiet, monosyllabic, "Mhmm."

It's not even a real response. That's when he knows. You're here, but you're not here.

His smirk fades, replaced by something softer, something more concerned. He knows you. Knows how sometimes, when things are bad, you retreat into yourself. How you lock yourself away like you don't want to be seen like this, like you don't want him to see you like this, and it breaks his damn heart.

He shifts closer, pressing his palm against your stomach, rubbing slow, careful circles over your shirt. "Talk to me, my love." His voice is quieter, gentler. "What's going on?"

You shake your head, barely. "Nothing. I'm fine."

Liar. He watches you for a moment, eyes softening as his hand doesn't stop moving, fingertips tracing patterns against your stomach. You're locked up tight, but he's not going anywhere.

He knows how sometimes you shut down like this. How you build walls so high even he has trouble climbing them. How you think you have to be the strong one, that you're not allowed to break.

But you don't have to do that with him, and he's not going to let you.

Still, Dick doesn't say anything for a few minutes. Just watches you in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, his brows furrowed, his lips slightly parted like he's trying to figure out the right thing to say. But you don't say anything either.

So after a few more beats of silence, he exhales softly and murmurs, "Talk to me, baby. Please."

You try. You really do.

You part your lips, searching for the words, for anything that can explain the weight in your chest, the exhaustion pulling at your bones, the way today was just one long, merciless reminder that life has never been kind to you.

But nothing comes out.

Because how do you even say it? How do you explain that you've spent years swallowing pain, forcing yourself to stand tall no matter how much life tried to knock you down? That you've built yourself out of resilience and stubbornness, that you've convinced yourself over and over that you can take it, because what other choice do you have?

So instead of speaking, you shake your head. You turn away like you always do, curling inward, trying to make yourself smaller, except Dick doesn't let you.

His hand finds your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing softly beneath your eye. His grip isn't firm, isn't insistent—it's just there, gentle and grounding, like a tether keeping you from slipping any further into yourself.

"Hey," he murmurs, leaning closer. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You know that, right?"

You swallow hard, but it feels like there's something lodged in your throat.

"I don't care how ugly it feels, how messy it is. You don't have to filter it, you don't have to make it easy for me to hear. Just—just let me in, baby." His thumb sweeps up, tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "I love you. You don't have to hold everything on your own. I want to carry it with you. Please, let me in."

That—that is what does it.

Maybe it's Dick's voice, the way it softens with concern, real and there when you've spent the whole day feeling invisible. Maybe it's how he touches you—gentle but present, like he's anchoring you when you feel like you're floating away.

But something inside you shatters. It starts with a sharp inhale, shaky and uneven, and then your face crumples. The sob rips out of you before you can stop it, raw and broken, years of grief and exhaustion bubbling up all at once.

And Dick doesn't hesitate. He's there, arms wrapping around you the second you break. He pulls you into him, into his warmth, his comfort, lets you press your face into his chest as the dam bursts.

And you cling to him. The sobs wrack through you, deep and shuddering, the kind that shake your entire body, like they're trying to claw their way out of your chest. You bury yourself in him, fingers twisted tight in his shirt, holding on like he's the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

And maybe he is.

Your chest aches with it, like something sharp is wedged beneath your ribs, pressing down with every heaving breath. Your shoulders tremble, your whole body trembling, and it breaks Dick's heart to see you like this—vulnerable and shattered—but he's here. Holding you together.

His arms tighten around you, strong and steady, one hand smoothing up and down your back, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers weaving into your hair. He's warm, grounding, his scent wrapping around you tighter than his embrace—clean soap and something inherently him, something that's always meant home.

"I'm here, my love," he murmurs into your hair, his lips brushing against your temple. "I've got you. Let it out."

And you do let it out.

For every time you swallowed your pain and forced yourself to stand tall. For every moment you pretended it didn't hurt. For every single time someone told you to be strong and you did, even when it felt impossible.

A hiccuping sob tears out of you, your breath catching on the weight of it all, and you stutter through the words, barely getting them out.

"I—I h-hate everything." Your fingers curl tighter into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. "I hate t-today."

"I know, baby," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I know. Let it out, it's okay."

And you do. It pours out of you like a flood, years of buried hurt and exhaustion spilling over all at once, and he holds you through all of it. His hands never stop moving, never stop touching, a constant, grounding presence. His palm moves over your back, his fingers brushing along your arm, his lips pressing against your temple, murmuring soft reassurances between every shaky breath.

And he doesn't tell you to stop. He doesn't tell you to breathe, doesn't try to talk you down, doesn't try to fix it, because he knows. Knows you just need this. Knows this isn't something that can be solved with a few soft spoken words.

So he just holds you. Lets you break, lets you cry until your body sags against him, exhausted, your breath still coming in uneven gasps, but the weight inside you slowly, slowly beginning to lift.

You sniffle, breath still hitching as you tilt your head up to look at him. Your eyes are red and puffy, lashes damp, tear tracks streaked down your flushed cheeks.

You feel wrecked, raw, stripped down to nothing but emotion, and you swallow thickly before whispering, "I'm s-sorry."

His reaction is instant.

His big, gentle hand cups your cheek, warm and steady, thumb brushing away some of the lingering tears. His expression softens, brows knitting together in that familiar look of concern, like the very idea of you apologizing for this physically hurts him.

"Baby," he murmurs, voice so tender it makes your chest ache. "There's no need to be sorry."

You shake your head, another sob catching in your throat, your whole body still trembling from the weight of everything crashing down at once. "B-but I—"

"Listen to me, please," he interrupts, voice firm but gentle, like he needs you to hear this. His thumb traces soothing circles against your skin, anchoring you, grounding you in his presence. "There's nothing wrong with crying. There's nothing wrong with feeling like crap sometimes. Shit happens, but it doesn't mean you have to bottle it up until it breaks you."

Your lips tremble, eyes still shining with unshed tears.

"You're not weak for being vulnerable," he continues, voice steady, unwavering. "You're human. And there's only so much you can take and bury before it snaps."

You stare at him, wide-eyed, like you're not sure if you should believe him. Like no one has ever told you this before.

His grip on you tightens, pulling you closer, until your foreheads nearly touch. His blue eyes stay locked onto yours, filled with nothing but love, nothing but understanding.

"I don't love you less because you show emotion," he says, voice softer, but no less sure. "I don't think you're weak. I think you're strong as hell for carrying so much on your own. But, baby, you don't have to."

He brushes another tear away, his touch so gentle, so intentional, like he's trying to soothe every hurt you've ever buried inside yourself.

"You have me," he murmurs. "You'll always have me."

And something about the way he says it—so honest, so real—makes your breath hitch, another wave of emotion swelling in your chest. Because you believe him. You believe him with your whole heart.

You sniffle, fingers still curled weakly into his shirt, as he presses a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead. His hands don't leave you—one stays cradling your cheek, his thumb brushing slow, steady strokes beneath your damp lashes, while the other holds firm at your back, keeping you here, anchoring you against him.

Then, softly, he asks, "Do you wanna talk about what happened today?"

His voice is careful, quiet. Not pushing, just offering. And you hesitate, swallowing past the lump in your throat, because... where do you even start? And would it even matter? Would saying it all out loud change anything?

Your breath shudders. You think about shaking your head, about brushing it off, like always. But before you can spiral, his arm tightens around your waist, a steady, grounding squeeze that pulls you back before you get lost in your head again.

"If you don't wanna talk, that's okay, my love," he reassures you. "You can take your time. I just don't want you to carry it alone."

God, that alone almost makes you start crying again. Because when has anyone ever said that to you?

Your throat feels tight as you shake your head, voice barely above a whisper when you murmur, "Not yet."

He doesn't hesitate. Just nods, like that's perfectly fine, like there's no rush, no expectation. And then he shifts, moving just enough to pull you in properly, his arms wrapping around you, guiding your head against his chest. You go easily, pressing into him, into the slow rise and fall of his breath, the steady thrum of his heart.

And for the first time all day, you breathe.

He holds you like he has no intention of letting go. Like it's the only thing he wants to do. And maybe it is, because he strokes your back in slow, soothing circles, presses a kiss to the top of your head every so often, murmuring little things between breaths.

"I've got you, my love. I'm right here."

"It's okay. Just breathe."

"I love you. I love you so much."

And it helps. It doesn't fix everything, doesn't erase the weight of the day, but it makes it bearable. Makes it lighter. Because his voice is steady, warm, and his arms are strong around you, and for once, you let yourself lean on him instead of trying to carry it all alone.

Your breathing slows. Your heartbeat evens out against his.

After a while, he shifts just slightly, just enough to glance down at you, voice gentle when he asks, "You wanna stay like this for a while? Or is there something else I can do for you?"

It takes you a second to answer. Not because you don't know, but because it feels like so long since someone's asked you that and meant it. Like really meant it.

And when you finally do murmur, "I'm... kinda hungry," you feel sheepish about it.

But Dick just smiles, presses another soft kiss into your hair, like that's the easiest thing in the world to fix. "Yeah?" he hums. "What do you want to eat, sweet girl?"

You shrug a little, because you don't know, not really. You're just... hungry. And maybe a little drained. And maybe just overwhelmed by the simple fact that he cares enough to ask.

But Dick doesn't push. Just tips his head slightly, considering, before he says, "What if I get us some ramen, baby?" he mpauses, tilting his head so he can catch your eyes, even in the dim light of the bedroom. "It's comforting, and you like it. But if you want something else, just say it, and it's yours."

The way he says it, so matter-of-fact, like it's not even a question, like your needs are just as important as anything else, makes your throat feel tight all over again.

But you swallow past it and shake your head, voice small but certain when you murmur, "No. Ramen sounds good."

His smile softens. "Yeah?"

You nod.

And he doesn't make you move. Doesn't untangle himself from you, doesn't try to pry your arms away from where they're still clinging to him. He just shifts enough to grab his phone from his pocket, orders your usual beside his without a second thought, then sets it down again and pulls you right back in.

You exhale. Sink into him a little more, his warmth, his scent, his steady, steady presence. And when you inhale again, it feels easier. Lighter.

The sound of the doorbell barely registers, but Dick shifts against you, murmuring, "That'll be our food, baby."

You don't want to move. You just started feeling okay again, cocooned in his arms, warmth pressed against warmth, steady heartbeat anchoring you like a lifeline. But he coaxes you up, not far, just enough to let him stand, just enough for him to pull you along with him.

"Come on, sweet girl," he murmurs, leading you into the living room. He sits you down on the couch, grabs your favorite fuzzy blanket from where it's draped over the back, and tucks it around your shoulders with such care it makes your chest ache. "Stay here, okay? I'll get it."

You nod. Just barely. And he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your hair before stepping away to answer the door.

You hear the quiet murmur of thanks as he takes the bags, the shuffling of his wallet, the door clicking shut again. Then he's back, setting the food down on the coffee table, unbagging it, portioning things out before handing you your bowl and chopsticks.

"Here you go, my love," he says, sitting beside you. "Eat."

You glance down at the ramen, warm and fragrant in your hands. You don't even realize how long you hesitate until Dick nudges your knee with his.

"Hey," he says softly. "You gotta eat, baby."

You sigh through your nose but take a bite, and the moment the warmth hits your tongue, you realize just how hungry you really are. How empty your stomach has felt all day.

Dick watches you, smiling faintly as he takes a bite of his own. But between every few bites, his eyes flick toward your bowl, making sure you're still eating. And when he catches you pausing again, staring into space, he taps his chopsticks against your bowl with a little clink, clink and raises an eyebrow at you.

"Eat," he says again, teasing this time.

And you do, because he's here, because it's warm, because—despite everything—this is the safest you've felt all day.

After dinner, you don't move much. Just curl into Dick's side, your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, fingers lazily trailing up and down your spine. The TV is on, some random show playing in the background, but neither of you are really watching it. It's just there, filling the quiet spaces.

And at some point, you tilt your head slightly, press your cheek against his shirt, and let it out. The words come slowly at first, a little hesitant, like you're still deciding if you should, but Dick doesn't rush you. Just listens.

You tell him how you slept too much this morning, which threw everything off. How the coffee machine broke before you could even get a sip. How you didn't have time for breakfast, how you stepped straight into a puddle as soon as you walked outside, how the traffic was hell, how you were late to work.

And work itself? Awful. Demanding. A million things to do, not enough time to do them. And then your lunch got mixed up with someone else's, so you had to go the whole day on nothing but stress and frustration.

And then the bus was late. And the driver ignored you. And you had to wait for the next, which was full and uncomfortable. And when you were almost home, a car sped through a pothole and splashed cold, filthy water on your legs. And then, your wallet.

Your voice is a little rough as you tell him that someone must have lifted it because when you went to grab it, it was gone. No cash, no cards, nothing.

And then... your mom called.

Dick stiffens beneath you. Because that—that—explains so much.

He's always known. Always known how much she weighs on you. How nothing is ever enough for her. How no matter what you do, how hard you try, it never seems to make her happy. How you keep reaching for something you'll never grasp, keep hoping for things to change even though you know they won't.

And it makes him angry. Because how could she not see it? How could she not see how much you try, how much you give, how much you love? How could she not see how amazing you are?

How could she not treasure you?

But he doesn't say any of that. Not when you're still curled into him, voice soft and tired and frayed around the edges. He just holds you a little tighter and keeps listening.

The words taper off into a sigh, soft and tired, like the weight of the day has finally settled into your bones. And Dick—he's quiet for a moment, just holding you, fingers tracing slow, absentminded shapes against your back as he processes everything you've just said.

Then, he exhales. Steadies his voice. Keeps it gentle, keeps it steady, because this isn't about him. It's about you.

"She's wrong," he murmurs. "She always has been."

You shift against him slightly, but he doesn't let you pull away. Just holds you close, presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're enough," he says. "You always have been."

His voice is firm, but it's soft, too. Not an argument, not a debate, just a fact. A truth he needs you to understand.

"You try so hard, baby. You give so much, and I know she'll never see it the way she should, but I do." His fingers brush up, tangle lightly in your hair, thumb sweeping gentle over your temple. "I see you. And I love you. Just as you are. You don't have to prove anything to me."

You close your eyes, pressing closer, breathing him in like you need it, like it's the only thing keeping you grounded.

"And I wish she could see it," he murmurs. "I wish she could love you the way you deserve, but if she won't—" He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That's her loss."

A pause. Then, "You are everything to me."

And God, he means it. Every word. Every syllable.

He can feel it in the way you exhale, the way your body melts against his, how the tension finally starts to ebb away. And then you shift, just enough to tilt your head, to glance up at him through red-rimmed eyes and damp lashes, and you whisper, voice still rough with emotion—

"I love you so much, baby."

His chest aches. A slow, easy smile tugs at his lips as he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I love you too, sweet girl."

You sigh at that, soft and warm, nuzzling back into his chest as he wraps his arms around you again.

A quiet beat. Then he murmurs, "Better?"

And you nod, a little sheepish, but you mean it this time. Maybe for the first time in your life, you believe that it's okay to let go.

[donut251155]

Kou's death

He died as the selfless idiot he is, but most of the fandom is missing a part. I've seen so many people talk about Teru and Akane seeing his dead body down the well, but nobody who said this:

He looks comforted by the lightning, some kind of wicked comfort.

"My brother's lightning…" he doesn't look like he feels betrayed, at all.

He was trying to kill Nene, one of his best friends, and he never would've been able to forgive himself if he succeeded. He's glad his BROTHER stopped him, that he was the one to wipe him away from the living world, even tho it was an accident

He finally understands what Hanako and Mitsuba meant by saying they want HIM, someone they trust, to exorcise them. It's hard to imagine as a living person, but as a dangerous supernatural it's as clear as day

What was Kou's best departure, was Teru's worst goodbye

[plagalkey]

my lovely talented friend wrote an F1 AU fic focused on oikage's time at red bull racing!!!

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine Al Haitham who was in frantic, earning glances in the crown as he navigate his way through the busy city. While they have seen the former acting grand Sage taking this route everyday. It is not everyday they get see the man running, sweat rolling down his temple as he seemed to be chasing something. Faster. He thought. You have to be there faster.

Imagine Al Haitham who almost slam the door as soon as he reached your house but manage to regain his cool and gently open and close the door without missing a beat. It did not took him that long to find you on your bedroom floor, in a squat position, silent tears rolling down your cheeks. Right beside you was your pet, peacefully laying there as if he was asleep. But you and him knew better than that. He was gone.

Imagine Al Haitham whom without a word, kneel down beside you and pull you into his embrace. That was it took for you break down crying. You just collapse in his arms and started sobbing. Your hands clenching on his chest. You just, you just lost it. "They told me he would be okay.." You cried. "I did what they told me to do..." You sob, voice full of pain and sadness. "I was with him the whole time..." He could only gulp the lump on his throat. "He was just sleeping so peaceful..." "I know..." He replied.

Imagine Al Haitham who was gently caresses your back, trying to ease out your breathing as you sob uncontrollably. The way be pat you gently at the back as you slowly calm down. One of his hands travelling all the way up to your head and run his finger through your hair, soothing you out. As much as he wants to tell you it's alright, that it's okay. He knew that was not the case. You are not okay, you just lost your best friend, your son, your favourite. He will not tell you it's alright.

Imagine Al Haitham who gently peel you off his chest, you tear stained messed up face coming into view but the two of you do not give a damn. Gently, he looked at your face. Hands reaching out and carefully wipe off tears on your cheeks, pry off lost strands of your hair away from your face. "Hey..." He gently grab your face with both hands. Gently, he rest his forehead against yours. "I know you did your best." He started, once again he felt you shaking. "Thank you for staying by his side till the end." Once again you started crying.

Imagine the way Al Haitham kept running his hand through your back. Tapping and caressing while once again wsiting for you to calm down. He does not know how long the two of you have been sitting in there on the floor and honestly he does not give a damn. Nevertheless, he glance at your pet not so far away from the two of you, a pang on his chest occurs. While it does not hurt him as much as it hurt you. It does not mean that it does not hurt.

Imagine the moment Al Haitham kept you slowly dozing off on his tear soaked shoulder. He gently tap you on your arm. "Rest." You hear him say. "I'll take care of our little guy here." You hear him added. "Would that be okay with you?" You felt him caresses the side of your face. Tired, you tried to open your heavy lids but ended with a hand covering your eyes. Soon, a tear slip past those hand. "Please." Your voice was hoarse, it held so much pain and sorrow. "Please do." "You don't have to say please." He utter before kissing your forehead. "Take a rest, please."

Imagine Al Haitham does not know how long this would hurt you, how long it will take you to heal from such tragedy. But he would be there with you in every step you needed to take. "I'm here." As you lay there in bed asleep. He held your hand with both of his. While he does not know how to ease the pain, he hoped that his presence could ease a little bit of pain you would feel again once you wake up. "I'm here."

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: My cat died yesterday. It hurts.

[itsallgoodmann]

I'm going to act like I did not sob throughout the entirety of writing this story holy shit.

"Charles Knew that Love Existed Because Arthur was Love"

Desc: Arthur tells Charles about his condition and they both slowly realize they care a lot more about each other than they originally thought. Apparently loss can really strengthen emotions, especially unresolved ones.

(Heavily implied Charthur, comfort, angst, death, grief, mutual confession of love...You get the idea. Inspired by the fanart above (not mine obvs!))

"Hey Charles," Arthur sat down on the crate next to Charles, overlooking the main campfire. Charles gently rubbed gun oil on his sawed-off shotgun, thinking quietly to himself, like he always did.

"Arthur." Charles nodded at Arthur, glancing at him quickly before looking back at his gun. Arthur put his hands in his lap, clasped together tightly. He closed his eyes briefly, trying his best to gather his thoughts. He had known Charles for less than a year, but somehow Arthur felt more connected to him than Dutch.

Arthur didn't want to tell him. In fact, Arthur couldn't think of a thing he wanted to do less than tell Charles the truth...

Because he was dying. Famous gunslinger Arthur Morgan, taken by a goddamn lung disease. How ironic. Charles deserved to know, he had been so kind to Arthur. Arthur remembered the weeks after the O'Driscolls had kidnapped and shot him, and who stayed by his wagon the longest.

Not Dutch, not John, not even Hosea.

Charles.

"You shouldn't get up," Charles said bluntly, staring into Arthur's blue eyes, glazed over in a Morphine-filled daze. Arthur shook his head like he did every time someone told him not to do something. It didn't stop him from hoisting himself up so his head rested on the back of the wagon. Charles just shook his head, a small smile on his face.

"Swanson's Morphine is certainly doing its job," Charles muttered, mostly to himself, Arthur scoffed in return.

"Why you here anyways?" Arthur took a deep breath and tried not to wince at the stitches from the gunshot wound in his abdomen. Charles chuckled, a lighthearted noise that made Arthur smile...Even if it was mostly because of the Morphine.

"Just, watching... Got nothing better to do." Charles shrugged his shoulders and continued sharpening his knife next to Arthur's wagon.

"I think in the time you've been with us-" Arthur took a moment to think about what he was going to say, his words slightly slurred from the drugs.

"I've never heard you speak more than two sentences to anyone." Arthur shook his head, smiling. Charles rolled his eyes.

"I just don't have much to say, I guess." Charles shook his head, but couldn't help the smile that graced his face.

"Charles...Smith... The lone wolf... A man of few words." Arthur put his hands up and made a gesture like he was reading a newspaper headline.

"If I knew you were going to act like an idiot I wouldn't have given you the Morphine." Charles shot back, but he didn't take any offense. How could someone take offense to the ramblings of a Morphine drunk Arthur? Arthur acted like he had been shot (very fitting), giving Charles an exasperated look.

"The lone wolf does speak!" He said dramatically, drawling out the 'does' to annoy Charles even more.

"You should sleep Arthur," Charles finally said, putting away the knife and other sharpening materials.

"Y'know..." Arthur yawned, the euphoric sensation of the Morphine and the drowsiness that healing cost was really getting to him.

"I'm quite fond of you, Mr.Serious." Arthur slurred, moving his head down to the pillow and looking up. Charles studied Arthur's expression, trying to read his true emotions. Arthur's eyebrows were relaxed, his lips upturned in a lazy smile. He could see the crow's feet that appeared next to his eyes, and the scar that was on the bottom of his chin. Charles meant to ask about it, but never did.

"You've always been the hardest worker in camp," Arthur yawned again, and Charles shushed him.

"Go to sleep Arthur, for god's sake."

"Somethin' on your mind?" Charles' deep voice brought Arthur out of his thoughts, and Arthur nodded. Charles looked at him, narrowing his eyes a little bit. Charles must have had an inkling of what Arthur wanted to speak about. He was quiet, but he wasn't stupid. At this point, no one could deny Arthur looked sick...Real sick. His collarbones were sticking out from his pale splotchy skin, his clothes were now bagged around him. His eyes were bloodshot, and when he ate there was a large coughing fit that followed.

The cough. It made Charles' ears ring, the violent shake of his chest, the crackled wheezes that followed. Charles saw the bloodstains on the inside of Arthur's sleeve.

"You wanna ride with me?" Arthur blurted out, Charles took a second but nodded.

"Always." He said curtly. Charles walked with Arthur over to his horse, before he mounted Taima. Arthur led the way to the outskirts of Annesburg, before riding aimlessly towards the mountains surrounding the Wapiti Indian Reservation.

"Yer a smart man Charles," Arthur started, taking in short breaths, thinking hard about how to word things. This did nothing but make Charles nervous.

"Arthur," Charles said in almost a warning, like he was afraid Arthur was going to beat around the bush and never get to the point. Charles didn't like it when people weren't straightforward. However, Arthur was the only exception to this rule. The only noises that accompanied them through the ride were the clopping of hooves on rock, and the rushing of water from the nearby Dakota River.

"If things go bad, you get yourself out of there, alright?" Arthur coughed but tried to stifle it, which only made it worse.

Charles wanted to get off his horse and punch Arthur in the face. Not because he was angry at Arthur...

But because he was scared. Charles Smith, the fearless lone wolf. It wasn't like Charles hadn't experienced loss before, hell, in the last few months it was constant... Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly... Charles was sad, of course, but life went on. The sun still shone the next day, the coffee was still brewed like normal, and the songbirds still chirped their melodies.

"You got... More to lose." Arthur said, his voice softer, more vulnerable. Charles shook his head, immediately shooting back,

"No. Come on. Don't start talking like that." It was obvious though, even when Arthur explained it.

"I didn't tell you before," Arthur took in a wheezing breath.

"I saw a doctor."

Charles wanted to jump into the Dakota River and feel his entire body go numb from the cold. He wanted to push his hands to his ears and hum until he couldn't hear Arthur's words anymore because they cut like a knife. They made him bleed like no one had ever done before. Instead, Charles gripped the reins of Taima tighter, slowing down to a gentle trot.

"It's pretty bad, and it's gonna get worse."

Charles shook his head, but luckily Arthur didn't notice. He bit his lip and tried to make sense of it all.

"Take a left down this trail," Charles said softly, pointing to the slightly worn trail into the thick woods of the Cumberland forest. Charles led Arthur to a clearing, where a thick, lush layer of grass grew, and flowers erupted from the space.

"I don't remember much of my childhood," Charles said, dismounting his horse and motioning for Arthur to do the same. Arthur followed Charles into the clearing and they both sat down on a fallen log, covered in bright green moss.

"My mama though, she taught me all about the herbs..." Charles smiled gently, then motioned to the flowers. Arthur looked at him, confused.

"These are flowers..." Arthur corrected, Charles just shook his head and chuckled.

"She taught me about the flowers too, if you'd let me finish." Charles pointed to the flower with stems that held a few dozen tiny bundles of red flowers, with a bright yellow center.

"Blood flower," Charles said, Arthur nodded, listening intently. Charles then pointed at the other flower that covered the clearing, a stem that held a single, cupped, red flower.

"Field Poppy," Charles informed, Arthur could have probably guessed that, but just hearing Charles talk was enough. There were a few minutes of comfortable silence, the horses quietly grazing near them.

"Did the doctor say how long?" Charles was careful with his words, but he wanted...No, needed to know.

"A couple weeks, a couple months..." Arthur drawled, coughing again. This time the fit was so bad Arthur wheezed for breath afterward. Charles rubbed Arthur's back, hoping the contact would soothe something, even if it was just his soul.

"You're a good man, Arthur Morgan." Charles forced through gritted teeth, afraid if he said more he would have to wipe tears off his face. Arthur chuckled.

"I ain't a good man,"

Charles frowned, if only Arthur could see himself through Charles' gaze. The way he glowed, Arthur's soft smile and kind words. He acted tough, but he loved. Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, promising himself he wasn't going to break down.

"I'm only going to say this once, Arthur," Charles warned.

"You're one of the best men I know." Charles smiled bittersweetly like it should be obvious to Arthur.

"You're kind, hard-working, loyal, and smart." Charles removed his hand from Arthur's back, before resting it on his shoulder.

"Hell, you've probably saved my life countless times." Charles sighed, then made eye contact with Arthur. What a horrible choice. Icy blue eyes, bloodshot and tearstained, inflamed with the pain of the human condition. Charles stared back at Arthur with warm brown eyes, trying to keep his equanimity. He was normally very good at it, a skill he prided himself on, but this was different. At that moment, in the clearing, Charles realized something.

He was soft for Arthur Morgan. He wanted to see Arthur happy, he wanted to see him thrive. It took everything in Charles not to scream about how he loved Arthur Morgan... And, more importantly, how much he loved the way Arthur loved. Freely and fully. Arthur rarely shared by the campfire, but when he did it was always a story about saving a man who got bitten by a snake, or a woman who was stranded because her horse died.

"Yer' a good man Charles, one of the best." Arthur choked out, now trying to keep his own composure. Charles just smiled, it was all he could do. But Charles broke when Arthur made eye contact with him again, his face wet with the streams of hot tears that poured down his cheeks. It was instinct as he opened his arms for Arthur, hugging him tightly. In a useless wish, Charles thought about how he regretted not doing this earlier. Arthur clung to Charles and Charles clung just as much back. Arthur wrapped his arms around Charles, burying his head into Charles' chest. In a swift movement, Charles gently brought his hand up to the back of Arthur's head, his other arm wrapped securely around him. They both sat there for a good while, breathing in the scent of each other and trying to memorize the way their bodies fit so perfectly together.

"Shouldn't leave things unsaid, should I?" Arthur finally said, breaking the silence. Charles nodded, still holding Arthur close to his chest.

"Then I think I love you, Charles." Charles wasn't going to debate what exactly Arthur meant by this. Charles didn't care. He loved him back.

"I think I love you too, Arthur," Charles murmured, now gently carding his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"I always imagined you were a Bison," Arthur muttered softly, Charles nodded.

"Dutch told me I was like a buck... Unlikely friends." Arthur chuckled, but it ended in a painful cough that Charles tried his best to soothe.

"You think we'll meet in another life?" Arthur looked up at the sky, it was now dusk, and the stars were beginning to appear. Charles nodded,

"I hope so." Arthur smiled at the response, a real nice smile.

"Then I'll look forward to meeting you all over again." Arthur was always the best at bringing out even the most buried emotions. Charles froze, trying not to lose it. He didn't want Arthur to go. He can't let go. He was never able to let go, everything he ever lost is covered in claw marks from when he tried to make it stay. Charles choked back a sob, gently lifting Arthur's head to place a tender kiss on his forehead. Arthur's blue eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, every decision Arthur ever made had spun through his mind, all leading up to this one single exchange. Perhaps death wasn't going to be that bad. Charles brought both of his hands and cupped Arthur's jaw, looking at him, trying to memorize the face.

Charles knew that love existed because Arthur was love.

That's why, when Charles carried the limp, cold, body of Arthur Morgan down that mountain, one arm around his torso, the other around his leg, he made sure to stop by that clearing. He uprooted those flowers and planted them on his grave. It was the least he could do.

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for Righteousness."

A/N- Woah! First fanfic on this account! Last time I regularly wrote fanfiction was when I was sixteen (I am in my twenties now). Couldn't get Charthur out of my head so I created this (it got very out of hand very fast). Unfortunately, I do not apologize for the amount of heartbreak this may cause you.

If you would like to leave a request, go for it! I am a full time college student, and I do work two jobs, so there's no telling if I'll ever get to it, but if it's a good enough request I'm sure I'll make time. It's weird to be so familiar yet unfamiliar with creating a fanfic post, but alas, I'll stop yapping. Hope you enjoyed the fic!

Fanart used can be found here, credit to conconarts!

[kenmaspuddinghair]

Losing your husband Simon ghost Riley

Warning- this is very angsty and does not have a happy ending I cried while writing the entire thing, there is death, and multiple uses of y/n. I am sorry in advance for your tears

Today Simon was coming home from his first mission after you guys got married, and you were so happy and excited when you heard the knock on your door. But Simon wasn't on the other side, it was just Soap and Price, who was holding Simon's mask in his hands “what-what are you guys doing here? Where's Simon?” “y/n I'm so sorry” you looked between the two of them before your legs started to falter but Soap caught you as you started panicking “what do you mean, where's Simon, where is he?” Price grabbed your shoulders making you look at him “y/n he's gone, I'm sorry, there's nothing we could have done”

No no this was your worst nightmare, you needed your Simon, you guys just got married you didn't even get a chance to fully enjoy it, and now he was gone forever. “I-i wanna see him, you-you brought his body back? Right?” Price sighed before answering “y/n its not a pretty sight, I don't think you should look at-” but you cut him off “please Price, I need to see him again, he was my husband, the love my life” without any other words Soap helped you into the car and brought you to the military morgue.

There he was, cold to the touch, face expressionless, the rest of his body was ruined though, part of it burnt, other parts crushed and bullet holes all over, it just made you start crying more and more, you had no clue how you would function without him. You just stayed there crying sitting by his side, one hand holding his, the other holding the mask he would never put on again.

Price walked in and handed you a stack of notes “From the day you and Simon started dating, every time we would go on missions he would write a little note before we started, they were all saved in a box back in his office, they're all addressed to you”

And your tears started falling faster and harder as you read them one by one. But the last two broke you more than you thought was imaginable

Second to last letter

“Hey lovie, if you're reading this the mission didn't go as planned, I know your hurting baby but it'll be okay. I probably went out in battle so don't look at my body baby it's only gonna make it hurt more. You better not be worrying bout me lovie, I'm just living in my dreams, you and me married, living the domestic life in our little house near the base. It'll all be okay over time my love, promise”

Last letter

“Hey lovie, if you're reading this the mission didn't go as planned, I just want you to know you made my life worth living and you were the greatest thing that ever happened to me, I got to live the dream with you and now I'm patiently waiting for you on the other side, take care for me okay, I know your hurting so much baby, we just got married and now I'm all gone but it'll be okay, the guys will be there for you, make sure you use them, I miss you too lovie and I love you so much”

Gosh, you missed him so much already, you had no clue how you would keep going without him, especially knowing he was waiting and watching you

[joemama-2]

nanami kento has always been a patient man. he’s respectful and doesn’t talk to unless spoken to. he doesn’t like most people, might even hate some. but you’re not the type of person he would exactly hate, unlike a certain someone. he thinks you’re kind, polite, you always bow respectfully to your seniors, you diligently complete every task that’s asked of you. there’s also one more thing about you….he just cant put his finger on it. maybe you’re just tolerable, yeah that’s it.

you’re not a sorcerer, at least not a very good one. it’s why you’ve opted to be an auxiliary manager like ijichi and akari. “as long as i get to help the sorcerers in battle, i’m fine with whatever position i’ve been assigned.” you would say with a big and warm smile, innocently, naively. he thinks you’re too good for such a rotten society, something like that will get people killed. and he doesn’t want you on that list.

when he first met you back in high school, he didn’t think much of you. you weren’t a special grade, you didn’t have any awesome technique, you were just simply there. maybe you have connections, he thought. because there’s no way someone like you was admitted into tokyo jujutsu high. to this day, he doesn’t know how you did it. maybe you have some super cool talent that you didn’t like showing, maybe you just won over everyone’s hearts and they felt pity for you, he’ll never be able to find out. that’s one of his many regrets.

his other regrets are letting himself grow attached for no reason. no matter what, his eyes had a mind of his own, searching and scanning any room or environment for your figure. he chalks it up to protectiveness, you weren’t strong like he was and he didn’t want to see another comrade die. because thats all you were, a comrade. a comrade. a comrade. he chants this mantra into his mind every morning.

nanami didn’t know how it happened, but one thing led to another and he was always alone with you. comfortable silence was what he loved the most. you two could sit together for hours in a flower field you came across one day, just watching the sky and clouds form random shapes. you liked when they made hearts and little animals. although he always argued that they’re just clouds.

but, clouds almost reminded him of you. free, soft, floating around from place to place, and residing high in the sky. because he knew, no matter what, you were one of the few people who would go to heaven in this sick world, sick society. you belonged in heaven, you looked like an angel, acted like a goddess.

“let’s go to malaysia together.” you told him randomly one day, seeing an ad pop up about a beautiful vacation spot. kuantan. he didn’t take you too seriously. malaysia? out of all places? he didn’t see the hype.

all these thoughts flood his brain when he sees your body, looking lifeless and bloody, next to ijichi. you two have huge stab wounds in your mid-section. however, you have a bit more than your co-part, clear signs of your fight. even when you know you don’t have the upper hand, you won’t hesitate to fight back.

it’s hard as he carries you two, having to make sure ijichi doesn’t fall off his back while simultaneously holding you close to his chest. his heart twists and turns, stomach churning the entirety of the slow walk he does to bring you two back to ieiri. his mind is running rampant, constantly looking down at you. you can’t be dead, he thinks. neither of you two are dead, he can’t see more comrades die.

it’s almost weird to him how his throat tightens, tears stinging at his eyes. you don’t move, head lolling to the side as barely a sign of a breath is escaping your lips. your skin is pale and bruising. he hates it, hates how you look, hates how hurt you are, hates how he wasn’t there to stop it and protect you.

he sets you down first once he reaches shoko, handing the passed out ijichi to her. finally, he kneels down, taking in your appearance. nanami rarely gets mad, at least not seriously. but this time, he’s absolutely furious. silently seething as he breathing gets heavy. his fists clench by his side, nails drawing blood into the skin.

he gets up, no being able to stand how you look. but, he forgets you’re a fighter, forgets that no matter what, you look out for the sorcerers. out for him.

“kento….” you straggle out, hand weakly clutching onto his. you can barely keep your eyelids open. you mutter out the next few words. “…man….blonde……ponytail……s-sword….”

ah, he thinks. that’s his target.

he gulps, simply nodding. but your hand stays clutched onto his. using all your strength, you open your eyes wider, and he hates the tears that form in them. “….come back to me please…..”

he feels like crying with you. but he can’t, not now at least. he kneels down again, bringing the back of your hand up to his lips to press feather light kisses to each knuckle. his other hand gently uses his thumb to wipe your tears, treating you with utmost care. “kuantan,” he murmurs. “when this is all over, i’ll take you.”

you weakly chuckle, more tears falling at this point. “..p-promise..?”

he hesitates, but you notice. “promise.“ he says back, leaning down to give your forehead a kiss, sealing the promise. he places your hand back to your stomach before getting up to leave, not before sparing you one last glance.

and as you watch him leave, you don’t even know that it’s the last time you’ll ever see him, last time he’ll ever see you. because you trust his word, trusted that he’d come back to you.

nanami leaves with a heavy heart, staring death in the face and yet all he can think about is you. there’s many regrets he has.

he broke your guys’ promise, he hopes you won’t stay mad at him.

he won’t be able to take you to kuantan.

he won’t be able to see you, hold you, talk to you.

and finally, he wasn’t able to confess that he loved the simplicity. that he loved you.

he’ll see you again, in heaven and in another life. until then, he’ll watch over you. because nanami kento has always been a patient man.

[my-fancy-hat]

The process of creating is the active, constant question of the self, to question the extent of my capacities to convey a message worth of people's respect and admiration. To me, Look Back is a tale of self-reafirmation for Tatsuki Fujimoto. I'm aware it came out in the gap between part 1 and part 2 of the author's best seller, Chainsaw man, which makes this oneshot such an intimate soul-shaking story after what may be the pinnacle of his career. This made me question, why would he write this kind of story after CSM (and Fire Punch) anyways?

Through Fujino and Kyomoto's journey (which funnily, their names convined are Fuji-moto) we are put in the shoes of the stirring yet self-doubting mind of the creator: "why do you draw manga? why do you create?" is the question the protagonist has to find the answer for. Fujino navigate her life for her passion and pride as a talented story-teller artist, while Kyomoto does so for her love for art itself in a more reserved and personal way. Combined, I think they are the rope that pushes Fujimoto back and forth in his mind, the fear of the creator to tell a story worth of people's respect (Fujino) while being faithful to oneself (Kyomoto). Fujimoto knows there always will be an expectation, a mark above his head everytime someone is aware a new story has his signature, so it's understandable for anxiety to take the worst of you, the fear to be openly judged by the masses. So why do you even bother to get through that unpleasant thing? will I ever surpass what I made in my past projects? why do I keep creating? is this all I will ever be? the entire process is tiresome, boring, a never-ending task, I enjoy art better as a consumer anyways, so why?

If there's only one person who my art made their day better, made them smile or excited for what is coming next, then it was worth every single second I spend working on it.

It's a reafirmation to keep going. That I was born to live into this world for this sake, and I'm worthy to connect and receive this love. This is my place.

I deeply respect you for it, Tatsuki Fujimoto.

[welivetodream]

People thinking Atsushi is just a cute lil soft boy are so WRONG.

Atsushi is one of the best executed C-PTSD protagonists who are not just "kind" because they are the MC.

Atsushi is sassy, he is mean and says things like they are, even to his own mentor Dazai, he is not afraid of saying bad things. He doesn't hold back on his words. And he can be quite quick when it comes to using sass ("are you a landmower?" "Why are you dressed like a half-finished mummy, Dazai-san" "Akutagawa, fancy a cup of tea?" "That's why Dazai-san left you")

He's not just nice. He thinks he should be nice and kind because that's what someone like him should be like. Atsushi has such a low self esteem that he NEEDS to show kindness to everyone because he thinks just like he got a second chance at life, everyone else deserves it too.

That's why he saved Kyouka and Lucy, he recognised that want for bettering themselves in them. He wanted them to get a second chance like he did. Because to him, people are not good or bad, but they have the ability to change no matter how far they have gone.

This is why Atsushi is the only one who can recognise and understand Dazai's true personality. Whenever Dazai says something self depreciating Atsushi ALWAYS corrects him. In Dead Apple when Dazai is visiting Oda's grave, Atsushi understands whoever this person was, they were very dear to Dazai. At the end of Dead Apple when Dazai says he thinks he's not a good person, Atsushi tells him he has never thought of Dazai not being a good person. Atsushi knows Dazai was in the Port Mafia, but he STILL confirms he sees Dazai as a good person regardless of his past. Because Atsushi believes in second chances, and HE gave the second chance to Dazai that Oda must have wanted Dazai to get, even if the ADA accepted Dazai, no one has ever reassured him being a good person before. (Also in BSD wan, when Dazai says "I want to go out beautifully" during the fireworks scene, in the end-credits Atsushi sits near the river the entire day because he was sad that Dazai was suicidal. And in BSD mayoi, Dazai makes a snowman of Atsushi along with Oda, Ango and Chuuya, showing how much he adored Atsushi)

It's the same with Akutagawa; Atsushi doesn't understand why Akutagawa hates him and he's mean to Akutagawa at times but it never crossed a line. Akutagawa had done so many bad things to Atsushi but at the end they still worked together. Because Dazai understood the only person who will make Akutagawa use his powers to "protect" instead of "attack" is Atsushi. During the ending fight in S3, Akutagawa makes an armour for Atsushi as they combine their powers. And in the end credit scene of S5, we see Akutagawa protecting Atsushi AGAIN. This time Akutagawa isn't wearing the same coat Dazai gave him and for the first time shows true loyalty to Atsushi. ("Just the two of us?" "Do we need more?" *SCREAMS*)

Atsushi's relationship with the headmaster of the orphanage shows how much the trauma affected him as a child. When he can't forgive the headmaster at his death, he hates himself for not being able to give a second chance. And that's when Dazai steps in and tells him, "we cry when our father dies" something Atsushi really needs to hear and he finally cries.

Atsushi reassures Dazai all the time and Dazai snaps Atsushi out of his self depreciation all the time. Their solidarity throughout the story, shows why that day when Dazai chose Atsushi for the ADA; he recognised not Atsushi's powerful ability but his true ability in choosing to believe in people when no one else can.

[creatur3featur3]

ੈ✩Street Rat p3✩ੈ

word count: 5.4k

A/N: OKAY HEADS UP- THIS PART FOCUSES PURELY ON STREET RAT, THERE IS ONLY MENTION OF SEVIKA AT THE END MY APOLOGIES!! ANYWAYS- This series is actually becoming one of my biggest pieces of work, I never expected the amount of love this series had started to accumulate, with that being said- I am so grateful for all of the support and encouragement I have been receiving to continue writing and working on this series. thank you everyone for continuing to support me and my writing, I plan to continue to work on this series for as long as the creative juices keep flowing!

warnings: character death, mentions of alcoholism, child abuse, implications of PTSD

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

The scent of fresh bread and the faint hum of laughter filled the small but cozy home in Piltover. Your mother was at the kitchen table, rolling out dough with practiced hands while your two sisters—Nia, the youngest, and Sera, the middle child—sat nearby, squabbling over some silly game they’d made up. You sat at the edge of the table, carving tiny figures out of leftover wood scraps, the little knife in your hand wobbling slightly as you focused.

"Careful with that, sweetheart," your mother warned, her voice soft but firm. She glanced up from her dough, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Last thing we need is you losing a finger before supper.”

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. “I’ve got it, Mama. Besides, look!” You held up the crudely shaped figurine of a bird, the wings lopsided but unmistakable.

Sera gasped, her eyes lighting up as she leaned over the table. “It’s a crow! Can I have it?”

“No way,” Nia cut in with a smirk, grabbing it first. “She made it for me. Didn’t you?”

“I didn’t make it for either of you!” you huffed, trying to snatch it back, but Nia was quicker.

“Girls,” your mother said, her voice calm but with a warning note that made all of you freeze. She shook her head with a small laugh, brushing flour from her hands. “Honestly, it’s like having three tornadoes in the house.”

You settled back into your chair, muttering something under your breath about Nia being a thief. She shot you a wink, and Sera stuck her tongue out at both of you, her childish laughter filling the room.

For a moment, everything felt perfect.

But perfection never lasted long.

The door creaked open, and the warm, lively air in the room seemed to cool instantly. Your father's heavy boots echoed against the floorboards, a sharp contrast to the light laughter that had just filled the space. His face was flushed, the smell of liquor faint but unmistakable as he stood in the doorway. His eyes, clouded by whatever weighed on him, flicked to each of you before landing on your mother.

She stiffened, the rolling pin in her hands faltering for just a moment before she straightened her posture and forced a smile. “You’re home early,” she said, her voice even but lacking its usual warmth.

Your father grunted, stepping further into the room. “Work ended early,” he said curtly, though his tone carried no satisfaction. His gaze landed on the table, and his brow furrowed at the scattered wood shavings and half-carved scraps. “What’s this mess?”

You flinched slightly but didn’t reply. Nia, ever the bold one, sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “She’s making things, that’s all. It’s not hurting anyone.”

His eyes snapped to her, sharp as a blade. “Did I ask you to speak, Nia?” The tension in the room thickened, and even Sera, usually oblivious to such moods, shrank back in her seat.

“Leave her alone,” your mother interjected softly, stepping between him and the table. Her hands rested on her hips, flour smudged across her apron. “The girls aren’t doing anything wrong.”

Your father’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching at his side as though grappling with some invisible force. He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “And you,” he muttered, “sitting there wasting time on nonsense. You think those little carvings are going to put food on this table?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but no words came out. Your throat felt tight, your hands gripping the small knife and wooden bird as though they were your only anchor.

“Mama likes them,” Sera’s small voice piped up, breaking the silence. She sounded hesitant but defiant, her wide eyes darting between the two of you.

“Enough!” he barked, and she flinched, her little hands clutching the edge of the table. 

Your mother stepped closer to him, her voice lowering but steady. “That’s enough, Richard. You don’t talk to them like that.”

For a moment, the two of them locked eyes, a silent battle playing out in the space between them. Then, with a growl of frustration, he turned away, stomping toward the small sitting room without another word.

The silence he left behind was deafening. 

Your mother let out a slow breath, smoothing her apron as she turned back to the table. “Girls,” she said softly, her voice strained but kind. “Why don’t you take your things and go play in the other room?”

Sera slid out of her chair immediately, clutching her little game pieces. Nia hesitated, her defiant gaze lingering on the doorway where your father had disappeared. Then she grabbed your arm, pulling you up. “Come on,” she whispered, her voice a mix of annoyance and protectiveness.

You followed, clutching the bird tightly in your hand. As the three of you retreated to the small bedroom you shared, the faint sound of your mother’s voice could be heard again, calm and soothing as though trying to mend what had just unraveled.

Nia shut the door behind you, leaning against it with a scowl. “He’s such a—” She cut herself off, glancing at Sera, who was quietly settling on her cot. “...a grump,” she finished lamely.

You sat on your own cot, turning the wooden bird over in your hands. Its lopsided wings suddenly seemed so silly, so pointless. But then Sera crawled up beside you, her big eyes hopeful.

“Can I have it now?” she whispered. 

You hesitated, glancing at Nia, who shrugged with a small smile. “Go on,” she said. “Let her have it.”

With a sigh, you handed the bird to Sera. Her face lit up, and for a moment, the weight in your chest lifted. 

Outside, the muffled sound of raised voices carried through the thin walls, but here, in this tiny shared space, the three of you held onto each other and the fragile threads of something better.

“Why doesn't Mama do anything about Dad?” Nia asks, your stomach churning at the thought.

“Because dad is a big pile a shi-”

“Sera!-” you hiss softly, Sera throwing her hands up in defiance, “What?! it's true!”

She- wasn't wrong…

suddenly a loud crash out what sounded like a glass bottle being broken, and your father’s unmistakable booming slurred voice…

The sound of shattering glass tore through the thin walls like a gunshot, making all three of you jump. Sera scrambled closer to you, clutching the wooden bird like it was a talisman. Nia's face darkened, her jaw clenching as she moved instinctively toward the door, though you reached out to grab her arm.

"Don't," you whispered, your voice shaking. "Just stay here."

But it was too late. Your father's voice followed the crash, loud and venomous, each word landing like a blow.

"This house is a goddamn disaster!" he roared. "I work all day—all day—and this is what I come home to? Mess everywhere, screaming kids—" His words slurred slightly, the alcohol in his system making him stagger as he continued his tirade.

"Richard, lower your voice," your mother said sharply, her calm tone replaced by steel. It wasn’t a request; it was a warning.

"Oh, don’t start with me, Marie," he snapped back. "Don’t you dare. I told you, I never wanted this! Never wanted—" His words faltered as his frustration boiled over into a bitter laugh. "Three kids crawling underfoot, a house that looks like a pigsty, and you just standing there!"

There was a pause, and then your mother’s voice, quieter now but firm. "I’m doing the best I can, Richard. We all are."

"The best you can?" he mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The best you can is a filthy house and three brats who don’t know how to stay out of the way?"

Nia moved to the door again, her fists balled at her sides. "I’m not just gonna sit here and—"

You pulled her back, your stomach twisting painfully. "Please, Nia," you begged. "He’s drunk. You can’t reason with him when he’s like this."

Nia’s lip curled, but she stayed put, though you could feel the tension radiating off her.

"Why didn’t I listen to my gut?" your father continued, his voice rising. "I told you I wasn’t cut out for this. But no, you just had to have a family, didn’t you? And now look where we are. I’m breaking my back out there, and for what? To come home to this circus?"

You heard your mother take a step forward, her voice unwavering even as the air seemed to crackle with tension. "You don’t get to speak to me like that. Or them."

"Oh, don’t play the saint, Marie," he sneered. "You wanted this life. You wanted these kids. Don’t act surprised when I remind you that I didn’t."

Your stomach turned violently, his words cutting deeper than they should have. You weren’t even in the same room, but it felt like a punch to the chest. You glanced at Sera, who was curled into a ball on your cot, silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

Nia looked like she was ready to explode. "He’s such a coward," she hissed under her breath. "Blaming everyone else for his own damn choices."

The argument outside raged on, your mother standing firm against his drunken anger. But you couldn’t hear the words anymore. It was all just noise, a storm you’d heard too many times before.

You swallowed hard and turned to your sisters, your voice shaky but as steady as you could manage. "We just…we wait it out. Mama’s got this. She always does."

Though, even the hope that your thoughts were true always seemed to be smushed out by the your father as another glass bottle shattered downstairs followed by incoherent yelling.

You couldn't take it anymore, “Sera, Nia, I swear to the gods, stay here…” you commanded before slipping out of the room. What could a 7 year old do? Kick at your father's legs until he finally stopped?

As you carefully made your way down the stairs there you saw it- your mother's nose bleeding, fear , unmistakable in her eyes. Your father, his movements sluggish and messy as he leaned down close to her face, whispering something into her ear that you worried about as your mother's eyes widened.

“Dad, stop it!” You finally squeak out, stepping out near him as your body shakes slightly from the anxiety facing him caused.

Your father's head snapped toward you, his bloodshot eyes narrowing in disbelief at your audacity. His towering frame cast an imposing shadow across the dimly lit room as he stumbled toward you, the jagged neck of a broken bottle clutched in his hand.

"And what the hell do you think you're doing, huh?" he slurred, his voice booming as he waved the bottle in your direction. His steps were unsteady, but his anger burned clear as day. "Think you can just come down here and tell me what to do, little girl?"

You flinched as the sharp edges of the bottle caught the light, but you held your ground, even as your knees trembled and your breath came in shallow gasps. “Leave her alone!” you cried, your voice cracking but defiant. “Y-you’re scaring her! You’re scaring all of us!”

Your words seemed to strike a nerve. He sneered, his lips curling into something cruel and mocking. “Oh, so now I’m the bad guy, huh? That’s rich. Big man comes home to this wreck of a house, and I’m the one who’s scaring people?” He stepped closer, pointing the jagged bottle at you with every word, his anger unfocused but dangerous.

You instinctively backed up, your heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of your mother’s shallow breathing behind him. But you forced yourself to keep his attention on you. "It’s not her fault!" you blurted out, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “She’s doing everything, and you’re— you’re just making it worse!”

His expression darkened, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. His grip on the bottle tightened, his knuckles white, and his face contorted into something almost inhuman.

"Don’t you dare talk to me like that," he snarled, his voice low and dangerous now. "You don’t know a damn thing about what I do for this family. You think it’s easy, huh? Keeping a roof over your ungrateful little heads? You don’t get to judge me, you—"

He took a wild step toward you, and you stumbled back, your hands outstretched as if that alone could keep him at bay. “I’m not judging you!” you yelled, your voice breaking. “I just— I just want you to stop! Please, Dad, just stop!”

For a split second, his expression faltered, a crack in the armor of his rage. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that all-consuming fury. He raised the bottle slightly, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Richard!” your mother’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding despite the tremble in her tone. She had risen to her knees, blood still dripping from her nose, her eyes blazing with defiance. “If you take one more step toward her, so help me, I’ll—”

Her threat was cut out by the sound of your cry- your father hitting your face with the already broken glass, ripping open your lip…

Your breath was shallow, hands dabbing at your lip, feeling if the blood was real- it was, warm, fresh blood…

The room seemed to hold its breath, and then, with a guttural growl, he turned and hurled the broken bottle against the far wall. The shattering sound was deafening, and you flinched again, your hands flying up to shield your already bleeding face.

“Worthless,” he spat, stumbling toward the door. “All of you. Worthless.”

And then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him. The silence he left in his wake was suffocating.

Your mother was on her feet in an instant, rushing to your side and pulling you into a trembling embrace. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” she whispered, her hands frantically checking you for injuries.

You shook your head covering your lip with your hand, shielding what he did to you from your poor mother, though your tears betrayed you. “Mama, your nose…”

She wiped at the blood with the back of her hand, shaking her head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” Her voice wavered, but her arms around you tightened, as though she could shield you from the world with her embrace alone.

Nia appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pale and full of worry, with Sera peeking out from behind her. None of you said a word, but the unspoken understanding between you all was clear: this wasn’t the last storm you’d weather, but at least, for tonight, you had survived.

–

Your father had never come back after that, good riddance you had told yourself time after time you and your family were better off with him gone forever, but- it always made a strange sting shoot up your chest anytime you thought of your father.

You hated it.

Today was like any other day, Nia and Sera sleeping in per usual, they had always poked fun at you for waking up so early even on weekends but you enjoyed the quietness of Piltover when most of the city was still asleep, dreaming of great inventions, it was a sweet thought.

“Mouse, darling,” your mother called from the kitchen, making you perk up from your post on the couch, where you had been tinkering with a broken watch your father had. He never wore it, a present from you when you still saw him as a good man, when he was sane.

“Yes, Mama?” you called back, setting down the watch and walking into the kitchen where she was making breakfast for you and your sisters, “Could you run to Mrs.Namitte’s shop and grab me a fresh cut of sweetbread? You know how much your sisters love it.”

You nodded softly, grabbing her pouch of money and running out the house and down the street.

 The air of early morning in Piltover was crisp and cool, carrying the faint metallic tang that always seemed to linger in the city. The streets were still quiet, most of the noise coming from the distant hum of steam-powered machinery and the occasional clatter of hooves against cobblestone as a carriage rolled by. The sky above was a pale gray, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon, casting soft golden light across the sprawling cityscape.

Your neighborhood was tucked in one of Piltover’s less glamorous corners, a place where the buildings leaned together like old friends whispering secrets. The houses were a mix of brick and wood, patched up with whatever materials people could find, giving them a mismatched charm. Laundry lines crisscrossed above the narrow streets, sagging slightly under the weight of damp clothes left to dry.

Despite the modest surroundings, there was a warmth to the area. You passed the Grelle family’s house, their windowsills overflowing with flowerpots that brought splashes of color to the otherwise muted street. Mrs. Grelle herself waved at you from her stoop, her ever-present knitting needles clicking away even this early in the day.

“Morning, Mouse!” she called, using the nickname everyone seemed to have adopted from your mother.

“Morning, Mrs. Grelle!” you replied, offering a quick wave as you hurried past.

As you moved closer to the heart of the district, the streets widened slightly, the humble homes giving way to small shops and stands. This part of Piltover always smelled like fresh bread and coal smoke, the two scents mingling oddly but not unpleasantly. The cobblestones here were worn smooth by countless footsteps, their surfaces gleaming faintly with morning dew.

You passed a blacksmith’s forge where the faint glow of embers illuminated a young apprentice already hard at work, his hammer ringing against hot metal. Across from him, a tinker’s shop displayed delicate clockwork creations in the window, the tiny gears inside the contraptions turning with almost hypnotic precision.

It wasn’t long before you reached Mrs. Namitte’s shop, a cozy bakery nestled between a fabric store and an apothecary. The front of the bakery was adorned with peeling paint and a crooked sign that read Namitte’s Sweetbreads and Pastries, but the smell wafting from the open door was enough to make anyone’s mouth water. The aroma of sugar and warm bread enveloped you as you stepped inside.

Mrs. Namitte herself was bustling around behind the counter, her gray hair tied back in a neat bun. Her round face lit up when she saw you. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite early bird!” she greeted, her voice warm and cheerful. “What can I get for you this morning, Mouse?”

You couldn’t help but smile as you handed her the pouch of coins. “Mama sent me for some sweetbread. She said to get it fresh.”

Mrs. Namitte laughed, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Fresh is all we’ve got here, darling. One loaf coming right up.”

While she wrapped up the loaf in parchment, you glanced around the shop. The shelves were lined with all kinds of baked goods—flaky pastries, golden-brown loaves, and rows of sweet buns dusted with powdered sugar. There was something comforting about the place, from the warmth of the ovens to the faint crackle of the firewood.

“Here you go,” Mrs. Namitte said, handing you the loaf with a wink. “Tell your mother I said hello.”

“Thank you!” you said, clutching the warm package to your chest as you stepped back out onto the street.

The city was beginning to wake now, the quiet hum growing louder as more people emerged from their homes. Shopkeepers were setting up their stands, calling out to passersby to come see their wares. Somewhere in the distance, the sharp whistle of a steam engine pierced the air, a reminder of the bustling innovation that Piltover was known for.

You hurried back toward home, weaving through the growing crowd, the warmth of the bread against your hands and the thought of your family waiting for breakfast spurring your steps. Despite everything, mornings like this made Piltover feel a little less overwhelming, a little more like home.

Though on your way home, something felt- off. The air wasn't as clear as you remembered, the smell of- sulfur filling the air.

Your pace quickened naturally, worry bubbling in your stomach as you broke into a sprint when you saw smoke rolling into the air- from your neighborhood.

The smell of sulfur grew thicker with every breath you took, the weight of it pressing down on your chest. Your feet pounded against the cobblestone streets, urgency pulsing through your veins. Something was wrong—deeply wrong. The usual hum of the city was overshadowed by something darker, the sounds of distant shouting blending into the eerie quiet of the morning.

As you turned the corner and saw the familiar stretch of houses, your heart dropped into your stomach. Smoke billowed into the sky, dark and choking, swirling in a heavy cloud that turned the morning light to an unnatural, sickly shade. The distant crackle of fire mixed with the angry yells, the harsh metallic clinking of enforcer armor, and the shouts of voices you couldn’t quite make out.

The panic in your chest rose with every step, the pressure of something terrible bearing down on you. Your eyes darted from side to side as you searched for any sign of your family, of your mother and sisters.

"Mom!" you screamed, voice hoarse as you ran faster, your heart thrumming painfully against your ribcage.

You reached the end of the street, but the sight before you made your blood run cold. Flames had already devoured much of the neighborhood, crackling hungrily, the heat enough to make the air shimmer. Buildings you’d passed countless times were now nothing more than burning husks. The fire had spread so quickly—too quickly.

And then, you saw them.

Your mother, her figure smaller than you remembered, clutching Sera to her chest, while Nia was pulling at your sister’s hand, urging her to run. They were running, your family running toward you—but the fire… the fire was so close. The flames were creeping toward them, licking at the edges of the houses, curling up the sides of the wooden beams like snakes eager to strike.

"Run!" you screamed again, desperation clawing at your throat. Your voice was barely audible over the roaring fire and chaos, but they heard you. They saw you.

Your mother’s eyes locked with yours. Her face was streaked with ash and dirt, her lips parted as though she were about to call your name, but no sound came out. It was as if time itself had slowed, the world around you muffled, like you were watching from underwater. She stumbled, clutching Sera tighter, her face stricken with fear, and then—then, the ground shook beneath you.

The house—your home—collapsed in a deafening crash. The roof caved in first, the thick beams splintering like matchsticks. The explosion of debris sent dust and ash into the air, blurring your vision. The shriek of wood splintering was followed by an unbearable silence that stretched on for what felt like hours.

For a moment, you thought you might’ve imagined it. Maybe you were still dreaming, or maybe, somehow, you could still reach them. But when the dust settled, there was nothing but the rising smoke, the blackened silhouette of the house that had been your home.

Your body went numb, your feet frozen to the ground as you stared at the place where your family had stood moments ago. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding so loud it was a drumbeat in your ears. You wanted to scream, to run to them, but you couldn’t. Your legs wouldn’t move, and the world seemed to stop spinning around you.

"Nia... Mama..." The words slipped out of your mouth, barely a whisper. You felt the sting of tears at the corner of your eyes, but they refused to fall.

The crackle of fire was the only sound now, louder and more ominous than ever. The flames had consumed everything in their path.

And then, the faintest flicker of movement caught your eye—an enforcer, their armor gleaming like a dark shadow, standing at the edge of the destruction. They had their back turned, focused on the chaos unfolding around them, the violence, the fire. They hadn’t seen the wreckage they’d left behind. They didn’t even notice you standing there.

But you saw them.

The anger and helplessness surged inside you, cold as ice. The world had taken everything from you—the life you knew, the people you loved. And in that moment, as the tears you had been holding back finally streamed down your face, the burning rage started to take root deep within you.

You woke with a sharp inhale, eyes wide and fearful, looking around your makeshift home as you panted, chest heaving, anxiety rising in your chest as you tried to calm down.

Just a dream, just a dream

It had felt more real than last time, the nightmares getting stronger each time. You groaned softly as you sat up in your cocoon of blankets and rugs, rubbing your temples as you tried to ease your mind.

You grab your bag, throwing it over your shoulder haphazardly as you make your way down the fire escape and down onto the dirty streets you had come to know. 

The streets of the Undercity had a familiar hum to them, the constant murmur of distant voices, clanging metal, and the occasional shout or crash. The air was thick with the smell of burning coal, stale sweat, and something far less pleasant that you couldn’t quite name. It felt like the UnderCity’s grime had seeped into your skin and never really left. Even now, as you walked among the wreckage of your life, it was all too familiar.

You rubbed at your eyes, trying to shake the vivid nightmare from your mind, but it clung to you like the oppressive fog that hung over the slums. The tightness in your chest wouldn’t loosen, no matter how many times you breathed in deeply. They weren’t real. Your family wasn’t gone. The fire hadn’t happened. It was just a haunting memory, a shadow of something that almost was.

But it felt real. And that was the worst part of it. It had always been the worst part of the nightmares—how everything felt so tangible, so vivid. You could hear Nia’s laugh. You could smell your mother’s perfume. The way your father’s hands had felt around your throat when he was angry. The weight of the grief that pressed into your chest when you realized they were all gone. All gone—and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

It was enough to make you want to curl up in a corner and block it all out. But you couldn’t. Not today. You didn’t have the luxury of slowing down and feeling sorry for yourself.

The undercity didn’t wait for anyone.

You adjusted your bag, the weight of the various trinkets and scraps that filled it dragging at your shoulders as you walked. Your hands fidgeted, feeling the bruises that had yet to fade, the remnants of a life spent scraping by, of fights you’d won and lost. At least I’m still here. That was the only consolation you had left. Even if everything else felt wrong. Even if you felt broken inside, even if you were more scared than you let anyone see, you were still breathing.

You wandered through the streets, passing by familiar faces, the other street rats that wandered the same alleys you did. Some ignored you. Others gave you a glance that was too sharp to be friendly. Keep your head down. Don’t make waves. Stay small.

You didn’t really know where you were going; your feet carried you through the maze of metal and trash, through forgotten corners of the UnderCity that no one cared about. Places like these held their own kind of loneliness—like a pocket of emptiness that even the brightest fire couldn’t warm.

Your stomach growled—loudly, obnoxiously. That was the problem with skipping meals, trying to scrape by on what you could find, or what you could steal. Your pride didn’t let you ask for help. 

You groaned under your breath, reaching for your pouch to see how much you had left. A couple of cogs, a piece of broken glass you’d picked up somewhere, and some scraps of fabric that you had meant to sell, but hadn’t found a buyer for yet. Not exactly what you would call a hearty meal.

And that’s when you saw him.

A figure, hunched over in the alley ahead, fiddling with something. At first, you didn’t think much of it—another one of the city’s forgotten wandering souls. But something about the way he was moving caught your eye. It was the faint glint of metal against his hands, the way he seemed to be... repairing something?

You slowed, instinctively drawn to him, curiosity beating out caution for once. Your gaze locked onto the object in his hands, a small but delicate mechanical piece, a gear. You had seen something like it before—a few times, in fact. Was this... another tinker?

You took another step closer, and that’s when he noticed you. The stranger’s eyes flashed up, meeting yours for the briefest of moments before he quickly looked back at the gears in his hands.

Something about his demeanor made you pause, an unease settling in your gut. He's watching me too closely. But you couldn't place why, or even if you should care.

The silence between you two lingered for a beat, before he spoke in a voice rough with disuse. "You need something, kid?"

You hesitated for a moment, still unsure of what to make of him, before you nodded slowly. “I could use a meal.”

The man scoffed, flicking the gear in his hands one last time before tossing it to the ground, where it clattered against the pavement. He dusted off his hands before standing up fully, revealing his thin frame beneath a worn-out coat. His hair was messy, unkempt, his face haggard with the years of life lived under these same grimy skies. "Ain't no charity here, kid. You gotta earn your keep."

You winced at his words, but something in his tone stirred a defensive response in you, but- you bit your tongue.

Keep your head down, stay out of trouble

Those were the rules.

You fucking hated those rules.

You just turn away and walk off, you don't need to get into another fight, didn't need Sevika telling you off for not being careful enough.

Speaking off Sevika, you hadn't seen her in awhile, a week or two now. Where was she?

You found yourself searching for her, not really sure why you were, why bubbles of worry formed in your stomach. You checked her usual spots, the alleys where she played cards, the food booths where you two got food from time to time, you asked a few regulars if they had seen her, to no avail.

You shouldn't care, she was only a asset to you, a small help when you were at your lowest and yet-

You felt like you had found something.

Something that felt real, or at least as real as it gets in the Undercity.

You needed to find Sevika.

[uiuishii]

So I'm thinking about the debate "Agatha did it on purpose" vs "Agatha can't control herself" debate.

If you think about it, Agatha is cursed with a power of absorbing all form of magic until the death of the host. When she was young she probably killed someone because of that and her mother discovered the body. Meanwhile she took interest in the darkhold, maybe to control or to fix things. She probably killed her own son without even realizing it. I mean it does make sense that Nicolas told her to stop when she killed Alice. That is why she was so shocked, realizing she did it again. It was never about her staying with her mother to be punished, but about her curse being exposed to the coven in the most horrible way. Her true punishment is her lack of control. She brings death everywhere she goes.

Thus, it explains why Death is in love with her. They met countless time, Agatha trying to resist her curse, eventually accepting her fate and power. Death knows her struggle, her power and her pain. Agatha, the witch everbody hates, and Death, the ultimate source of fear, sorrow, hatred. Rejected by everyone but themselves.

Agatha embraces the villain everybody saw in her. She accepted this role. Because it is easier and nobody believes her anyway. She can be good. But it will never be enough. So she decided to stop.

When nobody loves you, the only thing left is power. Power to feel alive and complete while you are in fact attracted by Death herself, wanting to let go.

In the end, no one will mourn Agatha except Death.

[chimckenns]

There are times when Sweetheart just wants to disappear. When the world is somehow going too fast, pulling them along when they’re not ready. It’s like when everything around you is moving in double speed but you yourself can’t move. Their legs are chained to the ground and their throat starts closing up. There’s nothing they can say nor do. They just have to grit their teeth and pray it ends quickly. Thats what Sweetheart’s panic attacks feels like sometimes.

Milo knows. He instantly knows when Sweetheart’s caught in the middle of an attack. He notices how they seem to space out, yet their eyes dart around looking for an escape. He sees tears welling up in their eyes and their nails digging into their palms. He catches the way that their shoulders tense.

When it happens, Milo reaches for their hand, stopping just before it touches them, silently asking for consent. When Sweetheart doesn’t pull away, he takes their hand and guides them away to a secluded place, away from prying eyes. He’ll stand in front of them, holding their hand, and he’ll stay that way for as long as they need him. Milo will always be there to ride out the storm with them.

After a few minutes Sweetheart is able to take deeper breaths, and Milo rubs their hands a little with his thumb, giving them something to focus on. Once they’ve fully recovered, he gently pull them into a hug.

“You’re ok. You did good. I’m here.” He’d say, rubbing their back in soothing motions as they’d let a few tears fall.

[chodzacaparodia]

You want me to tell you about my favorite character?

Sure, but before I give you a two-hour speech about how complex and well-developed this character is, how many emotions they evokes in me, and how much I would sacrifice for them, let me first cry for half an hour about what this character had to go through.

[late-night-secrets]

It was impossible to not at least fall a little for Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world – and your colleague. Both of you started working as teachers at Jujutsu High at the same time. Back then, you had heard of him, of course, but with you graduating from the Kyoto branch, you had only met him a few short times, even less had talked to him.

He was just like everyone said: Loud, cocky and extremely powerful. His whole presence had pissed you of at first, but just after a few weeks and one or two very mature moments of self-reflection you had realized it was admiration. Admiration and envy. Because he was the strongest and infuriatingly good at everything he did, and why on earth did he have to start teaching at the same time as you?! People would compare the two of you, naturally, and there was no chance against him. It was outrageous.

And the worst of it all: He noticed you (How could he not when he had arrived terribly late at your initiation and you and Principal Yaga had waited for over an hour?), he knew you (How could he not when he grew bored within the first five minutes of Yaga’s speech of the school’s principles, had asked for your name and used it ever since when he was greeting you?), he seemed to like you (… How could he?).

To be fair, it’s Gojo Satoru. He smiled almost all the time and seemed to be endlessly excited about everything and everyone. If he disliked someone, he had no problem with showing and saying so, and at some point, you noticed, he had never said he disliked you. No, quite the contrary, when he was bored, he was looking for you bothering you while you had work to do; nagging, poking, invading your personal space, whining about a lack of attention right in front of your class to a point where you had to kick him out. When you were getting lunch, he joined you without being invited to or asking to be; as if it had always been like this. He chatted with you about everything and anything at all, and you chatted back. Because you had realized Gojo Satoru might be a nuisance, but he was good and kind, and that was nice company to hang out with, you thought.

One day in winter you went into the teacher’s lounge in between classes to grab a quick cup of coffee and found him… existing there for whatever reason. You just gave him a short greeting, not paying attention to what he was doing, and immediately went for the coffee machine. Instead for a greeting in return, you were met with silence first, and then a: “Are these yours?”

You looked up to see him holding one of your gloves. It looked incredibly small in his large hands.

“Yeah, why?”

When he turned to you, you couldn’t see his eyes, but you imagined they were wide open with surprise. At least that was what his hanging jaw indicated. “Are your hands that small?”

You raised your eyebrows in offense. “I find them perfectly fine.” To prove your point, you raised your hand, palm facing him.

Without hesitation he put his against yours to compare the size of your hands. His infinity was off, and skin touched against skin. “Woah, they really are small!” He put his hand and your glove down and made his way to the door. “Anyway, gotta teach. See you.” And just like that he left.

And you were left standing there, your palm still tingling from the contact of his warm hand and your heart pounding a tad bit too much. A part of you wanted to react with humor, throwing an exaggeratingly desperate “What are we?” after him which he would have definitely heard. But you couldn’t because your voice left you for a minute or two. Why was your heart still pounding? And why were you frozen in place repeating these few seconds again and again in your head?

Retrospectively, that palm-on-palm encounter was most likely where it all started. You began second-guessing all of his interactions with you, everything he said. For a first, you realized that he was very touchy with you, seeking your proximity: His fingers brushing against your arms nearly every time he was talking to you. As if he wanted to pull you closer. Or your fingers always touching when handing him something. Walking unnecessarily close to you, or shifting after you sat done, so there was merely an inch left between your arms or legs. Perhaps it all happened by accident, but your heightened attention caused you finding it more significant than that; and it occurred too frequent to call them accidents at some point.

Another thing you noticed was the staring. More than once you felt a tingling sensation at the back of your neck, and when you turned your head, you would find him looking at you. It was a bit difficult to distinguish whether he had actually been observing you or something lying in the same direction, with his blindfold and all. But most times when being caught he would either smile or quickly turn away.

And lastly, and most importantly, the way he spoke to you. It created butterflies in your stomach. He wasn’t particularly flirty, not more to you than to anyone else, but he seemed so carefree when he was talking to you. There was all this nonsense and his jokes, of course, no one got spared, but with you he seemed to relax in a way that sometimes made him turning a conversation to more serious matters to which he not only contributed cold facts but also his very own thoughts and concerns; his opinion and worry on certain topics, he shared them with you. The moment you realized he didn’t do that with everyone, your heart fluttered, somewhat prideful of the fact that you were someone Gojo Satoru confided in. You felt special.

It made you think of him outside of work; about interactions with him, involuntarily reading into them. That one time the teachers of the Tokyo and Kyoto branch had to group themselves into pairs of two for a field day activity for the students, and Gojo pretty obviously used his Six Eyes during drawing lots to get paired up with you? Yes, he wanted to be teamed up with you, but why? Because you had more patience with him than Urahime or Nanami? Or because he enjoyed spending time with you, liked that you laughed about each other’s jokes? Because he liked you? Or that one or two times when he pinched you out of sheer boredom in one of the meetings and then snickered at the way you squeaked and slapped him on his shoulder as a punishment? Or that time around Christmas when there was decoration all around the city and you and him were on a mission and he had spotted a heart-shaped Christmas ball that he wanted to hang on your uniform?

You tried to think about it rationally. Despite hanging out with him so often, you barely knew him. You had no idea where he was born, if his parents were still alive, what his favorite color was, which kind of music he enjoyed listening to, whether he had a partner. It would make sense, that last part, because this was Gojo Satoru, the strongest, the most handsome, the wittiest of them all. How could he still be single?

On the other hand, wouldn’t he have mentioned them at some point at least? Hm, not necessarily; he was the strongest which also meant he had lots of enemies. He probably didn’t want to put anyone in danger who was dear to him.

Okay, then: Would he act towards you like he did when he was already happily taken? Maybe? Maybe not? Probably not. Right?

It drove you mad. You could hardly concentrate on your work which affected your results, and that drove you even more mad. It was ridiculous. You were a grown adult and felt like a teenager with your funny, little feelings for that dashing colleague of yours. Surprisingly, every time you spoke to or ate or worked with him, you found yourself maturely nonchalant considering the turmoil he caused within you. Quite the opposite even: When you saw him, you felt at ease and the storm inside your head calmed down.

You fell for him.

It was maddening.

You decided to tell a friend – that you were crushing on your coworker, not who said coworker was exactly – and they managed to give you enough courage to ask him out. “He will say ‘No’ if he’s not interested. Or if he has a partner, I guess,” they said. It would be the first time for Gojo and you to meet privately. After pondering for hours you texted him whether he wanted to grab a coffee sometime this week.

He took an awfully long time reply but after six hours full of agony you received an answer: “Yeeeeees, sounds like fun! ^^ But I’m not in the city this week :(“

You texted him back, suggesting a day next week. Once more, many, many hours passed. He’s a highly demanded sorcerer, you reasoned, he’ll be busy.

He replied that he couldn’t say for sure whether he’d be in Tokyo next week but not to worry, you guys would manage somehow.

His words were encouraging but at the same time you felt a little Pang in your chest that it didn’t work out as planned. But, rationally speaking, it was going well; he agreed on meeting you and that gave you hope.

When he didn’t text you at the end of next week and you hadn’t seen him at school either, you dropped another message asking about his whereabouts. His answer came the next day, that he was fine but also very busy.

You suggested another time for the coffee, and this time he agreed.

All of a sudden, you became nervous. It wasn’t as if you two had never met before, or if you had never spent time alone with him. But for some reason, this felt different. Nonetheless, you were excited when you were getting ready. Sometime on your way to the café, he dropped you a message that he would be sitting inside the café waiting for you. With excitement you noticed that he was actually on time for your… meeting (you didn’t dare to call it a date). And when you spotted him sitting inside, wearing his sunglasses rather than his blindfold, your heart skipped a happy beat.

The greeting was warm and full of smiles; it had been quite a while since you two had last seen each other with missions and all. You got your drinks and started chatting about what you had done in the last couple of weeks. You were talking about your classes, about that especially annoying curse you had had to take care of on your supposedly free day, and some family business you had had to attend to.

After that, he told you about his super top-secret mission – abroad even! – he had been sent to, about how he had finished it with so much ease (of course) that he had been able to return back to Japan earlier than expected “… and thanks to that I spent a few days in Kyoto, that’s where my girlfriend lives.”

He continued on, talking about some new sweets he had tried, or was it about some old colleague he had met? Either way, you couldn’t pay attention. It sounded so cliché, but you were quite positive about hearing your heart shatter after he had said that last sentence. Your mind stopped working for a good minute before you snapped back and feared that he realized.

Was it just your imagination or had he gazed at you a bit more intensely than usual when he had said “girlfriend”? You didn’t know and you couldn’t skip back and replay that moment.

You wished you could. You wished you could stop everything right before he said that awful sentence. You wished he was joking but he hadn’t been using his teasing tone. You wished you would wake up and realize that you just had one of those horrible nightmares that hit a bit too close to real life scenarios.

But nothing like that happened. And just like that, within a second, your heart was broken; unintentionally even, you thought so at least. Gojo wasn’t the type to lead someone on. He’d be a bit flirty with everyone, yes, but he wouldn’t want someone properly fall for him when there wasn’t a chance. He wasn’t cruel to people he liked.

And yet there you were. The meeting was very nice; lasted for hours because the two of you had lost track of time. That was even worse. If it would have been awful, you thought you could eventually live with the fact that the two of you clicked at work but nowhere else, but that didn’t appear to be the case. Just like usually, you guys could easily joke around, talk about stuff related to work but also to some more private matters; teasingly banter about your favorite dishes being the whole opposite of each other but agreeing on the problems of the Jujutsu society.

Only when you were alone at home, you allowed yourself to let the fact sink in that Gojo Satoru had never been romantically interested in you. That all of his acts and words were nothing but platonic. Perhaps even an expression of mutuality that you mistook for romantic affection. And maybe that was the reason why you fell for him at the first place, because he interacted with you without any ulterior motives.

During the hours you spent with him at the café, he hadn’t mentioned his girlfriend a second time although there had been some possibilities. You also hadn’t dared to ask; either because you had feared to cross his borders, or because a part of you wanted to pretend she didn’t exist which meant you knew nothing about her except for that she lived in Kyoto.

You wished you had known beforehand because then you might have never properly fallen for him. But what had happened, had happened.

And all you knew was that you had to work with him while trying to make your stupid, little feelings fade away. You had no idea whether you would manage.

**********

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