#empathy is a world-changing force

[strangelittlestories]

When it comes down to it, the vast majority of this job is simply making sure people get tea and coffee when they need it.

It’s not what people expect when I tell them: I’m a Prophet of the Lord*, tasked with protecting this world from those malign forces that would threaten creation. And, sure, there are times when I must gather the bold and the steadfast beneath my banner and make war against the darkness itself.

(It’s a pretty cool banner too, the rivers of prophecy themselves streaming in a shimmering cascade from the branches of the World Tree that grows out of my back. The rag-tag bands of misfits, paladins and lost little heroes look pretty badass when they gather under it.)

But, like I said, those times are pretty rare. Which is probably a good thing – the world can only take so many apocalypses, after all…

Most often, what I see in the river that streams from my eyes (seriously, the visions look exactly like I’m in floods of tears … I guess that’s because it’s what they are) are regular people who are ground down. They are the ones worn down by time, by sadness, by a world that has shown them time and again how little it cares for them.

They are also people with great power. Even if, most of the time, they do not realise it.

I see them in those droplets and, even as they shatter on the floor (or a nearby shoulder), I am tracing back their course through the river and marking the moments that brought them there.

All it takes is a kind word, a warm embrace, and a nice cup of tea to alter that course.

You wouldn’t believe the number of times that world-ending events nearly occurred, simply because a spectacular person was dangerously under-caffeinated…

Or maybe you would.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise really, that tiny moments of kindness have the power to save the world.

*(well … of the Lord(s)/Lady(ies)/Genderly Interesting Overlord)

[sincerelyneo]

life is a highway | n.jm

“i wanna ride it all night long”

💿now playing: life is a highway by rascal flatts

❯ summary: Being a nervous learner driver is hard enough, but throwing in your older brother’s hot, smug, patronising best friend to be your instructor? Yeah...definitely not making things easier.

❯ pairings: jaemin x fem!reader

❯ genre: enemies to...fuck buddies? smut

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, arguing, hate sex, public sex, car sex, swearing, heavy petting, fingering, unprotected sex (don't do this!), creampie, dirty talk, very tame degradation kink, literally them just arguing with each other for the entire 3k words.

an: this is very influenced by the british driving experience—hence the manual car propaganda.

Look, driving a manual is hard. There’s just too much stuff to remember all at once—gears, pedals, mirrors, observations. Honestly, you don’t understand why anyone who values their sanity would choose to drive a manual car. If it were up to you, you’d be driving around in an automatic. But it’s not up to you. Because your brother, Mark, is paying for your driving lessons.

And Mark, being the car-obsessed gearhead he is, insists that everyone should learn manual—“So you can drive any car, no limitations,” he preaches. Even when you dragged yourself through the front door on the Friday night of your third failed driving test, you thought maybe, just maybe, your stubborn older brother would show a little grace. Let you switch, take the easy route.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he did something worse.

He sent Jaemin.

Na Jaemin.

Mark’s old college roommate—who, according to your brother, is the best teacher in the world, a saint suited with endless patience and encouragement. But if those qualities exist, they’ve never made an appearance around you. Because, from the very first lesson (four torturous sessions ago), Jaemin’s been nothing but a snarky, patronising ass. 

You hate him. And he hates you—clearly.

Sure, you may have driven on the wrong side of the road once. And stalled on a hill. And very nearly veered the two of you into oncoming traffic. But those were all accidents—you’re a learner. It’s not your fault.

Honestly, it’s Mark’s fault. 

Because you’re already a nervous driver, and throwing in a hot, built guy who slouches into the passenger seat like he owns the car doesn’t exactly help. Not with his long legs spread wide, and that muscled arm draped casually along the window, long fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the doorframe.

It’s a distraction. He’s a distraction. A hot, smirking, condescending distraction with perfect teeth and zero empathy.

“The light is on green,” Jaemin says flatly.

You blink. “W-what?”

He doesn't even turn to look at you. Just gestures lazily toward the windscreen. “If you stopped checking me out, you’d see the traffic light has changed. That means go.”

Your jaw drops, and you finally peel your eyes off him, squinting at the green hue now glaring in your face. “I know, asshole.”

“Then go.”

You want to scream, but you don't. Instead, you slam the clutch, jam the car into first gear with more force than necessary, and the car jerks forward. You thank God, because you just narrowly avoidied stalling again, but Jaemin is never grateful. 

“You’re snapping the clutch up too fast,” he comments. “You have to find the bite, then add gas. Keep revving the engine like that and you’re gonna wreck the clutch.”

“I was not revving the engine,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. But of course, that doesn’t stop him.

“You were. Because you’re scared of stalling. But if you actually planned ahead and stopped rushing—”

“I won’t stall, yeah, yeah, I know.” You cut him off, gripping the wheel tighter. 

“Then apply it.”

You’re about to lose it. You hate the way he talks to you like you’re ten years younger than him—like you’re some clueless kid. It makes you want to punch him in that smug mouth of his. But that’d only prove his point that you’re immature and feed his ego. 

So, you grit your teeth, suck in a breath, and try to ignore the way your heart’s thudding against your ribcage and your palms go slick on the wheel. You’re trying. God, you’re trying. But he makes it impossible to concentrate.

“You can’t drive around in first gear, this is a thirty zone.”

“I know—”

“No, you clearly don’t—fuck—pull the car over!”

His voice slices through the air and your stomach flips violently. You yank the wheel toward the kerb, the tires bouncing as the car lurches to a halt. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jaemin’s lip twitch (about to make some smartass comment about you mounting the pavement) but the fury in your expression makes him think twice.

The second the engine cuts, you explode.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, unbuckling your seatbelt and twisting in your seat to face him. “If you hate this so much, then don’t show up! Mark’s not forcing you to sit in this car with me, Jaemin. I could find someone else to help me.”

“Oh, totally. I’d love to make room for driving instructor number eleven,” he bites.

"Then do it," you sneer, slumping back into the driver’s seat with a shrug, arms folded tight across your chest.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Seriously, Y/N, I’m trying to help you," he says. "But you don’t listen. You never listen—"

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where you actually helped. All I’ve heard for the past four weeks is how shit I am at this.”

“Because you’re not even trying! You act like my help is beneath you. You refuse to take any criticism.”

“Beneath me?” You laugh, bitter and breathless. “I’ve failed my test three times, you absolute dick! I clearly am trying! I’m trying so fucking hard. And all you do is sit there and mock me, which just makes it worse.”

“You need tough love! This isn’t a joke—driving is serious. People's lives are on the line. Your life is on the line.”

That makes you swallow.

“If you’re talking about that time I almost hit that cyclist, that wasn’t my fault—he came out of nowhere!”

Jaemin scoffs, shakes his head and tongues the side of his cheek. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please. Enlighten me.”

“You’re so terrified of failing again, so you never give yourself a real chance to get it right. You can’t let go of your pride, so every little mistake makes you panic, and you do something stupid. And then you blame everyone else for it.”

Your jaw drops. Then a furious exhale leaves your lungs. “You are—unbelievable. You’re such a—”

“You’re not listening to me,” Jaemin growls, cutting you off. “Again. You’re not listening.”

“I don’t care. Fuck you—”

But before you can finish the very creative insult forming in your throat, his hand shoots out—fisting the front of your hoodie, yanking you toward him. And then his mouth crashes into yours. Brutal and angry and heated.

You freeze. For one heartbeat. Then another.

Your whole body goes still—except your lips, which betray you, parting instinctively for him. You sink into it before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like it might steady the way your heart is rattling against your ribs. It doesn’t. 

Because he tastes like cinnamon and black coffee. So fucking predictable. So him. And, of course, unfairly good. Which just pisses you off more. He tastes good, and you like it. 

The kiss is harsh. Messy. Teeth knock, lips drag, because even now, the two of you are fighting for control. There’s no rhythm. No grace. Just lust and resentment colliding together in the ugliest way possible.

His hand grips your hoodie tighter, like he doesn’t trust you not to pull away. Honestly, he half expected you to slap him for kissing you. He didn’t expect you to gasp, to open your mouth and let him in. Let his tongue slide against yours, hot and wet and so damn hungry.

You feel the press of his thumb against your sternum, the subtle tremble in his wrist, and it hits you—weeks of tension finally snapping loose.

It’s not romantic. It’s not soft. It’s—what the hell are you thinking?

You pull away first, shaking his grip off your hoodie. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jaemin blinks, looking just as stunned as you feel—pupils blown wide, chest heaving. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I don’t know... you just—fuck, you drive me insane," he mutters. "I just wanted to shut you up."

“Oh, so your first thought was to kiss me?” you snap, swiping your sleeve across your mouth like you can erase the feel of him. A small part of you is glad it doesn’t. “That’s how you deal with people who annoy you? Because if so, you need a HR department!”

“No,” he grits out, jaw clenched. “You’re not just people. You’re—you’re impossible to be around.”

"Maybe you’re the one with the issue!” you hiss. “Plenty of people enjoy my company. You just don’t know how to be around me without being a smug, condescending prick!"

His expression twists "I’m trying to fucking help you," he says. "But, clearly, you don’t want help. You just want to fight, don’t you? You want to pick a fight because that’s all you know how to do."

“Because you infuriate me!” you shout. “You barge in here, all patronising and hot, acting like you know everything, acting like you’re better than everyone, like you’re better than me—”

You don’t get to finish.

He lunges across the console before either of you can think better of it, grabbing your face and kissing you hard. Again. 

His seatbelt strains as he twists toward you. You meet him with equal force, kissing him back like you can knock some sense into him with your mouth.

He groans into it, deep and guttural, and then he’s hauling you closer, shoving his seatbelt over his head and dragging you half onto his lap. The centre console digs into your hip, but you don’t care. Your knees press against the door, your hand grips the headrest behind him. Every inch of the car feels too small for the way he’s kissing you. Too hot.

His hands are everywhere. One tangled in your hair, the other pressing flat against the small of your back like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

You gasp when his mouth trails briefly to your jaw, your throat. “You’re such a jerk,” you whisper breathlessly.

“Shut up,” he mutters, before his lips crash into yours again.

And you do. You shut up (for once) letting him kiss you breathless while his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, calloused pads dragging over overheated skin. You shiver, nerves buzzing from the way your body is betraying you in all the worst ways. With the worst person,

“You're a nightmare,” he growls against your mouth. 

“So stop kissing me,” you bite back, fingers fisting his t-shirt.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Your back hits the glovebox as he shifts, pulling you fully into his lap. Your knees knock against the dash, thighs bracketing his hips, breath catching as you straddle him in the cramped passenger seat. Your head tips back, knuckles going white where they clutch his shoulders. 

“This is so stupid,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “Say that again when you’re not grinding on me.”

You shove at his chest—but not hard enough to hurt. “Fuck you.”

His hands slide lower. Gripping. Pressing. Desperate. “Oh you’re going to.”

He rolls your hips against him, firm and rough, and you feel him—all of him. Hardening beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. The pressure sends a jolt through you, because if you’re really ‘going to’ fuck him, the size of him already has you intimidated.

You whimper despite yourself. It’s pathetic. Weak. And it turns him on so damn much. 

His head falls back with a dull thud, eyes squeezing shut like he’s in pain. “Fuck—why can’t you make those sounds with me all the time,” he groans, voice hoarse, “instead of running that pretty little mouth?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. Just keep grinding down, breath catching with each pass over his straining cock. You’re soaked. Your jeans are too tight. Everything is too hot. Too much.

“Fuck,” you pant, “you.”

He huffs a laugh, then brushes your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck. His lips find your ear. Teeth grazing. “We’ve already established you’re going to,” he smirks. “But first—”

His hand slides between your bodies. 

“—you’re going to get yourself off on my thigh like the filthy girl I know you are.”

You’re about to repeat those two words again, but he captures them with a kiss—swallowing them down with a simple swipe of his tongue before he looks down to where you’re rutting against him.

You’re not sure when your jeans became the enemy, but they are now—tight, rough, in the way. Every twist of your hips adds to the unbearable friction, your breath catching in your throat with every grind. You’re not supposed to be doing this. Not here. Not with him.

But Jaemin’s thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—God, his hands—know exactly where to go, how to hold you steady and drive you crazy in the same breath.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he grits, fingers digging into your waist. “Can’t follow a single instruction when you’re behind the wheel, but now? Suddenly you’re fucking little miss obedient.”

You want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both. Probably both.

“You think you’re funny?” you hiss, but your voice cracks as his thigh flexes, and your hips jolt in response. “You think you’re winning right now?”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek—just shy of a kiss. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, condescension dripping from every syllable, “I know I am.”

“You’re soaking,” he adds, palm skating down your front before slipping inside your jeans, into your panties.

“You are the most arrogant, insufferable, smug bastard I’ve ever met,” you pant against his mouth. “And I hate you.”

“Good,” he breathes, before surging forward again.

His mouth trails downward—jaw, neck, collarbone. Tongue licking over one of the few marks he just made. Your hips jerk when he bites, just a little too hard—and he groans  like he felt it in his own skin.

“Can’t believe you’re this wet for me and still have the nerve to talk back.”

“I can multitask,” you gasp, grabbing his wrist as he reaches for your jeans. He pauses, looking up so his eyes meet yours—and for a moment, the lust between you stutters.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, low and serious.

You hate how long you hesitate. Hate how breathless you sound when you whisper, “No.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

Then your jeans are open, and his fingers slide into your underwear—hot, teasing, and maddeningly slow. You cry out, head dropping to his shoulder, clutching at the back of his neck as two of his fingers start to circle your clit. 

“God, you’re shaking,” he groans, lips brushing your ear. “You’re gonna cum like this? From barely anything? What happened to all that attitude?”

“Shut up,” you whimper, grinding shamelessly into his hand. “Just shut the hell up—”

“Not a chance.”

His fingers dip lower, circling the wet entrance of your pussy before he presses in deeper, and your whole body tenses, that coil in your belly winding tighter with every thrust.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Come on, sweetheart. Prove me right. I love it when you do.”

You hate him. You really do. But your body doesn’t care. It burns and trembles and demands more. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he curls his fingers just right—and then you’re falling apart, hips jerking, a strangled cry ripped from your throat before you can stop it.

Jaemin doesn’t stop until you’re trembling in his lap, wrecked and slick with sweat. When you finally lift your head to look up at him, he’s watching you intensely. Quiet for once. Hell, if you knew letting him finger you would shut him up, you’d have let him a long time ago.

Then, slowly, patronisingly slowly, he pulls his hand from your jeans, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers to his mouth.

You slap his shoulder. Hard. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins around his fingers. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, still breathless. You glance down. His hands are still on your hips. “Let go of me.”

“Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

He leans in, lazily sucking another finger. “I already did.”

Your hand moves before you think—gripping his chin, nails digging into his jaw. Not a slap. Not a kiss. Just heat. Just challenge.

“You’re really starting to piss me off,” you whisper. “Keep pushing, and I might actually lose control and kill you!”

That look flashes in his eyes again—that dangerous glint that says he likes it when you fight. But instead of rising to the bait, he just smirks.

“I am pushing,” he says. “But you’re the one currently dripping down my thigh. So tell me, sweetheart…” His fingers slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Who’s really in control?”

You don’t answer. Just stare. Flushed. Still trembling, still aching. Then, leisurely, you lean in—close enough that his breath stalls.

“I am,” you bite, nipping his bottom lip as you yank his hoodie up over his shoulders. “And I’m going to prove it.”

He grins—wild and eager. “Then fucking show me.”

Your fingers tighten in his hoodie, dragging it off with enough force to make his smirk falter, only slightly. His eyes are black now—blown wide with want, with need—and for the second time ever in his life, Jaemin is silent.

He just watches.

And you take.

Your mouth slams into his, teeth biting at his lip before you drag your mouth down to his neck, sucking onto the skin to return your own mark. His hands fumble with your jeans again, this time yanking them down your thighs enough to slip your panties to the side. 

You help shove his sweatpants down past his ass—just far enough to free his cock. And then he’s wrapping a hand around himself, fisting his length with slow, deliberate strokes—taunting, as you watch with parted lips. 

He’s so big and thick and pretty, your brain starts pounding like it’s bitten off more than it can handle. You hesitate for a moment, but then you remember—this is about proving you still have control. You want this. You want to prove him wrong.

So, you slide back into his lap, straddling him fully, your bare skin meeting his with a gasp that rips through both of you. His hand slides between your thighs again, not to guide—just to tease. Just to feel how ready you are.

“Scared?” he mocks in a we whisper.

You glare, reaching down to line him up with your pussy. “Shut up.”

Then you sink down—slow, agonising—and you both break at the same time.

“Fuck—” he grits, head falling back, eyes rolling. “You feel—holy shit.”

You can barely breathe. He’s thick, hot, stretching you just past the edge of pain—grounding you in something that feels too good to be allowed. It’s not fair that a guy like him gets to be this good at fucking. But here he is. Fingers digging into your hips, guiding you into a rhythm that’s filthy, desperate, and anything but slow.

You ride him like it’s a fight. Like you want to ruin him. And he meets you stroke for stroke, jaw clenched, sweat collecting at his temple as your bodies slap together—fast, ruthless. No pretense. No sweetness.

Just want.

Just need.

Just hate.

“I hate how good you feel,” you choke out.

He bites down on your shoulder. “Say it again.”

You moan, louder this time, not caring about the volume or the fact that you’re fucking your instructor at the side of the road. Not caring that it’s Jaemin. 

“I hate you,” you breathe. “I hate you, I hate you so much—”

His hand snakes up to curl around your throat. It’s not tight but barely there. A light pressure, just enough, to make your head spin.

“Then cum on my cock,” he growls. “One more time. Hate me for it.”

And you do.

You shatter around him, body convulsing and twitching as your mouth falls open in a broken sob that catches against his lips. He follows a heartbeat later with a ruined, throaty moan, driving into you one last time as he spills inside you—deep, hot, messy.

And then it’s quiet.

You stay there, slumped against his chest  for a moment. His hand drifts up your spine, strangely gentle now, thumb brushing the back of your neck. But then, a moment later, it does hit you. 

You scramble off his lap, cheeks flushed, thighs sticky, panties already ruined as his cum starts to leak out of you. You refuse to meet his eyes.

“I still hate you,” you mutter.

“Sure,” he says, casual as ever, tugging up his sweatpants with a smirk. “I’m giving you another lesson tomorrow. Same time.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re insane if you think I’m getting in a car with you again.”

“You’ll show,” he says,” Because you want to pass your test, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing,” he chuckles, brushing a finger against your cheek. “Now that I know you can follow instructions, if you listen to me—I'll make you cum again. You seemed to really enjoy yourself.”

You hate him.

[littlepeach-world]

Baby on Board

Paring: Frontman/Hwang In-Ho x Pregnant!Wife!Reader

Summary: You and In-ho welcome your beautiful baby into the world.

Warnings: Emotional Intensity, Pregnancy and Childbirth, Past Trauma, Labor and Delivery, little angst idk, fluff, soft!inho, protective!inho, dad!inho, husband!inho

Word count: 1.4k

Notes: Just a short fic while I’m working on everyone’s request. Enjoy! 

Your life has been a tapestry of warmth, compassion, and an unwavering belief in the goodness of people. As you stand at the threshold of a new chapter, about to bring a new life into the world, you reflect on the journey that has brought you and your husband to this moment. His rigid exterior and commanding presence often mask a heart full of pain and love—a heart that you know intimately.

Before In-ho became the Front Man of the Squid Game, his life was scarred by a profound personal tragedy. You never knew his late wife, but you've seen the imprints of his loss in the silent sorrow that occasionally flickers in his eyes. His unborn child, too, was a loss that cut deeply into his soul. These memories, though rarely spoken about, have shaped the man he is today—authoritative, relentless, and emotionally guarded.

Despite this, you've come to understand that his ruthless pragmatism is a shield, a way to cope with the responsibilities that weigh heavily upon him. In-ho’s meticulous nature, his need for control and precision, all stem from his desire to prevent any further chaos or pain. Yet, beneath this exterior lies a man conflicted and complex, grappling with the shadows of his past and the duties of his present.

In-ho may rule the games with an iron fist, but your presence in his life brings a warmth that melts the ice around his heart. From the moment he fell in love with you, it was as if a light had pierced through the shrouded corners of his soul—a feeling he had never experienced before. Your own personality—a blend of empathy, nurturing, and optimism—complements his in ways that only destiny could orchestrate. Where he is methodical, you are spontaneous; where he is guarded, you are emotionally open.

Your relationship with him is a delicate balance of yin and yang. Your love is the sanctuary where In-ho can shed his armor, finding solace in the tenderness you offer. Through your creative pursuits and gentle spirit, you bring joy and beauty into his otherwise dark world, creating a space where both of you can breathe freely.

When you revealed to In-ho that you were pregnant, he was initially shocked, the news surfacing deep-seated fears and emotions. But that shock quickly turned into an all-encompassing happiness, deepening the love he felt for you. The idea of bringing a new life into the world—and into his life—was a prospect that filled his heart with newfound hope.

From that moment forward, In-ho became even more overprotective. His attention to your needs and desire to be near you at all times intensified. Never wanting to be away from you, he shadowed your every move, ensuring safety and comfort surrounded you, almost as if it were his new mission. This vigilant presence revealed the depths of his transformation—a man once cloaked in detachment, now a devoted protector with love as his guiding force.

Inho did everything for you. Whether it was cooking your meals, washing your hair, or changing your clothes, he took on each task with unwavering dedication, determined that you should never have to lift a finger. He found immense pleasure in caring for you, meticulously attending to even the smallest details of your life to ensure your absolute comfort and well-being. Through his actions, Inho demonstrated the profound love and commitment that drove his every movement and decision, showcasing a depth of affection that transformed not only his life but yours as well.

The day you go into labor is a whirlwind of emotions. In-ho, usually so composed and in control, becomes your pillar of support despite his visible nerves. As the contractions grow stronger, you see the cracks in his confident façade. He hates seeing you in pain, and each twinge of discomfort you experience reflects in the worry etched on his face.

He holds your hand tightly as you make your way to the hospital, his words of comfort doing as much to soothe his own fears as they do to ease your anxiety. “You’ve got this,” he whispers, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos. “I’m here with you every step of the way.”

In the delivery room, the world narrows to just you, In-ho, and the impending arrival of your baby. The pain is intense, and as you push with all your strength, In-ho’s supportive voice fills the room.

“You can do it, my love. You're so strong,” he says, kissing your forehead.

Through gritted teeth, you sometimes snap at him, the pain overwhelming your usual patience. “You did this to me, In-ho! I hate you right now!” you yell, tears streaming down your face.

In-ho only holds you tighter, a gentle smile on his lips. “I know, sweetheart. I know. You're doing amazing, and I love you so much,” he assures, his voice unwavering as he brushes a strand of hair from your face.

Finally, with one last push, the room fills with the sound of your baby’s first cry. Relief washes over both of you. In-ho kisses you deeply, tears of pride in his eyes.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs against your lips. He then looks toward the doctor, who is offering him scissors to cut the umbilical cord.

His hands tremble slightly as he takes the scissors, but his resolve is clear. With a determined and loving expression, he cuts the cord, solidifying his role as a father. The doctor then takes the baby to perform the standard tests and clean them up.

In-ho refuses to leave the baby’s side, his eyes never straying from the tiny, precious form. He watches intently, his heart racing with every movement and sound, ensuring that everything is perfect. He holds his breath as the doctors perform their tests, only releasing it when told that everything is fine.

When the doctor hands you the baby first, In-ho’s heart swells with pride and love as he watches you hold your newborn for the first time. He’s overcome with emotion, tears stinging his eyes as he sees you cradling the tiny life you both created.

You gaze at him, a silent understanding passing between you, knowing that this moment is as monumental for him as it is for you. After a few precious moments, you gently pass the baby to him.

His breath catches in his throat as he gazes into the eyes of his newborn for the first time. A soft gasp escapes his lips as his eyes fill with tears.

"Hello, little one," he whispers, his voice filled with awe and tenderness. He brushes a gentle finger across the baby's cheek, marveling at the soft, delicate skin. "I love you more than words can say." The look on his face is one of pure adoration and vulnerability, a side of In-ho rarely seen by the outside world.

As you both sit on the hospital bed, you, still exhausted, lay your head on In-ho’s shoulder while he cradles your newborn for the first time. Tears stream down his face, unable to contain the flood of emotions.

“Thank you for letting me be a dad,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I vow to always love and protect you both, no matter what.”

Together, you gaze at the tiny, fragile life you've brought into the world, with a sense of completion and wholeness. The strong and determined man you fell in love with remains, but now he has also become a loving husband and devoted father. Inho reflects deeply on how empty and mundane his life was before you came into it, realizing with gratitude how you, have illuminated every shadowed corner of his existence.

Even with his steely resolve, he often feels unworthy of someone as extraordinary as you. He questions what you see in him and marvels at his fortune of ending up with someone so perfect. Inho silently vows to cherish and adore you like a queen for all the days of his life, promising to honor and protect you and your newborn with every fiber of his being.

Your journey together, sculpted by balance, unwavering support, and profound understanding, stands as a testament to the enduring power of love. Inho has never experienced a love as deep and transformative as the one he shares with you and your child. The connection and devotion he feels are unparalleled, a symphony he wishes to nurture forever.

In a world often enveloped in darkness, your love is the light that guides him—a beacon of hope and warmth he desperately clings to. As you both embark on this new chapter, you face the future hand-in-hand, with a bond so strong that no tragedy can sever it.

[vibelladonna]

❛ 𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You were never meant to fall—never meant to kneel before something unholy, with bloodied hands and a soul stretched thin between heaven and hell.  

But the devil saw you for what you were. He peeled back your skin, traced the rot beneath, and smiled. He whispered sins like lullabies, carved damnation into your spine, and when the time came—you didn’t run.

Now, the chains are too tight. The air is too thick. And when he pulls you close, lips brushing against yours, his voice is a promise, a prayer, a curse.  

"Our love is God, after all."

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: I was inspired by Heathers movie (maybe a little from the musical, too), @prince-silver-lining’s beautiful art (above), and now here I am, ruining it by writing this shit. My ideas always come in the oddest ways.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: sol x afab! reader, smut?? forced intimacy, mind games, worship kink, psychological horror, dark romance, manipulation, toxic relationship, yandere, religious symbolism, guilt, and desire, the morally gray protagonist, obsession, possessive love, emotional turmoil, and…  god won’t save you, but he will.

When people think of angels, they imagine something pure—beings bathed in golden light, untouched by sin, cradled in the hands of God Himself.

You used to believe you were one of them.

A soul untainted, moving through this world with purpose, with righteousness. You carried yourself like a disciple, holding fast to the belief that goodness was enough, that virtue would shield you from the rot infesting this earth.

But God’s kingdom does not extend to places like this.

This college is not a temple but a pit—a den of indulgence, cruelty, and corruption where the wicked thrive, where the privileged few sit atop thrones of deceit. Their words drip with venom, their laughter echoes like hymns of the damned, and their eyes watch you like scavengers circling something already dying.

You clutch the rosemary around your neck, something you swore would protect you. A reminder that once, long ago, you thought you could remain untouched by the filth of this place.

However angels are not made for a world like this. Because once the devil came—red-orange eyes burning, voice like a whispered prayer—you didn’t run. You didn’t fight.

Even the holiest of creatures can fall.

You once dressed for yourself, for the joy of feeling like you controlled your own image—soft, free, unburdened by the expectations of a world that had no place for your kind.

But that was before you learned the rules.

Before you learned that kindness is a weakness, and empathy, a quick road to being chewed up and spat out. Before you realized that in this world, standing out only made you a target, while blending in could keep you alive.

So, you changed.

The first thing to go was your individuality. The clothes you used to wear, those that felt like a part of you, became buried beneath layers of the uniform—the colors, the styles, the things that said “I belong here.”Your rosemary cross, once proudly displayed, now lies hidden under your clothes like a secret prayer—its power still there, but buried. 

Because the world doesn’t care about purity.

It rewards power.

You learned quickly that the game was rigged, and that if you wanted to survive, you needed to manipulate the pieces. You couldn’t be the angel anymore, not in a place like this. 

You needed to be something else.

So, you joined the shady girl group—the ones who ruled the social scene. They didn’t care about you, not really. They cared about what you could do—your journals, your perfect hand, your ability to forge anything. They gave you what they thought you wanted: new outfits, extra attention, an easy way in. 

They turned you into their project, their doll to dress up, but you didn’t mind. Because you knew something they didn’t: you were the one holding the cards.

You played the game but on your terms.

It used to bother you—the pretending, the act of slipping into a world that wasn’t yours. But you learned to let it go. You learned to embrace it, because this was how it worked. People didn’t give unless they wanted something in return. And you knew how to make them give.

And when you looked up, you saw it—God. Not the one you were taught to pray to, but one of power, one who existed in the shadows of this world. The god who didn’t care for morals, only for domination. And you realized—you were always meant to wield that power.

In a world where devils walk free, you’re not here to survive. 

You’re here to reign.

But even power has its limits. And sooner or later, the game will come for you, too. It wasn’t long before the leader of your old girl group that entitled bitch—decided you were done the second you threw up all over her precious dress at that fancy party. As if it was your fault, she made you drink a gallon of cheap vodka just to fit in. 

Monday morning rolls around, and the verdict is: You’re out of the group. 

She doesn’t even have the decency to look you in the eye when she says it. But to say you didn’t care? You’d be lying. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t sting a little, even if you never really felt like you belonged there.

But losing that power? 

That influence you had over everyone? 

The way they looked at you because they thought you were one of them? Nah. That’s not happening. You’re not going back to being just another faceless girl getting bullied by these assholes who don’t know how to shut their mouths.

Who needs a god when you’ve got someone like Sol?

Solivan Brugmansia.

The weird, quiet artist kid who’s cold as hell—he’s the kind of guy who only wears green and black, which just screams ‘I’m deep’ and ‘I don’t give a damn.’ Everyone in school knows him for one thing:

He’s the perfect target. 

The bullies at the school use him like a punching bag. You’ve seen the videos. The ones where they throw punches at him so hard his face becomes a canvas of purple and red, like a twisted work of art. It’s a damn shame, honestly. They think it breaks him, but somehow, he always gets back up. 

Every punch he throws back looks like it comes from a place of pure rage. You’ve caught yourself watching him sometimes, walking to class. Every time, that little flutter in your stomach as you see him throw a punch, standing tall like he’s untouchable despite everything they do to him.

What was it about him?

Well…

Let’s just say, after that party, you ended up with your head nestled into his flat-ass pillow as his scent filled the air—green, metal, something almost intoxicating. You can feel the weight of his presence even though he's barely moving. 

Yeah, you hooked up with him. And the whole thing was... well, weirdly comforting. You’ve never felt more alive, more real, than when he was there with you, holding you in a way that made you forget all the shit the world tried to throw your way. Not that you’d ever admit that to him, or anyone for that matter.

It didn’t feel like a transaction. It didn’t feel like some pity hookup. For the first time, you didn’t feel like you were just pretending to be something for someone else’s amusement. You felt seen and heard—even if it was just for a moment. It felt dangerous, but in a way that turned you on more than anything ever had before.

And maybe that’s exactly what you needed. 

Someone who wasn’t afraid to fight back, who didn’t need you to fit into some mold. Someone who could see the world as messed up as it is and yet still have the guts to stand tall.

Lying in Sol’s bed felt like a damn drug—every second wrapped in a haze of heat, of fire, of something you couldn’t name but needed desperately. It wasn’t just his bed. It was him—the way he was, the way his presence felt like it could pull you under, drown you in something deeper than just physical need. 

You hadn’t planned on it. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen. 

After you left said lame-ass rich party, you walked by a late open convenience store, minding your own business—going home that’s when you saw him. 

The way he stood outside, staring off into the distance with that same disaffected look he always wore like the world didn��t matter. And for some fucking reason, you couldn't help yourself. You had to pull him into your orbit. 

You weren’t entirely sure how you’d convinced him to follow you back to his place.

One moment, you were laughing too loud under neon bar lights, the tequila in your veins making the world tilt just enough to feel weightless. The next, you were stumbling into the dim warmth of his bedroom, the door clicking shut behind you like a secret being sealed. The air smelled like him—clean linen and something darker, something alive—and your pulse thundered in your ears.

“You sure about this?”

His voice was rough, frayed at the edges like he was clinging to the last thread of his self-control. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth was stupid, embarrassing—you were a goddamn virgin—but tonight, that didn’t matter. 

Tonight, you needed to feel something real, even if it burned.

So you stepped into him, your body moving with a liquid courage you didn’t recognize. The alcohol still hummed under your skin, blurring the lines between bravery and recklessness. His hands came up to push you away, but the contact was weak, his fingers trembling against your waist.

“You’ve been drinking,” he murmured, but it sounded like a plea—to himself, not to you.

You didn’t let him finish. Your mouth found him, and the second your lips touched, his resolve cracked. A sharp inhale. A low groan. His kiss was softer than you expected, almost hesitant, but his body betrayed him—his heart pounded against your chest, wild and frantic, and the heat of him pressed into your thigh, hard and wanting.

You climbed onto him, knees sinking into the mattress, and his hands finally stopped resisting. They gripped your hips like he was drowning like you were the only thing keeping him anchored.

You needed this.

And God help him, he was done fighting it.

You slid your hands down his chest, feeling the solid, warm muscle beneath your fingertips, “You want me,” you muttered against his lips, a playful, teasing smirk curling on your face. “Don’t pretend like you don’t.”

His eyes flickered shut, and for a moment, he looked like he was trying to convince himself he didn’t want this. “I…” he trailed off, his voice shaky. But then his hands moved, gripping your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt it—the way his control shattered beneath you. 

The moment you took control, it was like you were commanding every piece of him. He was trying so damn hard to resist, but when you moved, when you rode him, there was no pretending. He groaned, his hands tightening on your skin, and you couldn’t help but laugh, a low, sultry sound that sent chills down your spine.

“Say no now,” Your voice was a challenge, a smirk curling your lips as you hovered over him, your thighs bracketing his hips. His chest rose and fell beneath you, his breath already ragged.

"You’re not fooling anyone."

Sol’s eyes—burning like embers in the dim light—locked onto yours. There was something terrifyingly open in his gaze, something that made your stomach twist. 

Not fear. No hesitation.

Hunger.

But not just the kind that devoured. The kind that worshiped.

His hands slid up your sides, rough palms skimming your skin like he was memorizing you. Every touch was deliberate, reverent as if you were something sacred he was afraid to break. You rolled your hips, taking him deeper, and his breath hitched—sharp, unsteady. His fingers dug into your waist, but he didn’t move, didn’t thrust up into you.

He let you take. Let your claim.

And God, the way he felt—thick and hot inside you, stretching you in a way that bordered on pain but tipped so easily into pleasure. You moved slowly, savoring the drag of him, the way his jaw clenched as he fought to keep his composure.

"Fuck," he gritted out, his voice wrecked.

You grinned, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. "That’s It."

His restraint snapped.

One hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip as he finally, finally met your movements. But even then, it wasn’t frantic. Wasn’t rough. It was deep, every roll of his hips deliberate, like he was trying to fuse himself to you. His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was starving for it like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

And the way he looked at you—

Eyes dark, lips parted, his entire body trembling beneath you like he was coming undone. Like you were unraveling him.

You haven’t been with others before. But this?

This was the first time either of you had ever really fucked.

There was no rush, no mindless chasing of pleasure. Just the two of you, tangled in sheets and sweat and something too heavy to name. His hands never left you, tracing your spine, cupping your face, pulling you closer like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

And when he finally spilled into you, it was with a broken groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath mingling with yours. You followed him over the edge, your body clenching around him, your nails biting into his shoulders.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then your thumb brushed Sol’s cheek, his voice barely audible.

"…Good boy."

It was a sinful saying. And you knew that. 

But in that moment, you didn’t care. You could’ve stayed in his bed forever, lost in the fire of it all, and maybe—just maybe—you didn’t ever want to leave. But you knew, deep down, you couldn’t afford to get too lost. 

There were things to worry about.

Like, for one, the fact that you had a sneaking suspicion Sol had something to do with the sudden, suspicious death of your former group leader. The one you just so happened to throw up on at that goddamn party. 

Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t.

After all, when she asked you to get her something to cure her hangover, you didn’t give a damn. Couldn’t have cared less if she lived or died. You weren’t about to drop any more of your pathetic leftover cash on her. You were broke. Besides, it wasn’t like you had a reason to play nice. You were done with her, done with the group, done with their petty little games.

You complained to Sol, slouched across his bed, half-dressed, staring at the ceiling like it was the only thing keeping you sane. He didn’t care, though. He didn’t need your complaints. Instead, he offered something simple, something that felt like a lifeline to cling to when everything around you felt like it was crumbling: "You can use my kitchen," he said, voice low and calm, the sound almost soothing. "I’ll take you to drop it off."

You couldn’t help but smile a little, amused by how nonchalant he was about everything. How even now, after what happened between you two, he was still so calm. So unaffected.

And so, you went.

You used Sol’s kitchen, not giving a damn about what you were making, the motions mechanical, the noise of the pot stirring a dull soundtrack to the mess of thoughts crowding your head. 

You needed to do something. 

Anything to shake off the constant tension clawing at your insides. Your stomach churned, but it wasn’t from hunger—it was from the gnawing confusion and dread eating away at you, as if your body already knew something bad was coming.

The thought of her—the bitch—lingered in the back of your mind like a thorn you couldn’t shake. But you shoved it down. Focused instead on stirring, on the repetitive movement of the spoon, anything to drown out the thoughts swirling in your brain. The smell of the ingredients wasn’t comforting, but it was something to focus on, something that made the moment feel mundane, even if it was anything but.

You tossed things into the pot like you didn’t care what came of it—this wasn’t about cooking, after all. You’d made this concoction a thousand times before, for yourself and for the others when you went out drinking, those long nights where the world blurred into something hazy and forgettable.

It had become a ritual, a way to get through, but tonight it felt more like a mask. You were just going through the motions, trying not to think too hard about what was really hanging over you.

You thought about her again, the leader, the one who had always looked down on you, the one who thought she was better than everyone else. You didn’t care that she’d caught you throwing up on her dress at the party—she was just another problem you didn’t have the energy to solve. 

But now? Now, she was gone. 

The weight of that truth hit you harder than expected, but you pushed it away. Not yet.

You finished the drink and dropped it off with Sol, who was waiting outside, casual as ever, his posture relaxed like nothing was wrong. You handed him the drink, but as he walked over to the leader, the thought of what she might do with it made your stomach tighten. 

The entire thing felt wrong like something was off, but there wasn’t time to second-guess yourself.

And then it happened.

A few slips. A few moments, and then—boom. Dead.

Like, what the actual fuck?

The death wasn’t natural. The first thing you noticed was the color of her tongue—blue. And not just any shade of blue, but something sickly, unnatural. It looked wrong in the worst way. It twisted your insides, but there was no time to linger on it.

Because now, she was dead. And that meant you had to act. Fast.

You didn’t want to be anywhere near the mess that was about to unfold. The last thing you needed was to be connected to a rich girl’s death. Hell, the media would have your neck if they even got a whiff of your involvement. You didn’t care about her death—she was just a footnote in your life—but your survival? 

Now that was a whole different story.

Sol, ever the calm presence, suggested the only thing that made sense: write a suicide note. Quickly, and convincingly.

You didn’t hesitate. You had to write that note fast, your hands trembling with the weight of it, the words coming out in a rushed stream of desperate lies. You didn’t care what you wrote, as long as it kept your name out of it. You had to move carefully—no fingerprints, no mistakes. Everything had to be flawless.

The cops would be swarming any minute now, so you and Sol slipped out, making sure to leave no trace of your presence. You didn’t want to leave anything behind that could tie you to her. You weren’t going to be the one to pay for her mistakes.

It wasn’t about caring for the girl or feeling anything for her death. No, it was about making sure your own skin stayed clean. You didn’t have the luxury of being caught up in a mess like this. You’d been through too much already, and the last thing you wanted was for this to be the thing that pulled you under.

Survival. That’s what mattered now.

Now, you might be thinking—why the hell would you assume Sol had anything to do with it? Your bitch of a leader wound up dead, yeah, but you were the one who made the damn hangover concoction. That was your little trick, your go-to remedy for long nights and regret-filled mornings.

So, shouldn’t you be the one to blame? Not exactly.

Because you saw him, Sol.

You saw him lingering by the counter, careful not to make any noise while you went to the bathroom to change before heading out. You saw the way his fingers moved, casual—too casual—as he fiddled with the cup. And then you saw the switch, so quick it was almost imperceptible. 

The blue cleaner. A few drops, maybe more. A slip of a hand, a glance in your direction. And yet—

Did you ever bring it up? No.

Because you were already too fucking deep in this.

You and Sol, like it or not, we’re in this together. And with that bitch dead, the school needed a new god. The natural order should’ve pointed to the last two girls in the group—the ones who used to worship at her feet, waiting for their turn to take the crown. 

But the moment the leader’s body went cold, one of them was already off somewhere else, building her empire with the fame of her dead leader, shaking off the past like a snake shedding its skin. And the other? She folded. Gave up. Ran off to follow the next rising star.

That left you.

Because whether you wanted it or not, people had always compared you two. Same energy, the same pull, same effortless way of drawing attention without even trying. You used to be second best.

Well, not anymore. But this wasn’t what you wanted.

You just wanted to go to class, pass your exams, maybe get through the day without being dragged into some social bullshit. That was the goal. But instead, here you were—the most followed person in the student body. 

This wasn’t high school. This was college. 

And yet, somehow, it felt just as fucking stupid.

Every waking moment, every damn day, all you wanted was to go to class, take notes, and leave. But no—some dude, some random fucking guy, always had to try his luck, like they were programmed to shoot their shot no matter how many times you said no, no matter how many times you muttered, I have a boyfriend.

Didn’t matter.

They’d still try, still hover, still think they had a chance like you owed them something just because you existed.

And honestly? It made you sick.

Sometimes, in the back of your mind, you swore you could hear that bitch of a leader laughing at you from the afterlife. Oh, you wanted to be me so bad? Enjoy it, sweetheart.

It was all so fucking overwhelming

You hated this. You hated this dead-end college. And sometimes—just sometimes—you wished the whole place would fucking blow up. Just poof—gone. Then maybe you could run away, transfer somewhere new, start over, and live a normal life, away from all this bullshit.

Instead, here you were—outside late, making your way back from some lecture you were forced to take at night because all the earlier ones had filled up before you could even register.

And of course—of course—the universe just had to make things worse.

Because there they were.

Fucking Abel and Cain.

The pretty boys. The well-known bops—two fine ass bastards every woman on campus either wanted or knew to stay the hell away from.

And yet, here they were, standing on the sidewalk, their gazes locking onto you like wolves spotting a lone rabbit. You didn’t look at them. You didn’t acknowledge them. Just keep walking, picking up your pace, focusing on your apartment’s front door in the distance. 

You hate it. 

Hate how people think they have a right to you now. Hate that the moment your old leader took their final breath, the weight of the world shifted onto your shoulders, crowning you the new god of this campus. But of course, they called your name.

And of course, they followed.

"Yo, you deaf now?" Abel scoffed, his voice dripping with faux amusement.

"Yeah, what, you ain't getting our messages?" Cain added, tone lower, sharper.

You felt their eyes burning into you, felt the heat of their presence as they got closer, their footsteps heavy against the pavement.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t dare look back.

Just kept walking. Because if you did, you knew this night would take a turn you really didn’t have the energy to deal with.

You kept your pace steady, ignoring them like they were nothing more than background noise—like their words, their presence, their very existence didn’t fucking matter. Because to you? They didn’t.

But, of course, they didn’t like that.

“Damn, she’s really tryna act like she don’t hear us,” Abel muttered, just loud enough for you to catch.

Cain chuckled, a low, amused sound that made your stomach churn. “Maybe she’s shy.”

You weren’t shy. You just didn’t give a fuck.

But they weren’t letting this go.

Next thing you knew, Abel was right next to you, keeping pace, that cocky smirk already stretched across his face like this was some kind of game. Cain was a step behind, like they had this whole routine practiced like they knew how to trap people in conversations they didn’t want to have.

“Damn, you in a rush or somethin’?” Abel grinned, leaning in slightly like that’d make you break. “Where you headed, mama? Lemme walk you home.”

You finally spared them a glance—just enough to give him the most deadpan expression you could manage. “Nah.”

Cain whistled, all smug like he thought this was cute. “Cold as hell. I like it.”

Abel laughed, but there was something mean behind it. “C’mon, don’t be like that. We just tryna talk. You really don’t be seeing our DMs?”

“Oh, I see ‘em,” you said flatly. “I just ignore ‘em.”

That shut him up for a second.

Cain let out a little ooooh like you just roasted his boy in a rap battle. Abel, though? His smirk twitched. “That’s kinda rude,” he said, tilting his head like he was trying to figure you out.

“And?”

Cain barked out a laugh. “Damn, you got a mouth on you.”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your bag and picking up your pace again. “Yeah, and it’s saying leave me the fuck alone.”

You weren’t scared. Not really. Just annoyed.

But they didn’t fall back. If anything, that just made them more persistent.

“Y’know, most girls would kill to have us hitting them up,” Abel said, his tone dipping slightly. Less playful. More... annoyed?

"Then go hit them up instead," you shot back, eyes locked on your apartment complex in the distance. Almost there. Just a few more steps.

“But we want you,” Cain added, voice lower, smooth like oil, like he actually thought he could charm you. “You really turned us both down? That’s wild.”

“Y’all are wild for not taking the hint,” you muttered, stopping just at the front of your apartment gate.

They both stopped, too.

Abel crossed his arms, looking you over like you were some puzzle he couldn’t crack. “For real, though. You got a man or somethin’?”

“Yeah. And he’s crazy as fuck,” you said, not missing a beat.

Cain raised a brow, clearly amused. “Yeah? What, he gonna pull up on us?”

Fools.

They didn’t realize they were speaking to something untouchable. Something already claimed. So you exhaled, slow and deliberate, before tilting your head slightly, voice smooth as silk, dripping with something just shy of amusement.

"He’s already watching”

Abel and Cain followed your gaze, and for a moment—just a split second—you swore you saw something ancient flicker across their faces. A primal instinct whispering to them that they had fucked up. Because there—perched on the second-floor railing like a god overlooking his domain—stood Sol.

His presence was undeniable. Absolute.

His red-orange eyes burned through the darkness like twin embers in the void, glowing with an unnatural light that made the streetlamp look like a cheap imitation of fire. He wasn’t leaning lazily anymore. No, now he was upright, hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze locked directly on them.

Watching. Waiting. Judging.

Cain clicked his tongue, but his cocky smirk faltered just a bit, as if the weight of Sol’s stare pressed against his chest like a blade. “Tch. Guess we’ll see you around then.”

Abel lingered half a second longer like he was considering saying something else—but then Sol moved.

Not fast, not aggressively, just the slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, the lazy tilt of his head. But it was enough. Enough to send an unspoken message.

Run along, little boys.

And so they did.

You didn’t turn to watch them go. Didn’t need to. You just stepped through the gate and let it slam shut behind you, the metallic clang ringing out like the closing of a coffin.

But as you climbed the stairs, you could feel it. The way Sol’s eyes dragged over you, heat crawling up your spine—not just watching, but seeing. When you reached him, his fingers were already curling around your wrist, warm, and firm, pulling you close. His touch was casual, lazy even, but his grip? 

Almost Possessive.

His voice, low and edged with amusement, sent a shiver down your spine. "Have fun?"

You huffed, pressing a hand against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it beneath your palm. “Oh, loads.”

He smirked. But it wasn’t just a smirk—it was something deeper, something more dangerous. Like a god deciding the fate of his worshippers. Like a storm rolling in before the first crack of thunder. Then he leaned in, breath warm against your ear, voice dropping into something almost reverent.

"Want me to kill ‘em?”

You held your breath, watching Sol’s expression carefully, searching for the telltale twitch of amusement in his features, the playful glint in his eye that usually came when he joked about something questionable.

But there was none. He just looked at you, unreadable, that lazy, knowing smirk resting on his lips like he already knew the answer. Surely, he was joking. Right?

For someone who had such an appreciation for horror movies, you hated it when he joked about killing people—only for right now. Not when that memory was still lurking in the back of your mind. The memory of your hands gripping a pen, scrawling out a suicide note as quickly as possible, while Sol stood over your dead leader’s body with that smile.

That damn smile.

A shiver crept up your spine, but you shook it off, exhaling sharply before rolling your eyes, masking your unease with a playful sigh. You gave him a light punch to the shoulder, a simple motion that masked too much, that tried to communicate things you weren’t ready to say.

"Don’t joke about that, dumbass," you muttered, forcing out a laugh. "Especially not when we’re already in the hole. Deep in the fucking pit."

Sol hummed, tilting his head slightly. "You think we’re in a pit?" His fingers ghosted over your wrist, his voice smooth, too calm. "Nah. A pit means we can’t get out. We’re just…" His grip tightened slightly like he was anchoring you. "Visiting the bottom."

You scoffed, brushing past him. "That’s some pretentious artist bullshit."

"And yet, you love it," he teased, following close behind as you made your way to the bathroom.

You ignored him, flipping on the sink and splashing cold water onto your face, letting the sharp chill jolt your senses back to reality. You needed to wash off the weight of tonight—the tension, the stares, the suffocating presence of everyone watching you as if waiting for you to snap.

Sol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you through the mirror with an unreadable expression.

"You tired?" he asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

You exhaled, grabbing a towel and pressing it against your face. "I’m always tired."

He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, voice softer this time. "You don’t look like you."

You frowned, lowering the towel slightly to glance at him through the mirror. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means," Sol said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer, "that I remember you before all this. Before them."His gaze burned into you, intense in a way that made your throat tighten. This wasn’t his usual teasing arrogance, the lazy smirks and smooth words meant to make you roll your eyes. 

No, this was different. This was something else.

"You were free." His voice was low, almost nostalgic, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something almost bitter. "You dressed how you wanted. Acted how you wanted."

He gestured vaguely, eyes dragging over you, taking in the perfectly curated image you had become—the safe version of yourself. The version that blended in. The version that followed the rules.

Now, you looked… normal.

Plain. Society’s definition of acceptable.

The clothes that once made you feel like yourself—the bold choices, the personal touches, the outfits that turned heads and made statements—were gone, replaced with something neutral, something designed not to offend, not to stand out. 

The makeup you once wore to highlight what you liked about yourself had been swapped for whatever the trend was. Your hair, once styled in whatever way you felt like at the time, now fell in the safest way possible, effortless but calculated.

You had stripped yourself down to something palatable.

"This isn’t you."

Your jaw tightened. You met his gaze in the mirror, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs, making it just a little harder to breathe.

"I had to survive." Your voice was firm, clipped.

Sol was quiet.

Then he sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah. I get that."

You exhaled sharply and turned off the sink, gripping the edge of the counter, your eyes flickering downward. Your reflection stared back at you—polished, presentable, a perfect product of adaptation.

Unrecognizable.

Sol watched you for a moment, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. Then, in a voice softer than before, he murmured, "You're still pretty."

For some reason, that irritated you more than anything else.

You scoffed. "Gee, thanks."

"But it’s not about that," he continued, stepping closer until he was right behind you, his hands resting on either side of the counter, boxing you in. His voice dipped, lower now, careful, yet firm. "I liked you better when you liked yourself more."

Your breath hitched.

His words clung to you, wrapping around your ribs like vines, refusing to let go. They settled deep, sinking into that part of you you’d tried so damn hard to bury.

You swallowed hard, hating the way he saw you—really saw you—like his fire-red-orange eyes could peel back the layers of armor you had so carefully constructed and lay you bare without even trying.

"I don’t want to talk about this," you muttered, shaking him off as you grabbed your toothbrush as if the simple act of brushing your teeth could drown out the weight of everything pressing down on you.

But Sol just chuckled, low and knowing. He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin, his presence an anchor you weren’t sure if you wanted to hold onto or escape from.

"Don’t worry," he murmured, voice like embers in the dark. "I’m not going anywhere." Then, softer. More deliberate.

"Use me if you need to."

The words sent something sharp down your spine. Something dangerous. You wanted to pretend they didn’t sink in. You wanted to pretend that they didn’t make something inside you snap. But they did. Because Sol was right here. Warm. Solid. Real. And you—

You were so fucking angry.

Not just at Abel and Cain. Not just at the dead social media apps that kept your name in their mouths. Not just at the way your classmates looked at you today like they knew you—like they had any fucking clue.

You were angry at everything.

At this school. At life, you have to build for yourself just to survive. At the fact that no matter what you did, no matter how quiet you stayed, the world still found a way to put its hands on you.

And Sol? 

Sol was offering himself up like he always did, and fuck, you were selfish enough to take it.

You turned, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him toward you. His body hit yours with a force that should’ve knocked you both off balance, but Sol just let out a sharp breath, his hands already finding your waist like he’d been waiting for this.

You didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

Your lips crashed against his, open-mouthed, desperate.

Sol let you take control at first, let you kiss him like you needed to rip something out of him, let you take and take and take—but he wasn’t passive. No, he met you head-on, groaning into your mouth as he walked you back until your hips hit the bathroom counter.

"This what you need?" he muttered, voice rough as his hands dug into your sides.

You didn’t answer. Just pull him closer, press yourself against him like he was the only thing holding you together.

Because right now, he was.

You let him lift you onto the counter, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. The mirror behind you reflected the scene at you—your lips swollen, your eyes unfocused, your expression raw. You almost didn’t recognize yourself.

Maybe that was the point.

Maybe you didn’t want to.

Sol’s hands trailed up your thighs, the warmth of his touch searing through the fabric of your clothes, grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. His lips brushed your neck, sending a jolt of electricity through your body, his breath hot against your skin as he moved lower, his hands anchoring you to the counter with a firm grip that almost felt possessive.

"Tell me what you want," his voice came a low hum that seemed to vibrate through you, reaching places you didn’t know you could feel.

You squeezed your eyes shut, unwilling to face the war raging inside you.

God, you needed this—needed him to drown out everything that had been gnawing at your insides, clawing at your thoughts. But even as you pressed yourself closer, even as your hands gripped the back of his shirt like you were trying to pull him inside you, you knew it wasn’t enough.

The whispers kept creeping in, insistent and ugly.

The rumors.

Abel’s smug voice, practically oozing with triumph.

Cain’s laugh, that mocking, arrogant chuckle that you couldn’t escape, no matter how far you ran.

And the whole campus? They all thought they had the right to claim you. To dictate your life, your choices, your body. They were already filling in the blanks, deciding who you were, and who you should be.

It wasn’t long before you and Sol collapsed into your bed again, tangled in the kind of desperation that felt more like drowning than desire.

He was already between your thighs, his breath hot against your skin, murmuring words you barely processed—“Let me, please, just let me make you feel good.” And you did. 

You let him. 

Because even if it wouldn’t fix anything, even if the hollowness in your chest refused to be filled, at least his mouth on you was something real.

His lips were soft, his tongue relentless, tracing patterns you’d long memorized but still made your back arch off the mattress. Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him deeper as if you could press him straight through your skin and into the parts of you that ached. 

The pleasure was sharp, bright—too bright, like staring into the sun until your eyes burned. You wanted it to blind you.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each one shuddering out of you like a sob. Sol knew your body better than anyone, his touch so familiar it should’ve been a comfort. But instead, you felt untethered, floating somewhere outside yourself, watching as your hips rolled against his mouth on pure instinct.

Closer. You needed him closer, needed to disappear into the heat of him, the weight of him. But the more he gave, the more you realized—no amount of him would be enough. The storm inside you wasn’t something he could fuck or kiss or worship away.

“Please… more—”

The words spill from Sol’s lips in a broken whisper, his mouth still searing against your clit like he’s starving. You barely have time to process the plea before his fingers curl just so inside you—a merciless twist that sends your back arching off the bed. A gasp rips from your throat, raw and unfiltered, as your hips jerk against his face.

“Fuck—” Your moan is half-snarl, half-prayer, fingers twisting in the sheets like they’re the only thing tethering you to earth. His touch is relentless, every stroke deliberate, studied—as if he’s mapping the way you flutter around him, the way your body betrays you with every slick, tightening pulse.

“Look at you,” You moan, “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

The accusation sends heat flooding Sol’s cheeks—because you’re right. You felt yourself already close, teetering on the edge, and he’s barely started. His thumb brushes your clit in a slow, filthy circle, and you jolt, a whimper catching in your throat like a sob.

“Tell me,” he rasps, grip tightening on your thigh to spread you wider. His other hand doesn’t stop—if anything, his fingers plunge deeper, crooking to drag against that spot that makes your vision whiten. “Please. Tell me what you want, pumpkin.”

You can’t.

The words clot in your chest, stolen by every ragged breath, every electric scrape of his calloused fingers. All you can do is feel—the ache he’s stoking into an inferno, the way your hips grind shamelessly against his mouth, the sound of him—low, hungry groans vibrating against your skin as he drinks you down like something holy.

And when his teeth graze your clit—gentle, so gentle—you finally shatter, his name a shattered scream on your lips. It was violent, overwhelming, your thighs clamping around his head as you choked back something too raw to be a moan. Sol didn’t let up, licking you through it until you shoved him away, oversensitive and raw.

He looked up at you, lips glistening, eyes dark with something like concern. You turned your face away before he could see it—the tears, the fracture—it was for the silence, for the absence of everything that was suffocating you.

But even in the heat of the moment, your mind refused to let go.

You knew. You knew.

This wasn’t going to fix anything. Nothing ever did.

Because People—people with nothing better to do—had decided that their life was the perfect subject for gossip, and of course, they had to drag it across every dead social media app that nobody even bothered with anymore, unless it was for the filters. And this time?

It wasn’t just petty rumors. No, this was a different beast entirely.

You had to hear it from everyone. Every fucking hallway. Every class. 

Every goddamn second spent looking at your phone or stepping outside your apartment—it was all whispers, side-eyes, and those insufferable, smug smirks from people who thought they knew you, who thought they knew what happened.

And it all led back to two names.

Abel and Cain.

It was always them, wasn’t it? The infamous duo—the campus it-boys, the ones who somehow got away with everything, every time, with no consequences. They were untouchable, always looking so clean, so perfect in their shit-eating grin ways, while everyone else got swept up in their chaos.

And what were they saying this time?

That they had a threesome with a “special girl” they ran into.

No names. No specifics. But you didn’t need specifics. Everyone knew exactly who they were talking about. You. You.

Your actual friends—your real friends—began asking questions. Concern was written all over their faces, voices shaking with uncertainty. 

They wouldn’t leave you alone.

“Are you okay?”

“Did something happen?”

“Why are they saying this?”

You couldn’t even look them in the eye. You couldn’t answer. Instead, you sat there, frozen, staring at your phone, the screen burning your eyes. The words blurred together in a haze of pain and fury. A ringing noise drowned out everything else as your fingers clenched around the device like it was the only thing anchoring you to the present.

Fuck this.

Every inch of you felt like it was going to crack, like the anger and disgust were going to bleed out of your skin. It was a lie, a fucking straight-up lie. But it didn’t matter. No one cared about the truth. Not when they already had a story to tell.

The worst part? It wasn’t just the lies—they were believing it. The campus didn’t just buy into it; they were savoring it like it was the juiciest piece of gossip to ever grace their empty little lives. People who barely even knew your name were now looking at you like they had some kind of claim to your life.

Every time you stepped outside, it was like the world was watching, whispering about you, judging you, reducing you to some fucking scandal. And you?

You were just trapped in the middle of it all.

No matter how many times you told them it wasn’t true, how many times you tried to explain, they didn’t care. The perception was everything. Once a story like this had legs, it ran wild. It didn’t need the truth to keep moving—it only needed people to keep talking.

And that was all anyone was doing now. …Talking.

After your last class, you couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. It felt like the walls were closing in with every step, suffocating you as you walked through the crowded halls, your classmates' whispers and looks searing into your skin. Every footstep felt like it echoed too loudly in your ears, a constant reminder of the gossip, the rumors, and the lies that were now following you like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

No. No, no. You weren’t going to let this happen. 

You couldn’t. 

You wouldn’t.

You kept repeating it in your mind, the words like a mantra, trying to drown out the noise, trying to drown out the sick, twisted feeling clawing at your chest. You didn’t have time for this. Not when you still had so much left to do, so many plans that needed to be carried out. 

This? 

This wasn’t part of the plan.

You rushed back to your place, heart hammering in your chest, your mind spinning with what to do next. How to fix this. How to make it stop. 

You opened the door to your apartment and slammed it shut behind you, locking it as quickly as you could. But the feeling of being trapped didn’t go away. You paced back and forth in your small space, your mind racing, plotting your next move. You had to do something—anything—to get the control back. 

You couldn’t let them get away with this. 

Suddenly, the window beside you creaked open, and before you could even react, a figure slid through, startling the hell out of you. “Fuck!” You yelped, barely managing to keep your phone from smashing into his face as you whipped around. 

Sol. Of course, it was him. He stood there, grinning like it was any other day as if he hadn’t just scared the shit out of you. "Woah, woah, easy there," he said, holding up his hands to stop you from swinging again, his usual cocky smile plastered on his face. 

"You okay?"

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your shaking hands. "Stop climbing through my window. It's a crime, Sol. Not the time for this."

He shrugged nonchalantly, not at all bothered by the fact that he had literally just broken into your apartment. "You’re still alive, aren’t you?" he said, voice soft and smooth. "I figured you could use the company."

You took a step back, barely even registering his words as you continued to pace. You couldn’t stop moving. Not with all the chaos swirling in your head, not with the weight of the entire situation pressing down on you. 

Sol watched you, his expression softening, the cocky grin falling away for a moment. "You’re really losing it, huh?"

“Losing it?” You let out a sharp laugh, but it was humorless, edged with frustration. "No, Sol. I’m not losing it. I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now. These people—" You gestured wildly, your voice rising. "They think they know everything about me, and they’re lying. It’s all lies!"

Sol stepped closer, slowly, like he was giving you space, but you didn’t want the space. 

You needed to move. You needed to think. 

You couldn’t stand still. 

"Look, I get it," he said quietly, his voice steady as he reached out and placed a hand on your arm. "I know it sucks. But you can’t keep running from it. You gotta deal with it, or it’s just gonna keep eating at you."

You jerked away from his touch, irritation flaring. "I don’t need you telling me what to do, Sol. I know how to deal with my own shit."

His gaze stayed on you, unwavering, like he wasn’t going to back down. "Then what? What’s the plan? Are you gonna sit in here and hope it all goes away? Or you gonna take control back?"

You stopped walking, turning sharply to face him, the heat rising in your chest. "I’m not just gonna sit here and let them tear me apart," you snapped. "I’m gonna make it stop. I don’t care what it takes."

Sol raised an eyebrow, stepping forward again, his voice barely above a whisper. "Then let me help."

You paused. Your mind screamed at you to push him away, to tell him to get the hell out, but somewhere in that moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were angry and frustrated, but deep down, you knew this was something you couldn’t do alone.

"I don’t need your help," you muttered, but even as you said the words, you felt the cracks in your resolve begin to show. "I’ll handle it. I’ll fix it."

Sol tilted his head, giving you a look that said he didn’t believe you for a second. "Yeah, sure. You’re really great at handling things on your own."

You shot him a glare, but deep down, he was right. 

You had been trying to handle it all by yourself, trying to keep everything together, but now it felt like it was slipping through your fingers, like no matter how much you fought, it wasn’t enough.

"I don’t know what to do, Sol." The words left you before you could stop them, the exhaustion in your voice more apparent than you wanted it to be.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, letting the silence fill the space between you. Then, he took a step closer, his eyes softening, his usual arrogance gone. "I know you don’t. But you don’t have to figure it out by yourself."

You wanted to argue. You wanted to tell him to leave. But something in his voice—something in the way he was looking at you—stopped you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a small glimmer of something that wasn’t rage or frustration. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just the fact that someone, anyone, was standing there with you, not turning their back.

“All right,” you muttered, voice low, still shaky, but more resolute than before. "Help me. But we do this on my terms."

You sat there, phone pressed against your ear, trying to ignore the fact that your heart was hammering in your chest. Sol sat beside you, arms crossed, watching you with a look that was equal parts concern and curiosity. 

You could feel his presence, like a weight behind you, but right now, you needed to focus. 

You had to do something—anything—to reclaim control of the narrative. So, you borrowed his phone. You didn’t want to make this call, but you had already told yourself it was too late to back out.

The number had come from one of the girls who’d been all too eager to share Abel’s contact when they found out what was being said about you. It was all too easy—far too easy—and that made it all the more unsettling.

You took a breath, your fingers slightly trembling as you dialed the number.

Ring… ring… ring…

The phone in your hand felt heavier with each second.

"Hello?" Abel’s voice broke through the static, and you straightened, your heart jumping in your throat as if the sound of his voice was a physical blow.

"Hi, Abel," you said, your voice soft but steady. You weren’t sure if it was the shock or the fact that you were doing this that made your voice sound even more controlled than you felt. "This is me. You know, the girl you and Cain were talking about."

You could practically hear his smirk through the phone as he laughed, the arrogant bastard. "Oh, so it’s you. What’s up?"

You paused, trying to gather your thoughts, knowing this was a game you were playing, but you didn’t quite know the rules. "I, uh, heard about what you said on those social media apps," you started, swallowing the lump in your throat. "

The... rumors. The ones about me. It’s not true, by the way, but, uh..." You faltered, but only for a moment. "I guess I’m kind of into it. It’s... kind of a fantasy of mine. Two guys, you know?"

The words felt like they were burning on the tip of your tongue, but you pushed them out anyway, watching Sol as he stood there, tense, his lips pressed into a thin line. You could feel him tense as you spoke, his arms crossing tighter, his eyes narrowing.

“Wait, so you’re saying you’re into it?” Abel’s voice came through, mocking. "Guess I didn’t think you’d be this easy." His words made you sick, but you bit your tongue, holding it together. 

"Yeah, I’m into it," you said again, your voice quieter now, but the lie was out there. "You and Cain. So, is that something you want to make happen? Or was it just talk?"

Sol shifted behind you, stepping closer, but his arms didn’t reach for you. He didn’t touch you, not yet. You could feel the tension, the strain in his muscles, but you had already committed to this. His hands were at his sides, fingers flexing as if wanting to grab you but also knowing he couldn’t interfere.

On the phone, Abel’s laugh was low and smug. "I like the way you think. I knew you were different from the rest of those girls." He continues, “So, when’s this gonna happen?" Abel asked, clearly already thinking about his next move.

You took another breath, steadying yourself. "In the woods behind campus," you said, making sure your voice was clear. "Dawn. Don’t forget Cain."

There was a pause on the line. It lasted too long, long enough for you to wonder if you’d lost him, but then Abel’s voice returned, smooth as ever. "All right. Dawn. I’ll be there."

You hung up the phone before he could say anything else before you heard his usual mocking laughter. The second the line went dead, you threw Sol’s phone onto the bed, not even looking at him as you sat there, hands shaking slightly.

He moves forward, his voice low. "What the hell was that?"

You ignored him, crossing your legs crossed, your head spinning. Your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, none of them making any sense. You needed to think, to figure out what the hell you were doing, but the pressure was suffocating. You couldn't back out now, not with everything on the line, but you also couldn’t go through with it. 

It was a mess, a disaster, and the worst part was, you had no idea how to clean it up.

Sol sat there, watching you, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the tension in the room. He was waiting for you to say something, anything, but all you could do was stare at your hands, clenched in your lap. The phone call was still fresh in your mind, Abel’s smug voice echoing in your ears. 

You couldn’t believe you had just made that call. You’d thrown yourself into a situation you didn’t fully understand, and now it was too late to undo it.

"Hold on a sec," you muttered, your voice shaky as you crossed your legs tighter, hoping that physical discomfort might distract you from the chaos in your mind.

Sol, sensing the urgency, nodded but couldn’t help himself from speaking up. "Are you done yet?"

You bit your lip, frustration bubbling up inside you. "No. Shut up. Hold on."

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. You could hear his breathing, steady but loud in the silence that followed, like he was trying to figure you out. You didn't want him to figure you out. Not now. Not with everything crashing down around you.

"You know," Sol started again, voice careful, almost hesitant. 

"I have an idea."

You immediately shot him a look. "I said, shut up," you snapped, trying to focus, trying to ignore the growing panic in your chest. "Just... hold on, okay?"

He was quiet for a second, probably biting back whatever retort he had, but then his voice came again a little sharper this time. "I don’t like it when you tell me to shut up, you know."

You didn’t want to hear it. Not now. 

Not when your entire world felt like it was crumbling in on you. "Well, I don’t give a fuck right now, Sol," you growled. "Okay? Just shut the hell up and let me think."

Sol’s eyes softened then, but there was still a hardness in them. He wasn’t buying it anymore. "Fine," he said, stepping back, his arms crossed tightly across his chest. "But I’m here if you need me."

You heard the unspoken question in his voice—what the hell is going on with you?

But you didn’t have an answer. 

You didn’t even know what was happening anymore.

The tears came then, slowly at first, one slipping down your cheek, then another, until they were falling freely, soaking the sleeves of your hoodie. You buried your face in your hands, your body trembling. You couldn’t stop. 

You couldn’t think. You were just... overwhelmed. 

Overwhelmed by everything—by the lies, by the rumors, by your own stupid decisions.

This was all your fault. You'd fucked up. 

You’d gotten so lost in the need to take control that you didn’t stop to think about the consequences. And now you were stuck in a nightmare that you couldn’t wake up from.

Sol didn’t say anything for a while. He just stood there, watching you with a mixture of frustration and concern. He wasn’t the type to offer comforting words, but you could feel his presence, steady and unwavering behind you.

But you couldn’t even look at him.

 You were too ashamed. Too angry at yourself.

"You really fucked yourself over, didn’t you?" Sol said quietly after a while, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself. "All this for what? To get back at them? To prove something?"

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. 

The weight of everything was crushing you. Your mind felt like it was constantly spiraling, a mess of self-loathing and regret that you couldn't escape, no matter how hard you tried. The guilt gnawed at you, relentless and suffocating, leaving you with nothing but frustration and confusion.

"I told you not to do this," Sol's voice broke through your thoughts, softer now but still thick with frustration. "I knew this was a bad idea, but you—" He paused as if deciding not to push you further. You could almost hear him biting back his words, but it was too late. 

You spun around to face him, the anger and tension finally breaking free. "Just fuck off, okay?!" you snapped, the words sharp and laced with all the bottled-up emotion you hadn't let out yet. 

"You don't listen to me. Maybe quiet the box dye, it’s fucking your brain up." You couldn’t hold back anymore. “You don’t get it, okay? You don’t get what it’s like to feel like you have no control. Like everyone is just… talking about you, deciding who you are and what you’ve done. I didn’t want this, Sol. I didn’t want to get caught up in this shit, but here I am!"

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Sol just stood there, staring at you, his expression unreadable. But there was something in his red-orange eyes—something that made you hesitate, made your anger fizzle out for a split second. It was like a flicker of something deep, something that made you pause, unsure of what to do with it.

“Oh shit…” you mumbled, the weight of the words you’d just thrown at him hitting you harder than you expected.

Sol let out a breath, his tone quieter now. "Look, I’m sorry for not respecting your boundaries," he said, his voice soft, calm, but carrying that underlying sincerity you never expected from him. "And I promise it won’t happen again. You’re not alone in this." He stepped forward slightly, his eyes steady on yours. 

"I’m here, whether you want me to be or not."

You didn’t know how to respond. His words were unexpected, but there was something so honest in them, something that made your stomach twist. You didn’t even know if you could trust yourself to speak. His actions, his words, they didn’t make sense to you right now. You didn’t even understand what he was doing or what he wanted, but somehow, you knew he meant it.

“What…?” you muttered, still not sure if you were hearing him right. You frowned as Sol gave you a half-pitying look like he knew something you didn’t. "I was totally in the wrong, pushing you like that…” He said it with an almost apologetic tone, but before you could reply, he suddenly moved forward and hugged you.

You froze, caught off guard by the sudden closeness, his face pressing into your chest. His arms wrapped around you in a way that felt far too familiar, far too intimate, and for a moment, everything hit you like a wave.

His words, his actions—none of it made sense. Sure, he always let you push him around, always let you fuck him whenever you needed to blow off steam. 

But this? This was different. 

You’d never seen him act like this, not in the way that felt… obsessive. So why, then, did it all feel so wrong and yet, so right at the same time?

His voice came muffled from your chest. “You had every right to say that to me…” His words were softer now, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected from him.

You shifted awkwardly, still thrown off by the way he was holding you. "Well…" you mumbled, still trying to process everything, your words coming out uneven. "As long as you’re sorry, you asshole."

“I know I’m an asshole,” Sol replied with a sigh, a little smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was something different there, something that made the space between you feel... softer, in a way.

For a moment, you both just sat there, the silence settling in, only the sound of your shaky breaths filling the room. Sol held you, letting you calm down, and slowly, you felt your body relax into him, even if you were still trying to make sense of everything. 

His warmth was a strange comfort, and as he kept you in his arms, you couldn’t ignore the sense of safety that washed over you despite how lost and confused you still felt inside.

You pulled away just enough to wipe the tears from your face, your hands trembling slightly as you did. You let out a shaky breath and pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. 

"I... I fucked up, Sol," you muttered, the words bitter on your tongue. It felt like you were admitting to something too big for you to truly grasp. "I thought I could control it, but now I’m just... stuck. And I don’t know how to fix it."

Sol didn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes studying you, not offering any immediate solution, but his presence felt reassuring. He was there, steady, not pushing, not trying to fix it for you, just letting you be. His words finally came, quiet and unassuming. 

"I’ll help you figure it out," he said softly, and for once, it didn’t feel like a hollow promise. It felt like something he meant.

You didn’t push him away. For once, you didn’t feel the need to. Maybe it was because, deep down, you knew there was no easy way out of this anymore. Again, you were in too deep. The mess you’d created wasn’t something that could be cleaned up overnight. But maybe, just maybe, with him there, it wouldn’t be so bad. 

But still, a part of you knew—there was no going back. Not now. Not after everything that had already been set in motion. The weight of it pressed into your chest like a vice, but all you could do was watch as Sol, ever reckless, ever smug, sat there with a gun in his lap like it was just another piece of the game you were playing.

You stared at him, then at the gun, then back at him.

You were deadass over it.

"Sol." Your voice came out flat, caught somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion. "You can’t be serious."

That smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened, that usual glint of mischief in his eyes sharpening into something unreadable. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers ghosting over the grip of the gun.

"Dead serious."

A sigh pushed past your lips, heavy with frustration. You dragged a hand through your hair, nails digging into your scalp for a brief moment, like maybe if you pressed hard enough, you could force your brain to make sense of this.

"Our Bonnie and Clyde days are over," you muttered, the words coming out bitter like they left a bad taste in your mouth. "We already took care of the bitch-ass leader…" The unspoken part of that sentence hung in the air between you.

Because you know it was him that caused that.

Sol didn’t even try to defend himself. He just shrugged, casual as ever, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t confirmed, but he wasn’t denying it either. He never did. 

That was the thing about Sol—he always left just enough room for doubt. Just enough space for you to wonder whether you were paranoid or if he was just that good at covering his tracks.

You exhaled sharply, jaw tightening, and reached forward, taking the gun from him with careful hands. You weren’t afraid of it—not really—but something about the way it felt in your grasp made your stomach turn. Cold metal, heavier than you expected.

You moved to stand from your bed, trying to piece together just how insane this whole thing had become, but before you could even get your feet off the mattress, Sol’s fingers wrapped around your wrist. 

His grip was firm but not forceful—just enough to make you stop.

"Wait a sec," Sol said, his voice shifting into something unreadable, something that made you pause. His fingers tapped idly against the gunmetal, his eyes flicking toward you with a glint of amusement. "Do you know German?"

You blinked, thrown off. "What?"

His grin widened like he was enjoying some inside joke only he understood. "Right, right," he mused, almost like he was talking more to himself than to you. "This uni has all the majors except computer science and engineering. And they force you to take a language to ‘keep the culture alive.’ But you—" He pointed lazily at you. "You tested out of your requirements, didn’t you?"

Your confusion deepened, a chill creeping up your spine. "Yes—?" 

How the fuck does he even know that?

Sol reached into his bag again, rummaging for a second before pulling out a handful of small, polished bullets. He let them clatter onto the bedspread between you both, the dim light catching on the brass casings.

"Echt Luger rounds," he said, the German words rolling off his tongue with casual precision. His fingers traced one idly, spinning it between his thumb and forefinger.

You narrowed your eyes. "WWII-era. Scored them as a decorative piece—because you know—”

"You’re a dirtbag. Emo and all." You cut him off, deadpan.

Sol looked up, caught off guard for a fraction of a second. "Really?"

You just nodded. "Yes."

He rolled his eyes but let it slide, too preoccupied with whatever he was scheming. "Anyway…" He lifted one of the bullets again, twirling it lightly. "They’re basically like tranquilizers. Just enough force to break the skin, draw some blood, but no real damage. No organ penetration, no fatal wounds—just enough to make it look like a kill shot."

Your brows furrowed as you studied the rounds, turning one over between your fingers. It was unsettling how something so small could carry so much weight in the right hands.

"So…" you started, tilting your head slightly, arms crossing. "It looks like someone’s been shot and killed, but really, they’re just unconscious and bleeding?"

Sol nodded, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Exactly. When we shoot Abel and Cain, it'll look like they shot each other. By the time they wake up? They’ll be the laughingstock of the whole damn campus. Possibly even kicked out of school. Not to mention—" he leaned in slightly, smirking, "—no one’s gonna fuck with you after this."

He wasn’t wrong. It was an airtight setup. Humiliation, expulsion, and a clear message to the entire school—don’t cross you two. But there was still a piece missing.

"The note’s the punchline. How’d that turn out?" Sol asked, nodding toward your bag.

You didn’t answer right away, instead reaching for your bookbag and yanking it onto the bed. From inside, you pulled out one of Abel’s old papers, along with a separate sheet covered in your scrawled handwriting.

"First, tell me the similarity isn’t incredible," you said, placing them side by side.

Sol leaned in, scanning the papers with a slow grin creeping across his face. "Shit." He exhaled, shaking his head. "It’s almost perfect. Just make sure to rewrite it clean—don’t leave any fingerprints on the final note."

You nodded, already mentally noting the steps. "Okay…"

Sol’s gaze flicked to you, suddenly skeptical. "Also, how the hell did you even get his paper?"

You met his stare, deadpan. "None of your business."

He chuckled under his breath but didn’t push. Instead, he gestured toward the note, waiting for you to explain.

"Suicide notes have to be believable," you began, fingers drumming against the paper. "So I made it all dramatic—Abel and Cain, forced to live a lie, unable to reveal their forbidden love because they’re expected to be the ultimate straight heartthrobs." You read a few lines aloud in an overly serious tone before side-eyeing Sol.

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "That’s fucking ridiculous."

"That’s the point," you shot back. "The note is just enough to make people speculate, but not enough for anyone to outright disprove it."

Sol leaned back against the bedpost, nodding in approval. "Dumb it down a bit, make it digestible for the idiots, and we’re golden."

You agreed, already reaching for a fresh sheet of paper.

"Oh," he added, reaching into his bag once more. "Almost forgot—brought some props to sell the scene."

You raised an eyebrow as he pulled out a handful of small, folded love notes, a cheap-looking heart-shaped locket, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes.

“The evidence,” he smirked. “Gotta hammer it in."

You stared at him, then at the items, a slow exhale pushing past your lips. "You’re fucking insane."

His smirk only widened, dark amusement glinting in his eyes. "And you love it."

Do you?

Yeah, Sol is a bit weird sometimes—lowkey emo scary tall dude—but still, he cares about you. Maybe in a fucked-up, possessive way, but caring nonetheless. The kind of care that made your chest tighten, made you wonder if you should be wary of it or melt into it.

You sighed, the tension between you thick and electric, before shifting onto your knees. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as his hands instinctively settled at your hips, gripping you like he had no intention of letting go. 

His gaze burned into yours, intense and unreadable, but beneath the chaos of his mind, there was something raw there—something unspoken.

Without a word, he took your hand in his, flipping it over and pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your wrist. His lips were warm against your skin, his breath featherlight, but the way his grip tightened on you sent a shiver crawling down your spine.

Then he moved.

Before you could fully process it, Sol had you pinned beneath him, his body pressing you into the mattress as his mouth crashed onto yours. The kiss was deep, consuming—desperate. His fingers dug into your hips as he kissed you like he needed it, like he was starving for you.

And god, he was.

Every time he touched you, it was like he was trying to memorize the feeling, like he was terrified you’d slip away.

His lips left yours only to trail lower, dragging along your jaw before settling at your neck. He inhaled, and fuck—rosemary. You always smelled like fresh rosemary. He didn’t know why it drove him insane, but it did. His teeth grazed your skin, and then—bite.

A sharp gasp slipped from your lips, and god, he fucking loved that sound. That lovely, breathy noise that only he could pull from you. His tongue flicked over the fresh mark before he bit again, harder this time, feeling you squirm beneath him.

Fuck.

Every little sound you made, every breathy exhale, every shiver that ran through you because of him—it was all his doing.

And he was going to make damn sure you never forgot that.

The night blurred into something feverish, something tangled in sheets and desperate hands. Sol made sure to fuck your brains out, so deep, so rough, so unbearably good that your nails raked down his back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake. He didn’t care—if anything, he welcomed the sting, craved the proof of it, and reveled in the way your body clung to his like it was made to take him.

Your moans, the way you whimpered his name, the way you fucking trembled under him—it was enough to send him over the edge, enough to make him lose himself in you entirely.

And when it was over, when your body finally went limp beneath him, exhausted and spent, Sol didn’t move. He stayed pressed against you, chest rising and falling in sync with yours, fingers still gripping your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Not yet.

Not ever.

But sleep? Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

Sol lay awake long after you’d knocked out, your breaths slow and even, face buried in the pillows. He couldn’t help it—he just watched you. So soundly, so peacefully… so pretty. All the words really.

The bruises you’d left on him—teeth marks at his collarbone, nail marks at his ribs—they ached, but he didn’t mind. So what if it looked like you were just using him for his body? If that’s what you wanted, that’s what he’d give. He didn’t care. 

Not when he got to have you like this, not when you were his.

With a quiet sigh, Sol finally sat up, pushing off the sheets and heading to your bathroom. The dim light flickered on, casting sharp angles over his tired face as he leaned against the sink, exhaling slowly. His red-orange eyes traced the marks you left on him in the mirror, fingers brushing over the fresh scratches down his back, his sides. 

Red. Deep. Yours.

Then, his gaze dropped to his hand.

The rosemary necklace—your necklace—dangling from his fingers.

For a moment, he just stared at it, rolling the small pendant between his fingertips. His grip tightened, then loosened. Then, with slow deliberation, he brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against the cool metal. His eyes fluttered shut.

You’d need it.

He’d need it.

Because you, this, everything—it was in God’s hands now.

And God help anyone who tried to take you away from him.

It wasn’t long before dawn came in. The night air was thick, clinging to your skin like a second layer, the scent of damp earth and pine filling your lungs. You stood in the woods, tired but ready, eyes sharp despite the weight of everything pressing down on you. 

Your fingers flexed against the cool metal of the gun in your hands before you tucked it behind your back, pressing it firmly against your spine.

Are you ready for this?

A voice snapped you from your thoughts. "Hey, babe. You really here?"

You turned slowly, masking every bit of tension behind something effortless—something playful. 

Abel and Cain. Right on time. 

"Hey," you greeted, lips curling into a teasing smirk. "Glad you could make it."

They grinned, stepping closer, oblivious to the tension humming beneath your skin. The three of you stood there for a moment, suspended in the night, the setup almost awkward in its anticipation. 

Then Cain huffed, running a hand through his hair. "So… what now? Should I whip it out?"

You bit back a laugh, playing along with ease. "Yeah, go ahead. Right here. Let’s see what you’re working with."

Cain smirked, his posture relaxed, a hint of cockiness lacing his stance. Abel, beside him, shook his head, lips tugging into something between amusement and exasperation. 

Men. Always so easy.

"So, what now?" Abel drawled, brow arching as he sized you up. "You want us to just—take our clothes off? Right in front of you?"

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, letting the silence stretch just long enough for anticipation to settle in. 

Then, with slow deliberation, you nodded. "Mhm. Every last piece."

They hesitated, just for a beat, before exchanging glances. But it wasn’t hesitation out of uncertainty—it was intrigue. A silent, unspoken challenge.

How far would you go?

Cain chuckled first, his fingers already moving to his belt, metal clinking softly as he loosened it. "All right," he muttered, clearly unbothered, the smugness never leaving his voice. "You’re the boss."

Abel followed suit, reaching for the hem of his hoodie before tugging it over his head in one swift motion. The dim light caught on the sharp lines of his muscles, his toned frame flexing slightly in the cool air. 

Jesus fucking Christ. You hadn’t expected them to be this built. At least they had the decency to keep their boxers on.You smirked, tilting your head as if admiring your work. Too easy.

"Abel, stand to the right, in front of me. Cain, to the left." They obeyed without question, their movements fluid, eager to see where this was going. The way they adjusted their stances, the way their eyes never left yours—it was almost laughable how predictable they were.

Abel smirked as he looked you over, a knowing glint in his gaze. "And what about you?" he asked, voice dipping into something lower, something teasing. "You gonna strip for us too? Or just watching?"

Your lips curled into a slow grin, eyes gleaming as you stepped closer, letting your presence pull them in further. 

Closer. Just a little more.

"Oh, I’m definitely getting undressed," you murmured, watching how their eyes trailed you. "But I want you two to do it for me." You let the words linger, letting them feel the weight of it before adding, voice smooth as silk—

"Rip my clothes right off."

Their expressions flickered—excitement, amusement, interest twisting into something sharper. Their grins widened, their bodies tensed in anticipation. They barely spared each other a glance before shifting forward, ready to take the bait.

Right where you wanted them.

And just like that—the pieces fell into place.

The woods swallowed every sound except the rustling of leaves under your feet and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. You could hear the faint chirping of crickets, and the occasional distant hoot of an owl, but in this clearing, nothing else moved—except for the three of you.

Abel and Cain stood before you, their smirks widening, the hunger in their eyes unmistakable. 

Like lions ready to pounce.

You lifted your hands slightly, fingers curling, drawing them in. "All right, boys," you murmured, voice dropping into something sultry, teasing. "On three."

They nodded, anticipation thrumming between them.

"One."

Their muscles tensed, Abel rolling his shoulders, Cain shifting his weight.

"Two."

A flicker of something in their eyes—excitement, impatience. 

They were ready.

"Three."

The word barely left your lips before the night erupted.

CRACK.

Two gunshots shattered the fragile quiet, ringing through the trees like the voice of God itself. The impact was immediate. Abel’s smirk melted into pure shock as his body jerked, violently convulsing as the bullet struck home—right in the neck, just a breath away from his heart. 

A sick, wet gurgle bubbled up from his throat, eyes wide and uncomprehending as his knees buckled beneath him.

Then—dead weight. The forest floor held him now.

Cain hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before instincts overrode whatever stupidity had kept him standing. “Shit!” he muttered, his breath catching before his feet moved.

He ran.

And you? You laughed.

A sharp, breathless burst of amusement tore through you, so abrupt and visceral that you had to clamp a hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sheer delight curling through your ribs. God, that was good.

Abel—pass out.

Cain—running like a scared little bitch he was.

You doubled over slightly, shoulders shaking. "Oh my god—" you wheezed between giggles, eyes flicking from Cain’s retreating figure back to Abel’s crumpled body.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Sol, who appeared from behind the tree, however, was not entertained. His sigh cut through the night like a blade, dark eyes narrowing in unmistakable irritation. "Did you miss him completely or something?" His voice carried over to you, exasperation curling around every syllable.

You tilted your head at him, still grinning beneath your fingers, breathless from laughter. "Yeah, but—" Another laugh bubbled up as you pointed at the direction Cain ran in. "Don’t worry, it was worth it just to see the look—"

"Don't move, pumpkin," Sol snapped, already turning away, his patience thin. "I’ll get him back."

He didn’t wait for your reply. His long, steady strides carried him into the trees, his dark figure melting into the shadows of the forest as if he belonged there. The gun in his hand—so much bigger than yours—glinted under the pale light filtering through the canopy, black and menacing.

With a sharp click, he cocked it.

And then—gone. Just like that.

The woods swallowed him whole, leaving you alone in the quiet aftermath, your laughter still lingering like a ghost in the cold air.

The silence wrapped around you. The wind slithered through the trees, rustling the leaves with ghostly fingers, whispering secrets you couldn’t quite catch. Somewhere in the distance, an morning dove called out—a slow, drawn-out sound that sent an eerie shiver down your spine.  

You exhaled, long and steady, but the cold still settled deep into your bones. The adrenaline that had once thrummed in your veins, hot and electric, was fading now—leaving behind something heavier. Something quieter.  

Your arms folded around yourself, a subconscious attempt at warmth.  

And then—your gaze dropped.  

Abel.

He lay sprawled on the forest floor, motionless, starkly contrasting to the wild energy that had filled the space just moments ago. His body was unnaturally still, limbs twisted where they had fallen, his mouth slightly parted as if caught mid-breath. The pool of blood beneath him was thick, seeping into the earth, dark and viscous under the slivers of moonlight breaking through the canopy.  

It looked… too dark.  

Your fingers twitched.  

His chest. Was it rising?

Your breath caught in your throat. You swore—just for a second—there had been a flicker of movement. A barely-there shift in his ribs, a whisper of breath that shouldn’t exist.  

No. That wasn’t possible.  

Sol didn’t lie to you. Right?

Your fingers curled, nails pressing into your palms. Sol knew what he was doing. He never missed. And yet…  

A sudden gust of wind swept through the trees, rustling Abel’s blood-matted hair. You flinched.  

The forest was alive with motion—branches snapping, leaves rustling, heavy footfalls pounding against the earth. The adrenaline that had begun to fade roared back to life as you listened, heart thrumming in your ears.

Oh… no.

You heard Sol from afar, “Fuckin’—hold still, asshole!” His voice rang out through the trees, frustration sharp like a knife’s edge. Cain was running like his life depended on it—because it did. His breath came ragged, his legs burning as he wove through the undergrowth, trying to lose Sol in the tangle of trees. 

But Sol was faster, relentless, his boots striking the dirt with the precision of a hunter closing in on his prey.

They circled back—Cain, desperate, Sol, determined.

And then—you.

Kneeling beside Abel’s body, frozen, watching. Cain burst into view first, panic flashing across his face as his gaze locked onto you. He skidded slightly, trying to correct his path, but the split-second hesitation cost him.

CRACK.

A gunshot ripped through the air once more. Sol had fired his gun, but the bullet barely grazed Cain’s shoulder. A clean shot was impossible—he was still moving too fast.

"Shoot!" Sol’s voice cut through the chaos, raw, commanding. His eyes snapped to yours, burning with urgency. “Fucking shoot!”

Your breath stuttered, but your fingers didn’t.

BANG.

Your gun kicked back, the force jolting up your arm, but your aim was true. The silver bullet struck Cain square in the chest. He let out a strangled sound—something between a gasp and a whimper—before his body collapsed to the ground with a dull, lifeless thud.

Everything went still. Your hands were trembling.

What have you done…?

Sol exhaled a sharp, satisfied breath. “Thank fucking god.” He strode over, as composed as ever, as if this were just another night.

You barely registered his words, your eyes locked onto Cain’s unmoving form. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading, just like Abel’s.

Sol crouched beside the body, reaching for his gun. He didn’t hesitate. With practiced ease, he placed it in Cain’s limp hand, curling his fingers around the grip. 

Then he turned to you, holding out his palm expectantly.

You stared at him.

His eyes met yours, unwavering. "Your gun, pumpkin."

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the silver weapon still warm in your grasp.

Sol’s voice softened—just slightly. 

A reminder. A reassurance. A warning.

"They shot each other, remember?"

The cold air bit at your skin, every inhale sharp, laced with the scent of damp earth and blood. Your pulse thundered a wild rhythm that refused to settle. 

The weight of what you had just done clung to you like a second skin—Cain’s body hitting the ground, the way Abel’s hand now gripped the gun Sol had placed there, the sickening realization of what you had done.

But there was no time to wait. Silly silly…

Then—sirens. Distant but growing louder. 

Your head snapped up, breath hitching. Red and blue lights flashing quick beyond the tree line, flashes of color bleeding through the dim lighting. A voice rang out, sharp and authoritative. "We got something!" Panic shot through you like ice in your veins. 

Sol moved before you could. With one smooth motion, he grabbed you—arms locked firm around your waist, hoisting you up before you could protest. "Shit—hold on, pumpkin." 

And then he ran.

Sol moved with purpose, every footstep controlled, every breath steady. It should have been impossible—how quickly he reacted, how effortlessly he carried you through the trees. He knew these woods. The paths, the turns, the dips in the earth. As if he’d studied them, traced every possible escape route long before this night.

Was it always supposed to be like this?

The voices behind you faded into the distance, but they were still there—too close. The snap of twigs, the rustling of disturbed underbrush.

They were searching for you two.

Sol didn’t slow down nor didn’t hesitate. Even as the trees thinned and the open road came into view, he kept moving, his grip unwavering, his body a shield between you and whatever threat lurked behind.

And then—you saw it.

The car you guys took, just parked just off the side of the road. Sol reached it in seconds, yanking the door open with one hand, and setting you down with the other. His movements were fluid, and practiced.

Again, like he’d done this before.

"Get in." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something unreadable.

You hesitated, only for a second. Your hands trembled as you slid into the passenger seat, fingers gripping the edge of your clothes. The adrenaline was wearing off now, the weight of what had just happened settling in.

Sol slammed the door shut behind him, “Make out with me.” he somewhat ordered.

Your head snapped toward him, breath still uneven. “What?”

Sol had already pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere into the backseat. For the first time since the gunshot rang out, you looked at him—really looked at him. Like you don’t mean his well built body that you ever so tempted to kiss.

His jaw was tight, his brows furrowed in focus. But beneath that… there was something else. Something cold.

No fear.

No guilt.

Something far more dangerous. Satisfaction.

And that terrified you.

“Make out with me,” he repeated, reaching for you, hands already settling against your thighs. His grip was firm—assured.

Your pulse stuttered, confusion mixing with the lingering adrenaline in your veins. “Sol, this isn’t—”

“They’re coming,” he murmured, voice steady but low. “And if they see two kids sucking face instead of suspects covered in gunpowder, they won’t think twice about letting us go.”

The realization struck you like ice water.

Your stomach twisted, but you nodded.

Before you could overthink it, his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was deep, consuming. His body pressed against yours, hands sliding up your waist, heat radiating between you in the confined space. His breath was warm, lips urgent against yours, but even as he kissed you—whispering how much he loved you between every stolen gasp—something felt… off.

Like you weren’t being kissed. Like you were being swallowed.

Like this was never about love—only survival.

You let it happen anyway.

You didn’t resist when he shifted, pulling you closer, his hoodie long forgotten as your fingers tangled in his hair. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the way his touch demanded you be his—but you felt like you were losing yourself.

Then—a knock on the window.

Your entire body went rigid.

Sol moved before you could react, his arms pulling his hoodie over you, shielding you from view before his head turned, eyes flicking toward the window. The cop stood there, face already turning red as he coughed into his fist, looking anywhere but at the two of you. Sol took his time rolling the window down, his expression unreadable. “Yes?”

The officer cleared his throat, still avoiding eye contact. “Uh—gunshots were reported in the area. Just need you guys to clear out, all right?”

Sol barely blinked. “Yeah. Sure.”

The officer nodded stiffly, clearly eager to leave, but just as he turned away, his radio crackled to life. “Status update. What’s going on down there?”

“Nothing,” the cop responded quickly, walking back into the woods. “Just some young adults getting carried away. The area’s clear.” The second the officer disappeared, Sol exhaled, his body finally relaxing against the seat.

You barely moved. You could still hear your pulse in your ears.

Sol glanced at you from the driver’s seat, something smug flickering behind his eyes. He reached over, running a hand down your thigh—almost reassuring, almost possessive.

“See?” he murmured. “Told you I got you.”

You forced yourself to swallow, gripping his hoodie tighter around your body.

You weren’t sure if that was meant to make you feel better.

Your hands trembled as you looked down at them, barely recognizing the fingers, the skin, and the way they clenched into fists like they belonged to someone else. The phantom weight of the gun still pressed against your palm, and the recoil still echoed in your bones.

“Take me home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Sol’s hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles flexing before he turned to you. “Pumpkin…” His voice was low, coaxing, but you felt the shift—the tension rolling off him, the way he wasn’t going to let you just leave this moment behind.

You turned your face away, but he didn’t let you go.

His hands found you, firm and insistent. He pulled you into his lap with an effortless motion, trapping you there, his grip pressing against your face, forcing you to look at him. His skin was fever-warm, his fingers splayed against your jaw as he tilted your head up.

And then—he saw himself.

Tears streaked your cheeks, glistening against your skin. Your lips parted, breath hitching, but Sol’s grip didn’t loosen.

Your chest burned. Your body shook.

And then it snapped.

“WE KILLED THEM.” Your voice cracked, raw, and unfiltered. “We fucking killed Abel and Cain, Sol!”

He didn’t flinch.

You shoved at his chest, but he held you still. “And you—” Your breath hitched as a new wave of realization struck you like a gunshot to the ribs. “You tricked me once again, unaware.”

Sol’s eyes flickered.

Your fingers curled around his wrists, digging in.

“At the start, you switched my drink,” you spat, voice trembling with fury. “You—fucking—switched my hangover drink for BLUE CLEANER.” Your voice cracked again, but you didn’t care. “You fucking LIED to me. And now—after everything—all you want to do is make out with me?”

Sol exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Yes.”

“ECHT LUGER BULLETS, SOL.” Your breath hitched as the weight of your own words crushed down on you.

Sol tilted his head, studying you, his expression unreadable. But then—his eyes softened, and he smiled, just barely. “Look,” he murmured, voice almost affectionate, too calm. “You believed it because you wanted to believe it.”

His fingers brushed over your cheek, catching the tears before they could fall further. “Deep down, pumpkin, you wanted to kill your bitch-ass leader.” His voice dipped, smooth, persuasive. 

“You wanted Abel and Cain dead.”

You snapped. “I DIDN’T WANT ANYONE TO DIE!” You pushed against his chest, your heart hammering against your ribs, breath coming too fast, too sharp. “I just—I just wanted to be free. I just wanted to stop feeling like I was constantly being judged—”

Sol clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Everywhere you go,” he murmured, “there are gonna be judgmental people.”

You glared at him, but the fire in your chest—rage, grief, something deeper, something unspoken—twisted into something unrecognizable. It burned, spreading through your ribs like a sickness, clawing at your throat.

And then—your breath hitched.

Because he was smiling.

Not in amusement. Not in triumph. But in something far worse.

His red-orange eyes gleamed, the heart-shaped pupils wide, blown out with something dangerous, something devoted. It wasn’t quite love, wasn’t quite insanity, but something in between.

Something unshakable.

His fingers brushed against your throat, slow, deliberate. A soft touch—contrasting the brutal weight of his presence. Then, a curl.His knuckles dragged over your pulse, feeling it race beneath your skin. Then, his fingers twisted into your rosemary necklace, tugging.

Not enough to hurt.

Not enough to choke.

Just enough to pull you forward, to leave you breathless, to let his warmth settle against your lips. His breath, hot and steady, ghosted over your skin.

“Our love,” he whispered, voice silk and steel, “is God, after all.”

Your whole body went still. The words wrapped around you like chains, thick, heavy—drowning you. The air between you suffocated. The weight of his devotion pressed down, crushing, inescapable. 

There was no running. No fighting.

Not anymore.

Your hands—your hands.

The same hands you once swore to keep clean, the same hands that once trembled in prayer, the same hands that clutched at salvation—

Tainted. Drenched. Bloody.

Sol moved before you could think before you could stop him. His lips crashed against yours, demanding, consuming—claiming.

There was no hesitation, no uncertainty in his movements. He kissed you with purpose, with finality, like sealing a deal that had long been written in blood.

His hands gripped you, firm, one curling into your hair, the other splaying against the small of your back, pressing you against him. His teeth scraped against your bottom lip, coaxing a gasp, and he took it, and swallowed it like he needed it to breathe. Like you were his oxygen, his altar, his sacrament.

You didn’t move.

You let him.

Because at the end of the day—

This was your fault.

You had dragged yourself into this hell, into his hands, into his arms. The weight of it all pressed against your skin like a brand, burning, permanent. There was no undoing it. No redemption. No salvation.

You and Sol were tied together by God. 

A twisted, cruel god—one that had abandoned you the moment you took that first step into damnation. 

Once, you had been an angel.

A believer.

The rosary beads dug into your palm, their familiar ridges offering no comfort now—not when his heat surrounded you, not when his hands knew your body better than prayer ever had. You had whispered Ave Marias in the dark, trembling fingers clutching at faith like a lifeline. 

But faith was a fragile thing, and the devil—Sol was real.

His breath was hot against your throat, his lips tracing the frantic pulse beneath your skin as if savoring the way your heart raced for him.

Only for him.

The car was too small, the world outside too distant. There was only this: the weight of his cock deep inside you, the sinful roll of his hips dragging a broken sound from your lips.

"Look at you," he murmured, "All those pretty prayers, and yet here you are—riding the devil himself."

You should have recoiled. 

Should have crossed yourself and begged for forgiveness.

Instead, you arched into his touch, his name a plea on your tongue.

His fingers tightened on your hips, guiding you, using you, his groan vibrating against your mouth as you took him deeper. The rosary tangled between your joined hands, the sacred and the profane colliding—just like the two of you.

"Fuck," he hissed, teeth grazing your jaw, his breath hot, ragged. His hands dug into your hips, possessive, unrelenting. "Still so tight. Still fighting it."

But you weren’t fighting.

Not anymore.

Every slow, deliberate drag of him inside you unraveled another thread of your resolve, another carefully constructed lie you’d told yourself.

That you were strong. That you were good.

That you could walk away from this. From him.

Sol’s laugh was soft, triumphant, curling against your skin as your thighs trembled around him. His grip tightened—possessive, knowing. "There it is," he purred, swallowing the moan you couldn’t bite back, lips crashing against yours in something more than hunger. More than needed.

It was devotion.

And God help you—so were you.

Because what was the point of fighting anymore?

You tried. At least, you told yourself you did. A half-hearted rebellion as you arched against him as if the space between you would bring back something you had already lost.

But Sol was faster. Stronger. His hands caught you—iron and unyielding. "Don't run from me, pumpkin..." he growled, dragging you back into him.

You gasped the stretch burning, the pleasure a sharp edge that bordered on pain. Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate, as if you could claw your way free. As if you hadn’t already made your choice.

But your body betrayed you.

Betrayed you in how it clenched around him, pulled him deeper, and welcomed the very thing that had ruined you. His laugh was low, smug. Victorious. "That’s it. No one takes me like you do. Such a pretty angel...”

The words twisted inside you like a knife.

You weren’t an angel. Not anymore.

Your rosemary wasn’t stopping him. God wasn’t stopping him.

God wasn’t saving you.

Because your body—was already left in the hands of the devil.

[bitchy-craft]

PICK A CARD: messages from your spirit animal

Hello and welcome to this pick a card! In here I will give tell you what your spirit animal would like you to know. I hope you all find this fun and interesting!

masterpost > paid readings > patreon masterlist

for the extended version of this reading and 80+ exclusive and extended pac's check put my patreon

Pile 1:

Trust your instincts

Stay calm in the storm, only then will you come out on top

You should look deeper beneath the surface

Be patient, timing matters, sometimes your needs take a bit longer to show up

Take a leap of faith, we’ll be there to catch you

Change is coming, make sure to welcome it all

Step back to see the full picture, you don’t pick up on a lot of things

Be still and listen, only then will your questions be answered

You already know the answers deep down, stop seeking them elsewhere

Wander with purpose, only then will you learn

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 2:

You are braver than you feel and think

Your voice has power, use it for once

Don’t fear your wildness, it is there to bring you far

Move around as if you own the world

Set clear boundaries, only then won’t they never be crossed again, at least not easily

You are truly unstoppable

Shine unapologetically, believe me, you won’t seem arrogant, not even in the slightest

Dance with confidence

You’ve survived worse, you can keep going, you’re strong

Be bold. Be loud. Be real. I’ve told you so many times before

extended reading > paid readings

Pile 3:

It’s okay to feel a lot, that empathy is unique

Let your heart soften, don’t force it to be hard

Grieve. It’s needed and sacred

Forgive yourself first before you forgive others

Release what weighs you down, it’s not needed to keep carrying it

Your softness is not your weakness

Tend to your inner child

Be gentle with yourself, only then can you heal

You’re safe, so open up again with the people around you

Flow, don’t force it

extended reading > paid readings

[bookdragonideas]

Here's the thing. I'm a girl, and as a girl, I really like it when girls are portrayed in fiction. Especially fantasy.

But so much fiction/fantasy mixes up 'girls' with 'unstoppable forces of female badass' and there's not necessarily anything wrong with having a character who is an 'unstoppable forces of female badass'. But it gets old real quick. And it is not the same as portraying normal girls, or having good female characters.

And that's one of the many reasons I love Avatar the Last Airbender.

Because all the girl characters have flaws and weaknesses and sometimes act like idiots or jerks. They get emotional and make mistakes. They lose fights or arguments or are just wrong sometimes. Some of them are amazing warriors, and some aren't. Some are powerful or special and some are normal, with nothing special about them.

And I Love that.

I was around the same age as Katara when I first watched Atla. And I instantly connected with her as a character. I loved her optimistic attitude and her fighting spirit. And I could relate with her anger, and with her maternal instinct. I admired her fighting skills of course, but I loved how the show portrayed her compassion and kindness, the way she could both beat up a bunch of bullies AND enjoy a relaxing day at the spa. She was a baddass warrior that should never be crossed. But she was also a normal teenage girl who had a lot of the same internal struggles and problems that I did.

(I never connected to Toph on the same level, but I did relate to her on a few things. She's an adorable trash gremlin who would commit any crime for fun and I love that. But she struggles with being both independent and letting people help her, and I still struggle with that sometimes. I've learned that sometimes, you can help others by letting them help you.)

Yue is, in my opinion, a perfect example of a type of hero that seems to be disappearing. She is not a warrior. She is not a fighter. She's not even a bender.

Yue is a perfect princess, a perfect daughter. She is extremely feminine in a rather older sense.

And she was the only one who could save the world. She gave up everything for her people. She saved everything, everyone, the entire world. Without ever becoming a fighter.

Yue is a perfect example of a girl who was never more than a girl, and how that's okay. Not every girl has to be rough and tumble and fight for her rights in order to change everything. Sometimes it's okay to just be a quiet obedient girly girl. Sometimes that's all it takes to be a hero.

And I love that. Yue is strong in her own way. She is unique and interesting. She appears in only a few episodes and yet manages to be one of my favorite characters.

Song is another great example of this. Song is a healer in a small town. We don't see much of her but we see her compassion and empathy. She is gentle and generous. A healer not a fighter.

She watches Zuko steal her ostrich horse and does nothing.

Is that because she's kind and generous and knows he needs it more? Or is it because she's a healer girl who knows she can't actually stop those two from taking the horse? Maybe neither, maybe both. I have always thought that the scene where Zuko steals the horse and only the audience knows she saw it is one of the most thought-provoking in the series.

Suki is a badass warrior woman who is an awesome fighter and good leader. She is one of the best non bender fighter we see in the entire show. She was one of the smartest, most efficient, and powerful characters we ever saw.

She kissed a boy she had just met because she thought he was cute.

Now don't get me wrong I love SokkaxSuki. Its one of the best couples in the show.

But Suki totally did the old 'love at first sight' thing. And that is awesome. Because when she kisses him she delivers one of the best lines, not only from her, but, I think, in the entire show.

"I AM a warrior, but I'm a girl too."

Being a warrior doesn't mean that she isn't also a teenage girl. She might be a fighter, but she still gets crushes and likes to flirt with cute boys. And hey, she picked a good one. Not every boy is going to come break you out of prison.

Anyways, let's have more realistic girls in fiction. And please enjoy the next 24 hours.

[unboundprompts]

hey! i was wondering if you had any advice for writing a "bully" tough guy character with a hidden heart of gold that will be redeemed later on in the story? i wanted to have their motivation being seeing their bullying as making people stronger (for maybe a reason like from being bullied for being weak themselves) but idk how i would begin to write this

How to Write a Bully with Opportunity for a Redemption

Establish a Compelling Backstory

Bullying History: Flesh out the character's past. Perhaps they were bullied themselves, leading them to believe that by bullying others, they can instill strength and resilience. This creates a cycle of pain that they think they're breaking.

Family Dynamics: Consider their family situation. Maybe they have a tough home life that forces them to adopt a hard exterior, believing vulnerability is a weakness.

Defensive Mechanism: Make it clear that their bullying is a defense mechanism. They may fear being seen as weak or unworthy, so they project toughness to avoid being hurt again.

Create Layers of Personality

Contradictions: Show moments where the tough guy’s softer side shines through, such as helping someone in a subtle way or expressing empathy toward a friend. This builds intrigue and hints at their hidden depth.

Hobbies or Interests: Give them a passion that contrasts with their tough exterior, such as caring for animals, art, or even an interest in literature. This helps humanize them and shows they have more to offer than just their bullying behavior.

Develop Strong Relationships

Friendships: Explore the dynamics of their friendships. Do they have a best friend who sees through their tough exterior? This friend can be a source of support and also push the character toward redemption.

Conflict with Others: Show how their bullying impacts their relationships with other characters. This can create tension and give other characters a reason to want them to change.

Establish Their Motivation for Bullying

Internal Monologue: Use the bully’s thoughts to explain their perspective. Allow them to rationalize their behavior with phrases like “I’m just toughening them up” or “They’ll thank me later.” This internal justification provides insight into their mindset and shows that they genuinely believe in their method.

Dialogue with Others: Show conversations where the bully explains their philosophy to friends or peers. They might say something like, “You have to be tough to survive. I’m just giving them a reality check,” or “Weakness only gets you hurt.” This can illustrate their conviction that they’re helping rather than harming.

Interactions with Victims: When the bully interacts with their victims, allow moments where they express a twisted sense of encouragement. For instance, they might say something like, “You’ll thank me when you’re stronger,” or give unsolicited advice on how to handle being bullied, further solidifying their misguided belief.

In-Scene Justification: As the bully corners a victim, they might say, “You think this is tough? You should’ve seen what I went through. I’m making you stronger. You’ll thank me when you can stand up to people like me.”

Aftermath Reflection: After an intense encounter, the bully reflects, “Maybe I pushed them too hard. But if they break now, they’ll never survive out there. I can’t let them be weak.”

Confrontation with a Mentor: In a scene with a mentor or friend, the bully might insist, “I’m not a bad guy. I’m doing this for them. They need to be ready for the real world. They’ll understand one day.”

Build Moments of Realization

Catalyst for Change: Identify key moments that can serve as turning points for the character. Perhaps they witness the consequences of their actions firsthand, such as a target of their bullying breaking down.

Moment of Kindness: Have them perform a small act of kindness that contradicts their tough persona. This could be something like defending someone who’s being bullied or comforting a classmate in distress.

Craft a Redemption Arc

Struggle with Self-Perception: As they start to recognize their wrongs, explore their internal conflict. They might grapple with feelings of guilt or shame, unsure how to change.

Facing the Consequences: Introduce scenarios where they face the repercussions of their past actions. This can lead to a moment of humility, where they apologize or make amends.

Support from Others: Allow other characters to help guide their transformation. Perhaps someone who was bullied approaches them and expresses that they see potential in them, encouraging a new path.

Highlight the Heart of Gold

Acts of Courage: In the climax, have them step up to protect those they’ve bullied, showcasing their newfound understanding of strength and vulnerability.

Positive Impact: Illustrate how their change positively affects others. This can be through friendships, mentorships, or even inspiring other characters to change as well.

End on a Hopeful Note

New Identity: Conclude the character's arc by showing them embracing their softer side while still retaining the tough-guy persona, proving that they can be both strong and kind.

Forgiveness: Allow for forgiveness from those they’ve wronged, reinforcing the theme of redemption and growth.

Example Character Arc:

Initial Setup: Jake is known as the school’s tough guy, bullying anyone he deems weak, believing it will make them stronger.

Backstory Reveal: Through flashbacks, we see Jake bullied mercilessly for being small and weak, leading him to adopt his aggressive persona.

Turning Point: After witnessing the severe impact of his bullying on a classmate, Jake begins to reflect on his actions.

Redemption Moment: In a climactic scene, Jake defends the same classmate from a new bully, proving he’s changed.

Resolution: By the end, he’s mentoring younger students, using his experiences to help others find their strength rather than tear them down.

[captainjimothy]

personally i do think julian bashir is trans, but not in a way that sublimates his genetic alterations into a trans allegory. i think he's disabled and trans at the same time, but i think his rebellion against his parents--the symbolic death of his old self with the name change--that's not about gender, for him, at all.

it's about the incredible violation of autonomy he experienced as a disabled person under the knife of a eugenicist society. it's about the need to reclaim some, any, of the agency that was so completely stolen from him by his parents.

it's about discovering that his entire self was deconstructed and reconstructed, without his knowledge or consent, for the express purpose of being less of a burden on his parents.

because let's not forget that the death of julian's old self was not his decision. it was his parents who killed the old self and created a new one.

let's not forget that human society in star trek is still recovering from the eugenics wars--that just because it's post-scarcity doesn't mean it's a utopia.

let's not forget the multiple episodes where bashir is forced to confront the fact that his "success story" is truthfully a gross reminder of how deeply his society (and his family) hates disabled people, not only shown in how they tried to fix him, but also in the fact that the process so rarely works as intended, yet is still done anyway--and the failures and the ones too far gone to save are locked away! with no connection to general society, and only the bare minimum provision for their physical needs, with no privacy and no autonomy!

and let's not forget that julian sees these people and is torn between the empathy he has for them, and his urge to fix them. and he goes through with this urge on Sarina, "fixing" her to conform to his idea of what she ought to be, treating her as a problem to be solved, objectifying her via "my ideal woman was trapped in this disabled body/mind and i saved her," thus continuing the cycle of violence, because even he can't conceive of a world where the disabled do not need to be fixed. where the violence done to him was wrong. fuck man

[thatweirdthingoverthere]

"You who watch and know and understand none-"

A Theory On Why Jon's Empathy Made Him The True Pupil

The Eye sees all, knows all, and forever craves more knowledge. But knowledge is hollow without understanding. There's a difference between reading "fire is hot" and burning your finger touching a candle. Fear is only a concept, until it is *felt*.

Unlike the Eye's sister fear, the Web, the Eye sees what was and is in pure cold objectivity, and never understands enough to use this knowledge to form new information, such as predicting the future.

The Eye needs understanding. To gain this understanding, it needs a conduit.

Jonah Magnus, Elias, is not this conduit. Jonah is a coward and never engages directly, choosing to manipulate and watch the suffering of others from a distance. He is detached from all of it in his selfish greed. He is not committed to the Eye save for how it serves his own desires. This is easily discerned from the fact that he himself could have undergone the "trials" Jon went through to become the catalyst of the change but instead forced Jon to do so.

Then, there is Jon. In a sense cowardly, yes, but unlike Jonah, he has - albeit often unwillingly - *faced* his fears, and through statements *felt* the suffering of others. He is a being of empathy, of understanding. And as Jon becomes more and more embedded in his existence as The Archivist, his empathy grows. His portrayal gradually changes from a snide, detached academic, to a man struggling to hold on to what's left of his humanity and the people he cares about. The same season that he begins to prioritize helping his friends (pulling Daisy from the coffin, removing the bullet from Melanie), he completes his transformation into this conduit - finalized by opening up and rescuing the person he loves, Martin.

Another Tumblr post emphasized that Jon during the apocalypse is not the antichrist, but in fact an allegory of Christ Himself. It occurred to me reading that post that also, much like Christ, Jon is both man and god, and feels all of the fear and pain of the trapped souls in the world. A bridge between divine fear and human suffering.

When Jon uses his power to "smite", his weapon is empathy. He forces the avatar to feel and know the fear they have inflicted - unlike him, they are unable to bear this suffering, and disappear.

The Eye knows, and Jon feels. And that is why he is the true Pupil, because unlike Jonah, he can make the Eye's knowledge of human fear whole.

[hellspawnmotel]

I’m genuinely wondering here, but you’re not like, wholly obsessed just with the weird route and all the creepy, forced on romance stuff right? I say this as someone who’s known that you’ve done a lot of analysis on the weird route and such, from reposts mostly of your art, and I just wanted to ask that cause honestly, you never know if someone who talks extensively about vile things that happened to children in media are people who want to just analyze how media handles such grave and sensitive topics or just genuine creeps.

I know that sounds deranged and maybe pearl clutchingly puritan, but sadly it isn’t like it’s completely unheard. Like, some creator of Fnaf fan game for example, dormitabus or whatever, made the purple guy a child rapist and then it turns out the creator was a groomer themself. So I hope you understand why some people are always going to have their guards up when it comes to media that explores horrific things such Child sexual assault, suicide, murder and so on and even just discussions about that, in case some seem to be a little to off-puttingly obsessed with it.

I understand your apprehension, I've been on the internet (and in the world) long enough that I've seen plenty of examples of what you're talking about. it's often really hard to tell the difference between somebody who genuinely wants to talk about and analyze darker topics in a compassionate way, and somebody who's just being a pervert about it, especially when the phrase "I explore darker topics" has unfortunately become something of a red flag on its own. there are lots of creeps out there, and they can be really good at pretending theyre not (so they can keep being creeps easier). which is all to say, I don't blame you for worrying.

I don't know how comforting this is going to be for you, but the truth is that I AM more interested in the weird route than the normal route, generally. I've always been drawn to stories about people going through really horrible shit, especially the ones that do that using a lot of symbolism and metaphors (i.e. alluding to real-world issues using absurd or fantastical circumstances). I've liked that sort of thing since I was six years old watching digimon tamers on fox kids and acting out my toys dramatically killing each other. I like irreversible tragedy and trauma and seeing characters cope in the aftermath, but portrayed through the lens of fantasy so it feels safer to engage with. so of course that's something I want to also explore in my own work.

I will say though, that the weird route's forced romance stuff in specific isn't what draws me to it. it's the fact that it combines a lot of different concepts and themes I'm interested in- genre deconstruction, fantasy tropes, metanarrative, gender, autonomy, doing a "this comfortable and familiar story but Fucked Up" thing, I could go on. I would probably still be crazy about it without the weird divorcecore angle. it's just like, catnip for me lol. but my main goal is always to use the things I love to enrich the lives of other people and cause as little harm as possible while doing that.

but really I can't convince you of anything. the choice as to whether or not you're comfortable with my work and how I express these feelings, is not up to me. that's entirely your decision and I don't expect everybody who looks at what I make to want to keep looking at it. that's the risk you take when making art of any kind. I can tell you sincerely that when I discuss or portray "darker topics" I always try to do it with empathy and understanding, and without exploiting the situation or people involved, but it's entirely up to you whether or not you trust that I'm coming from a decent place with that, and whether or not I'm doing it successfully is going to change based on personal opinion too. but even though it's your decision, when you DO choose to put your trust in somebody like that, and that trust is broken, it's not at all your fault. we NEED trust in order to function socially, and somebody betraying that is never the responsibility of the person being betrayed. the burden shouldn't be on you to sniff out when a relationship, even the relationship between writer and reader, is being exploited or misused.

if you decide to trust that I'm being truthful and I have good intentions, and trying my hardest to be respectful, that's a massive compliment to me and I wear it as a badge of honor. if not, I won't take offense and I'll keep trying to do right by these subjects when I create anyway. ✌️

[silverthehedgehogexplained]

Explaining Silver the Hedgehog's character (Updated)

To truly understand Silver's character you need to understand not one, not two, not three, not even four but the ten different cores of his character. Starting with...

A Strong Sense of Justice - The Hedgehog of Justice

Silver is driven by a strong Sense of Justice. This is his defining trait mentioned in almost all character bios. Silver is a righteous person driven to right wrongs in the world and will always stand up for others. This can make him quite Confrontational as he has zero tolerance for injustice or wrongful suffering and will take on anyone on the spot to fight for what he thinks is right. Silver will always settle the score. Silver however doesn't wish to punish evil but rather to simply maintain peace.

Silver's sense of justice is more important to him than nearly any other character as it is the source of his drive and mission to make things right in the world. Unlike other guardian characters, Silver's sense of duty to protect the future is driven entirely by his personal sense of justice rather than imposed responsibility like Blaze, Knuckles and Ariem..

A Determind Optimist

Silver's other most defining trait is his noted Optimism. Silver has a positive outlook no matter the circumstances. During peaceful times Silver spreads positivity and seeks to make people smile however he can and during dark times Silver rallies and inspires hope in others. If Sonic represents Freedom then Silver represents Hope and will never give up no matter how dire or impossible the situation may seem.

Silver's very presence radiates positivity. In Sonic Channel stories Silver is said to engage in Cheerful Activities after the historical change in 06 and have both a "positive way of life that inspires people and makes them want to watch over him and cheer him on forever…" and an "Honest, unpretentious and kind demeanor" that makes him a warm and inspiring influence. This even extends to real life as this illustration by Tomoko Hayane spontaneously inspired everyone in her office to high five Silver on the screen the day it was made. In Sonic Channel stories Silver also has a very warm smile that fills Princess Elise with trust and joy during the height of her anxiety in one story and a recipient can't say no to in another story. (He's low-key a pretty boy)

Linked to Silver's optimism is supreme Determination. Silver will not give up no matter how impossible the odds are or how badly he's hurt, even when Solaris destroyed the entire space-time continuum and was explained to be nigh-invincible Silver simply resolved to destroy him in the past, present and future all at once and roused everyone back into action when they had all completely lost hope. Silver again rouses hope into the Resistance in Sonic Forces when Sonic and Tails were thought to be lost. Silver doesn't give up easily in general as it took 40 tries for him to cut exact Silver cut apple slices. It is this spirit that allows Silver to fight through the hopeless apocalyptic future. Silver's hope, optimism and determination are best exemplified in the Japanese version of Sonic Forces where he says this:

There is hope! As long you don't give up!

A Kind Hearted Hedgehog

Silver is an Altruist. An altruist is a person who is unselfish and concerned for the well-being of others, even if they don't gain anything by doing so. Silver not only has a strong desire to help others but he also has great Empathy for both people and environments and wants to see them in a happy state. Silver loves Smiles, he can't help but smile when he sees other people smile and his greatest joy is making other people happy. Silver wants to make people happy because he grew up in an apocalyptic future that was filled with despair as stated in Sonic & Silver on Sonic Channel. Silver's altruism is not only the motivation behind his mission to protect the future but also the only thing that can make him break from it as he will drop his current mission to help people as he does with Amy in Sonic 06 and the understaffed post office of Soleanna in Sonic Pict as Silver cannot say no to a sad face. Silver's reason for aspiring to become a hero is to be someone that can protect smiles as he states in Sonic & Silver.

Focused On Saving The Future - A Focused Agent

The very first thing Silver is described with in 06 design documents is Focused on Saving The Future. Silver is a driven and focused agent that becomes very determined and serious when it comes to saving the future and dealing with potential threats. Like Sonic's other rivals Silver is very skilled in many regards from skillfully doing various odds jobs in Soleanna in Town Missions to getting one of the highest sharpshooting scores in Soleanna's 1500 year history(Town Mission 6) to becoming a "genius" skating coach celebrity in the Otherworld Comedy series to the general use of his powers(Silver takes offence to being treated like an amateur for a reason). Silver is a veteran fighter from his apocalyptic life of battling Iblis and is able to and quickly learn things he's never done before like Chaos Control and car racing after only seeing them once. Silver trains regularly and is said to make steady efforts to improve in the 2022 wallpaper comedy series. Silver is a Fly/Technique type character so he specialize in technical sports like ice skating, uses a high balance car in Team Sonic Racing and is possibly the fastest flyer in the series as he's able to keep up with Sonic in Generations and is able to fly at light speeds with his Teleport Dash ability. Silver is very Proactive in his pursuits as in the opening of his story in Sonic 06 he states that he always asked people in his apocalyptic future how the world was destroyed but could never get a direct answer, hence why he listens to Mephiles.

Silver is noted to be intuitive and perceptive. He sees through Eggman Nega's disguises by noticing small details in his mannerisms. In Sonic Rivals 2 he turns his fight with Sonic into a race to collect Chao and advance his mission instead. In Otherworld Comedy Act 8 he intuits Blaze trying to control her powers when seeing them for the first time. Silver solves problems through thinking in all of his major game appearances from figuring out how to revive Sonic in the last episode of 06 to uncovering Eggman's plot in Team Sonic Racing.

Despite his naivete, Silver Isn't Very Trusting. His respect and trust has to be earned as he doesn't work with anyone in the Sonic Rivals series until they prove useful to him. In Sonic Generations Silver doesn't trust Sonic as being real and he is almost immediately suspicious of Dodon Pa. While he can take things literally at times the same deception that works on Knuckles won't work on Silver as Eggman learned in Team Sonic Racing. Even when working with Mephiles, Silver did not initially believe in time travel and did not fully commit to his plan until he was physically thrown back in time and still began questioning it after being confronted by Amy, only continuing to go along with the mission after it was reaffirmed by both Blaze and Mephiles as the only option to save the future.

Silver is very Goal Focused and has a Straight To The Point Mentality as part of his forthrightness. He doesn't like distractions, petty details or things getting in his way and prefers to concentrate on his current goals. Silver can also be somewhat Ruthless as he has done many things to protect the future including sneaking past Soleanna guards(Town Mission 11), mugging Tails and attempted assassinations all with little reservation. Despite having something of an honor code against cowardice Silver is also willing to fight pretty dirty such as when he played possum to hit Sonic in 06.

Forthright Purity

One of Silver's original design document descriptors is that he is very Forthright. This actually entails multiple different things about Silver that all deal with his Purity. As his name suggests, Silver is themed with purity as a character with his silvery white colors, youthfulness, innocence and forthright nature. Silver is forthright in every sense of the word including being Straightforward and Honest. Honest to a fault as Silver is so honest that he can't even lie(though he can change the subject as he does in Sonic 06 and Sonic Rivals 2). Direct and Outspoken as Silver hides almost nothing about himself(he only tries to hide his problems as when he tries to dismiss his worries in TSR as nothing) and speaks his mind as well as Going Straight to the Point as discussed above. This is why in Playstation Magazine Japan, Silver was officially given the birthday May 9th and with it the star sign of Taurus which is associated with determination, directness and honesty. Silver wears his heart on his sleeve and has a certain innocence to him that permeates his character.

With this purity however comes Silver's Naivety. He has a somewhat simplistic Black and White Perspective. Silver can sometimes take things literally and expects people to believe any outlandish things he tells them simply because he knows them to be true. Silver can also be unfamiliar with things in the present due to living in the far future where everything is either long destroyed or far more advanced.

The flip side of that forthright purity however is...

The Brash Antithesis of Eggman Nega

On the flip side of being straightforward and honest, Silver is also Blunt and Rude. Just as Silver wears his heart on sleeve he also has no filter and will say whatever is on his mind which can make him Abrasive and quick to insult. Silver will call you an idiot to your face if he thinks you are one and often trash talks opponents in in-game dialogue(literally calling defeated enemies trash in 06). Silver's rudeness is even more apparent in Japanese where he uses many informal impressions including addressing himself with "Ore"(おれ) and others "Anta"(あんた, the ruder version "Anata") which signifies that he speaks bluntly. Silver often points directly at people he speaks to(This is considered much more rude in Japan) and crosses his legs while sitting in a way that is roughly the Japanese equivalent of putting your feet on a table. Silver acts very casually with others without introducing himself which can be very informal and rude as Knuckles calls out during their meeting in Sonic Rivals 1. This can make Silver even more rude than other brash characters in a technical sense as he's just blunt and acts without a filter. This is a key difference between Silver and Future Trunks who was largely a shy and polite mannered individual.

Similar to Jet the Hawk, Silver is Juvenile both in his age designation and general level of maturity. Due to this Silver can be quite Brash similar to Sonic but even more so due to his aggression and bluntness/lack of filter. He can be snotty, sneering, sarcastic and is even stated to have a mischievous side in the Commemorative Illustration series. Though he is generally humble Silver has a confident, somewhat smug attitude about his powers and is very Competitive. Almost fighting Blaze as they begin one upping each other over who could deal with Orbot & Cubot on their own when they first meet in the Triumph cutscene Sonic Colors DS. Silver is also Headstrong, almost fighting Blaze again when she treats him like an amateur in the Otherworld Comedy series. Despite his share of hedgehog prickliness however Silver isn't a hostile or mean spirited person(as long as you're not in his way or being unjust that is). Just as Eggman Nega being polite does not make him a good person being rude does not make Silver a bad one as he maintains his goal of helping others at all times. When not focused on a mission Silver is shown to be a fun loving, reliable and protective friend. Silver cherishes his friends and is willing to do anything for them. Silver can also be just as quick to praise or call something cool as he is to insult someone and he strongly believes in the abilities of the people that have earned his respect as when he recruits Sonic to help him with the Revival Bridge situation in Sonic & Silver and is genuinely grateful for Espio's help in saving the world in Sonic Rivals 2. This side of Silver can be very similar to Sonic from Sonic SatAM. Combined with his naivety and determination this side can also make him similar to a Looney Tunes character called Henery Hawk. (He's naive but he has a blunt "What's so funny?" attitude about it)

Due to this nature, Silver has bold explosive responses to even the most impossible challenges, stating "I'll show you how crazy I am" when Knuckles calls him crazy in Sonic Rivals 2, "Come on, Espio! We can take them all on!" when confronted with Knuckles, Rouge and Eggman all at once in Sonic Rivals 2, and "If you say it exists in the past, present and future, I'll destroy them all at once!" when facing the impossible challenge of Solaris(He drops pretty hard lines when things get tough). Silver has this attitude against even things that outmatch him such as Infinite's mighty power.

Silver is described as "young and immature" by his creator Shun Nakamura so despite his general seriousness he can still have somewhat childish moments.

Almost all of Silver's traits are also diametrically opposed to those of his Sonic Rivals series nemesis Eggman Nega(currently the only other character from Silver's future), down to the colors they're themed after Black and White.

Silver is Rude and Blunt out of sheer earnestness while Eggman Nega is overly Polite as a form of mind games. Silver is Warm and Pure while Eggman Nega is Cold and Twisted. Silver is Honest to a fault while Eggman Nega is extremely Deceitful. Silver is Kind while Eggman Nega is Cruel. Silver is Naive while Eggman Nega is Sophisticated. Silver is Reckless while Eggman Nega is Calculating. Silver is Practical while Eggman Nega is Petty. Silver desires Peace and Prosperity while Eggman Nega desires Chaos and Destruction. Both are willing to sacrifice themselves for those ends in ways that seem crazy to other characters.

Riled Up - A Passionate Emotional Beast

One of the descriptions for Silver in design documents, Riled Up, alludes to Silver's highly emotional nature. Silver is a High Spirited person that is also emotionally immature.

Like Blaze, Silver can be Easily Angered and have a pretty Wrathful Temper. However unlike Blaze who is repressed in her feelings, Silver has no filter and can get loud or carried away when he is overly angered, excited or saddened(He's autistic...) which can primarily be seen in his animations and dialogue in the Olympic Games series. Silver puts his all into any activity he gets invested into(I'm giving this all I've got!) because of how Passionate he is.

It is the strength of his feelings that can make Silver Impulsive or Rash as often noted in his character bios.

Sometimes Silver tends to deal with things too head-on because of the strength of his feelings, or he tends to take everything on himself, but this is an aspect of his purity and an endearing virtue. ~ Sonic & Silver Sonic Channel story

This separates Silver from Sonic and Shadow who are both calm and cool in most situations while Silver has very little emotional regulation and can be blinded by his feelings. This can make him rather Reckless at times as he can deal with things too head on and will throw himself at problems when he gets overtaken by his feelings.

While Shadow is calculating and detached, Silver is controlled by powerful emotion and is impulsive and obsessive. This causes them both to be incredibly straightforward, mission oriented, and viscous, but for entirely opposite reasons. Sonic on the other hand falls in between. He cares, but he's not nearly as impulsive and manic as Silver. He's also cool-headed and easygoing, but not out of the detached stoicism of Shadow. SSS are quite different emotionally.

This Hot-blooded emotional nature is why Silver often has very Stoic partners like Blaze, Espio or Shadow to calm him down and pull him back. This dynamic is alluded to in the Japanese version of Sonic 06 where Blaze states that she shouldn't let Silver run wild on his own(in the English version she states that he's insecure when alone though that is contradicted within both 06 itself and the Rivals series).

An Aggressive Warrior

Due to his apocalyptic background Silver is a fierce and aggressive Warrior with many violent aspects to him. The Sonic Channel Sonic & Silver character introduction story states that Silver fought and struggled for half his lifetime which implies that he fought the forces of Iblis since he was seven years old.

Silver was born into a literal Hell on Earth where people lived without hope and he had to constantly battle against the minions of Iblis and put out disasters caused by it's existence such as flame tornadoes, storms and tides of lava destroying everything in a world where everyone lived in Eternal Darkness and suffering. Silver fought for most of his life to bring peace to the world. Due to this life of constant violence and devastation Silver is devoted to and deeply appreciates Peace but also has a violent personality because of it. This is why Silver has intense determined expressions and aggressive body language as he constantly makes fists and aggressive stances even when he's happy. Silver also punches things when he's frustrated and gets up using his fists in Sonic Forces. This not only shows his determination and emotional nature but his baked in aggression from a life of fighting through the apocalypse. Shadow notes Silver as a fighter in Team Sonic Racing dialogue. As covered above Silver can be something of an attack dog and needs to be held back at times.

This is also reflected in the pointed design of his eyes which in Japanese character design represents sharpness and intensity in a character. These points are easy to miss due to how his eyes are modeled and the way they align with the quills that act as bangs over the upper corners of his eyes.

Silver is incredibly powerful, being able to defeat armies of enemies in Town Missions in Sonic 06 and shown to have a tally of the number of times he single-handedly defeated the gigantic Iblis in a Sonic Pict wallpaper. When they fight in 06 Silver is as physically strong as Shadow who himself can easily lift 18-Wheeler G.U.N. Trucks and other house sized objects with one arm.

Silver also Enjoys Fighting and fights for fun as seen in his friendly Rival Battles in Sonic Generations. Silver is willing to fight anybody if he feels slighted and I do mean anybody as he's been shown willing to fight everything from skyscraper sized monsters like Iblis and Ifrit to small children as he has no qualms with fighting Tails or Bowser Jr(something he shares with Shadow). Silver is said to “sometimes call forth great power without mercy” in Sonic & Silver on Sonic Channel.

Tying into his selfless and reckless nature, Silver is also Extremely Brave. As stated for the Pumpkin Trigger Sonic Comic, Silver has no regard for his own safety and will immediately throw himself at any danger or sacrifice himself at a moments notice especially if it means protecting those around him. Silver had to fight the colossal Iblis and its endless spawn in a dark hellscape by himself for most of his life(as it has been revealed Blaze wasn't born in the future in 06). Silver also has very high pain tolerance owing to his determination and violent life of fighting Iblis. Angrily continuing to attack after being kicked in the head by Shadow in 06, shredded and bounced across the street by Sonic in Generations and enduring agonizing pain beyond description caused by overusing his powers in Sonic & Silver. Silver also seems to value being brave and dislikes cowardice going by his remarks in the Sonic Rivals series and the Team Vector Nintendo Dream interview which has interesting implications for his backstory.

When surprised in Sonic Generations Silver instantly has a fight response as he grew up in a world where Iblis minions could attack at any moment. (He's feral)

A Sentimental Person

Silver also has a very quiet side. He can be Introspective and Sentimental. This is shown throughout Sonic 06 with the non-verbal processing of events around him. After his fallout with Amy, he sits quietly by himself unengaged with his mission to destroy the Iblis Trigger and contemplates the morality of hurting one person to save the world. He silently takes in the events of the Solaris Project as he finally learns the truth about the destruction of the world he always asked about. Silver feels grief and contemplation quietly as shown when he's left solemn and silent over his moral dilemma and Blaze's sacrifice. Silver appreciates little things and finds beauty in simple parts of the world that most people take for granted.

Silver also has a certain curiosity to him and sometimes takes interest in new things ("Interesting"), so he also enjoys new experiences, facing challenges and going sightseeing.

The Hedgehog of Peace

The absolute core and purpose of Silver's character is World Peace. Silver lives for and fights to protect world peace at all costs. This primarily includes his drive to protect Smiles and Blue Skies. Because of Silver's Empathy he wants to see the world and it's people prosper and could not stand the devastated of his destroyed future even before he experienced any true peace. Silver's quills are patterned after a Japanese Maple Leaf which represents peace.

In contrast to the apocalyptic devastation, darkness and suffering he grew up with, Silver feels at peace when seeing clear blue skies, beautiful environments or people living in prosperity. Due to hailing from a devastated future even something as simple as a desert is beautiful to him because it's intact and the people are happy. Because his feelings reflect the world around him, seeing these things in ruined states saddens and upsets him while seeing them thrive takes his breath away. When Silver sees people smile he can't help but smile. Silver's mission is to protect and maintain a happy future with a blue sky.

This is also reflected in Silver's heavily implied favorite food, apples as apples represent Good Fortune and Prosperity. It was even revealed in Sonic Pict and a how-it-was-made special that Silver ate apple flavored calorie bars in his destroyed future.

To recap. The ten core aspects of Silver are:

A Strong Sense of Justice

The Optimistic Determinator

A Kind Heart

Forthright Purity( with Naivete)

A Focused Agent

An Emotional Beast

The Brash Antithesis of Eggman Nega

The Aggressive Warrior

A Sentimental Person

The Hedgehog of Peace

This post complies information about Silver from all his canon appearances, manuals, the Mario & Sonic series, Nintendo Dream and PlayStation Magazine interviews, design documents and cultural research by myself and others. Particularly the Sonic Channel Story called Sonic & Silver that is meant to introduce Silver's character and the Team Vector Interview from Nintendo Dream Magazine.

Some believe that Silver is an experimental character that changes from from game to game but all ten of these core aspects have been with Silver since his very inception in Sonic 06 and have been indicated in character bios/design docs since the beginning and are simply shown to different extents throughout the series. Silver is a very complex and abstruse character that can be difficult to grasp due to his lack of focus and the obscurity of most things he appears in post 06. I hope this post has given you a deeper understanding of him.

[orellazalonia]

The Loop You Won’t Let Die

Summary: Bucky is fatally wounded on a mission. You rewind time again, again, and again, hundreds of times. Each loop, you lose a little more of yourself. Finally, Bucky realizes what you’ve done. (Bucky Barnes x Avengers!reader)

Disclaimer: Reader has the power to manipulate time to a limited degree. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Death. Memory Loss. Emotional Deterioration.

Word Count: 3.5k+

A/N: I am hoping y’all will like this because I sure did. Happy reading!!! ♡

Main Masterlist | Whispers of the Gifted Masterlist

You’ve never been good at accepting the things you can't control. It’s a trait that’s followed you for as long as you can remember. From the moment you first realized your power to manipulate time, to rewind, reset, undo, you were thrilled. However, you came to realize that you held something dangerous in your hands and that it came at a cost. You were never able to rewind it all away. Not the pain, not the guilt, not the consequences.

It was supposed to be simple at first to test your power. No one expected you to use it on something so… delicate. You didn’t understand the gravity of it, not when you first rewound time to save a child who wandered too far into the street. The child's life was saved, and everything went back to normal. At least, it felt that way. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been lost in the process, your ability to forget.

And then came Bucky.

The first time you met him, it was on a mission. Some joint operation between S.H.I.E.L.D. and a few of the Avengers. You’d been part of the team tasked with gathering intel from a Hydra facility that was holding someone important who had crucial information on a new weapon. The mission wasn’t supposed to be complicated. But that’s how things always go, isn't it? You weren’t prepared for the chaos.

The explosion rocked the compound, sending you flying across the ground. You were dazed, but before you could register the pain, you saw him. Bucky was already moving to shield you, taking the brunt of another blast, the force knocking him down. You'd heard the stories, seen the flashes of the Winter Soldier’s past. But this was real. This was human, a man who had been broken, rebuilt, and forgotten.

You reached him instinctively, adrenaline spiking. You felt the sharpness of his blood in the air. The metal arm, the familiar, haunted expression in his eyes; the man you had read about in the files was here, right in front of you, struggling to get up.

He looked at you, and something passed between you then. Not recognition, not understanding, but something else. An acknowledgment of something lost. A silent kind of empathy.

"Stay down," You said quickly, hands already at his side, pressing against the blood that began to spill. "I can help. Let me help."

His expression didn’t change, but he nodded, as if he knew you could. As if he knew you wouldn’t let him die here. You didn't realize how true that would become.

It wasn’t long before you began to notice things about him. It was small things at first like how he seemed to stay on the perimeter of conversations, never quite fully engaging. How he always looked like he was on the edge of a nightmare, his eyes haunted even in the quietest moments. How he never quite trusted himself, not really, not after everything Hydra had put him through.

You, too, understood that weight, though you didn’t wear it the same way. Your power, the ability to manipulate time, had long since been a burden. But you didn’t carry it in silence the way Bucky did with his past. You didn’t need to ask him why he closed off. You understood it in ways most people wouldn’t. You understood what it was like to feel broken, to have the world try to take away something fundamental from you. So, you never pushed. You stayed in the background, offering quiet support during missions, sharing small conversations where he could let his guard down a little.

But it was when you first showed him your power that things began to change.

It was during another mission that went wrong, a hostage situation where things got messy, and you were forced to make a choice. There was no way to save everyone. But you saw Bucky, standing there, his arm pinned under rubble, the enemy advancing. You felt the panic of the moment, his life slipping away in real-time. So, without thinking, you rewound it. You manipulated the timeline, reset the scene, and in an instant, the world around you shifted.

When you opened your eyes, you were back before the blast, before the rubble, before the threat. But this time, you acted. You moved faster, knew the exact sequence of events that would unfold. You saved him.

It was the first time you showed Bucky the extent of your power.

“Did you…” He was breathless, looking at you like he couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened. His hand that had once bled from where the rubble had crushed him moments ago was normal, it was as though it had never happened. You felt him staring at you, processing the truth.

“I can rewind time,” You explained quietly, meeting his gaze. “Change things. Undo them.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, voice rough and raw. “What does that mean for you?”

You had to think about it. Your ability was both a gift and a curse. You couldn’t rewind everything. Not the pain, not the way time bled into your mind. Every reset took something from you: memories, emotions, the strength to keep going. But you kept doing it. For all of them.

You were unable to provide an answer, but he didn’t need words to understand.

The relationship between you and Bucky grew slowly after that. He began to understand you in ways you didn’t even know how to explain. You never talked about the toll your power took on you, but somehow, he always seemed to know. He’d ask you about it with a careful quietness, never pushing too hard, but always aware.

It was a delicate balance. You both walked around each other’s fragility, never forcing things, but always aware that there was something unspoken between you, an understanding that transcended words. You both had scars. But he was the kind of man who never let you carry the weight alone. And you, in turn, made sure that when his nightmares got too loud, when his mind fractured from all the things Hydra had done to him, you were there.

And one day, it all fell apart.

This mission was supposed to be straightforward.

Bucky and you, side by side, infiltrating a Hydra base to disable a weapons system. Nothing the two of you couldn’t handle. He’d been in worse situations and so had you.

But there’s always that one variable, always that one thing you can’t account for. The moment when the mission goes wrong, and everything unravels in the blink of an eye.

Bucky takes the first hit.

You’re there, just a step behind, but it’s too late. The bullet hits him right in the shoulder, spinning him off balance. You hear him grunt, feel the tug of his body as he collapses to the ground. Blood, dark and heavy, stains the concrete below him, it wasn’t any ordinary bullet. His metal arm is a blur of motion as he tries to pull himself up, but it’s no use. His movements slow. His breath becomes ragged.

You don’t even think. Your heart pounds in your chest, and your mind screams. You don’t want to lose him. Not like this. Not when there’s so much more you need to say. To do. To live for.

Rewind.

The world shudders around you, pulling you back to the beginning. The mission resets. You find yourself in the same place with everything the same, but you know what’s coming. You know what you have to do.

This time, you’re faster. More prepared. You have to be.

You move ahead of Bucky, keeping your focus sharp, anticipating the angle the sniper will shoot from. The plan is simple. You’ll get to the control room first, disable the weapons system, and clear the path for him. He won’t get hurt this time.

But something goes wrong. A twist, a misstep. The shot rings out from a different angle, and Bucky is hit again, this time in the chest. He crumples to the floor with a choked gasp, blood pooling around him. His eyes lock with yours, wide with shock and pain.

“Not again,” You mutter under your breath. "Please."

Rewind.

The third time is no different. No matter how many angles you try to cover, no matter how many ways you attempt to divert the sniper’s aim, Bucky always falls. Every time, it’s the same. Every time, you lose him. And every time, you’re forced to go back. Your mind becomes a haze of timelines, of trying to change the same sequence of events that always ends the same way.

By the tenth loop, the crushing weight of the failure begins to take its toll. You can feel it in your bones, the exhaustion of it all. The tension in your muscles, the faint tremor in your hands. It doesn’t matter how many times you reset. The result is always the same.

The bullet. The blood. His body crumpling. His eyes losing their light.

Rewind.

By the thirtieth loop, you're no longer just running through the motions. You’re starting to lose yourself. Every time you reset, something is chipped away. Maybe it’s your clarity, your sanity, your sense of time, or maybe all three. You can’t remember if you’ve already tried this particular strategy or if it’s the first time. You’ve forgotten the feeling of his hands in yours when you weren’t on a mission. Forgotten the sound of his laugh.

And yet, you keep doing it. For him.

But no matter how you try, no matter how you fight, he dies again. And again. And again.

Rewind.

The fiftieth time is when you break.

You’ve tried every strategy, every variation, every distraction. You’ve shot the sniper first, thrown grenades to create chaos, tried to fight through the whole base alone, but nothing works. Every loop, the result is the same.

Bucky dies, and you’re the one who has to watch it. Over and over.

You find him in the same position again. The same injury. The same wound. His hand, trembling, reaching for you in his final moments. His voice, strained and broken as he mutters your name. The world spins, distorting in the corners of your vision. It’s too much.

“Stay with me,” You beg hopelessly, tears burning your cheeks once again.

His eyes flicker. He’s fading. You can see it in the way his chest rises more slowly. His lips barely form a smile, and it breaks your heart. "I’m sorry," He whispers. "I’m so sorry."

Rewind.

When you wake again, you’re in the same place. The mission has started over, but it feels like you’ve been doing this for a lifetime. You know exactly where you are, what you need to do. But it doesn’t matter. You’re exhausted. Broken. Every reset feels like a piece of you is being torn away.

You barely register his presence next to you. The way his arm brushes yours as you move through the base. He’s always there, always close, but you don’t look at him. Not anymore. You can’t.

This time, he dies again.

And it’s then that you finally realize something: it’s not just the mission that’s killing him. It’s you. Your power. Your need to save him, to do whatever it takes, even if it means losing yourself.

Bucky’s last breath is quieter than the others. This time, he doesn’t even speak your name. When the world shifts back again, the weight of everything crashes down on you. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep losing him. You’re falling apart.

He’s alive in like normal at the start of your next loop, but you can’t meet his gaze. You can’t pretend anymore. His presence is suffocating now, and you can’t stop the dread from creeping up your spine.

“Hey,” He says softly, his voice full of concern. “You good?”

No. You’re not good. You’re shattered, and the weight of his repeated death is too much to bear. You give him a short lie that you’re fine only to watch him die again later.

-

By the hundredth loop, you stop trying to fix things. You stop trying to make the perfect plan, to save him. Because each time, you lose a little more of yourself. A little more of who you were before this madness.

You’re no longer sure if you’re even human anymore. You don’t recognize the face in the mirror. The loops have become your reality. And the more you rewind, the more you forget. What’s real? What’s memory? What’s a life worth saving when you’re already so broken?

The next time Bucky dies, you don’t even speak. You just let the world crumble, knowing that you’ll try again. And again. And again.

During one of your next loops, Bucky can feel something’s wrong. He’s always been able to read people, even before everything that happened. You’re different now in the sense of being much more distant and quieter than you were a few hours ago. You still move with precision, and you still have the same sharp focus on every mission. But your eyes, those once bright eyes that shone with warmth, now carry a depth of sorrow he can’t quite place.

It’s subtle at first. The way you recoil when he touches your arm. How you don’t meet his gaze for too long. How your voice, when you do speak, trembles just enough for him to notice. He watches you. He’s seen this before. But this time, it’s different. There’s something more. Something deeper.

-

It happens after the hundred and thirtieth loop. You’ve grown so tired, so worn down that you can barely keep track of the details. It’s becoming harder to find the motivation, the drive, to reset. But you push yourself, as always, because he needs you to.

Once again, you’ve failed. Bucky is dead. Again. The blood pools around him, his breath fading into silence. His final words are a shadow in your mind, repeated over and over: “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…”

You reset the timeline, but this time, it feels different. The world doesn’t reset as quickly. It lingers. You’re slow to stand, slow to move. The pressure in your chest is suffocating. You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve done this. But then you feel a hand on your shoulder, warm and firm. You know it’s him without looking. The touch is a relief in its familiarity, but it also makes your heart ache more than it should. You don’t want him to feel this. Not like this.

“Stop,” Bucky says quietly. His voice is low, but the command is there. It cuts through the fog in your mind.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You’re terrified of him seeing you, seeing what you’ve become, what you’re willing to do to save him. You’re terrified of the way you’re slowly losing yourself in this, and the last thing you want is for him to understand.

But he does.

“I know what you’re doing,” Bucky continues, his hand tightening on your shoulder, forcing you to face him. His gaze is sharp, the deep blue of his eyes searching yours with a depth of understanding that makes you want to collapse.

“No, you don’t,” You whisper, your voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” He says quietly, his voice breaking just a little. “I do.”

You shake your head, turning away. "You don’t get it. I… I can't lose you, Bucky. I can't-“

“Stop,” He interrupts, his voice firmer now. “Stop trying to save me.”

Your body tenses. “I have to. I can’t lose you.”

“You’re killing yourself to save me,” His voice is full of raw emotion. “You’re breaking, and you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep doing this for me.”

“I’d rather lose myself than lose you,” You say quickly, too quickly. The words come out of you without thought, without any real sense of control. It’s all you’ve been trying to do, isn’t it? Save him at all costs. You’d sacrifice everything for him, even if it means losing yourself in the process.

But Bucky, he doesn’t want that.

“No,” He says firmly as his hand cups your cheek gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I won’t let you destroy yourself like this. You can’t keep trying to save me like this.”

For a long moment, you stand there, frozen. His touch grounds you, even as the weight of his words presses down on your chest. It feels like the world is spinning too fast, like everything you’ve done, everything you’ve sacrificed, is suddenly meaningless.

“Bucky,” You breathe, the tears finally coming. “I don’t know how to stop anymore. I can’t… I can’t let you go. I can’t-“

He pulls you into him, wrapping his arms around you tightly. “You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do this by yourself. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. Please… stop doing this to yourself.”

You close your eyes, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek, the steady rhythm grounding you. “I can’t… I’ve tried everything. I’ve tried to fix it. I don’t know how to stop it.”

“You don’t have to,” Bucky whispers, pressing his forehead against yours. “Let me help. You’re not alone in this. I’m not going to die again, not if I can help it. But you have to trust me. Trust us.”

The weight of his words crashes over you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that there’s another way. Another chance.

“You won’t die,” You murmur, as though testing the words on your tongue.

“I won’t die,” He affirms, his voice soft but firm. “But only if you let go of this loop. Let go of the pain. Let me be here with you.”

The silence between you two is heavy with the unspoken promise. The possibility that, maybe, there’s a way forward that doesn’t involve sacrifice, doesn’t involve losing yourself. That maybe, just maybe, you can live without having to rewind the world every time something goes wrong.

“Together?” You ask quietly.

“Together,” Bucky answers, holding you close.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe that it’s true….

Until you don’t. Because he lied. He dies again. It was futile.

You stop counting.

Somewhere between the hundredth and thousandth reset, numbers stop meaning anything. You've tried ambushes, distractions, extraction before contact, calling in the others earlier, shielding him, shielding yourself, leaving. You've tried pretending you were never there. Tried running. Tried fighting harder. Stronger. Smarter. He always dies.

And now he knows. Bucky sees it in your eyes even before you reset. You don’t have to say it anymore. The moment things go wrong, he just looks at you, and there’s this helpless, aching resignation in his voice when he mutters, “Don’t.”

But you always do.

The loop consumes you like erosion that’s slow and invisible. You forget details. You forget whole days. You forget what smiling used to feel like. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. As long as he lives.

Rewind.

-

This time, you're quiet when the bullet rips toward him. You don't scream his name. You don't even blink. You step in front of him.

The impact knocks the air from your lungs. Your body hits the ground before the pain registers. Heat blooms across your ribs like fire. And for some reason, Bucky manages to take out the sniper this time, the threat gone. He drops down beside you instantly.

His hands pressing into the wound, voice shaking. “No. No, no, no. Stay with me. Stay with me!”

Your mouth tastes like iron. Your fingers twitch, reaching weakly for his cheek.

“I did it,” You whisper.

His hands are covered in your blood.

“What are you talking about?” He breathes. “You’re gonna be fine. We’ll get help. You’ll be-“

“I broke the loop.” You manage a smile, cracked and fleeting. “You’re alive.”

His breath catches. He knows. Of course he knows. “You can still rewind,” He begs. “Please. One more. Just one more.”

You shake your head faintly. “No. This is the only way I could win.”

Tears slip down his face as he holds you closer, his voice growing frantic. “You can’t leave me. I don’t want this. Not like this. I’d rather die than lose you.”

You reach up, your blood-streaked hand brushing his jaw. “I’d rather lose myself than lose you.”

“You already did,” He chokes, voice breaking. “You already have, look what this did to you.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze. “Then let me rest now.”

“No. No-“ His arms shake as his shoulders crumble. “I love you. You don’t get to leave.”

Your fading eyes search his, and for once, they're not haunted.

“I know. That’s why I did this,” You whisper. “I love you too.”

Your hand falls and your breath stops.

And for the first time in hundreds of timelines, Bucky lives.

But in this one… You don’t.

[butterflytarot]

Beginner's Sea/Water Witchcraft

Hey, beginners!

I've posted a few of these (one of which earlier today) and so far people have been really receptive, so I thought I'd keep going! It's really fun to connect with all of you & share more knowledge / experiences! This post's topic is about sea/water witchcraft! This post is quite extensive compared to my other ones that I've made like this, because it kind of branches into various topics, but all have to do with water/sea witchcraft!

As my usual disclaimer, this is simply my knowledge and my teachings that I've come across & developed through research, speaking with others, cultural teachings, etc. However, everyone has the right to believe what they like, I just hope this serves as beneficial to some of you somehow, whether it be providing information you resonate with or just teaching you something cool.

Lastly... BEFORE DOING ANYTHING: SET UP THOROUGH PROTECTIONS!

Comment any questions :D

Beginner-Friendly Practices for Sea Witches (Give + Take: Mutuality)

Working with the ocean can be as simple as giving and being given to. It requires self-reflection, and it requires working in relationship with the ocean and the land.

Pick up trash: Cleaning up litter around the beach/water. It shows that you care and are considering the ocean and its inhabitants and relatives. This can be done as an offering, gift, favor, or just because!

Offerings: Giving food, aquatic items, etc (biodegradable or safe for the sea/land/creatures) to the waves/sand (also counts for returning items that belong to the ocean!)

Accept gifts, don't steal: Taking only what is being given to you by the ocean (for example, your intuition might tell you to turn around, and when you do, you spot a sand dollar -- that sand dollar is intended for you, a gift. If you bump a shell with your foot, it may have been meant for you. If you tripped on a shell, it’s probably not meant for you - it just tripped you! You can take that as an accident or a sign.)

Connection: Sitting by or in the waves; putting your hands and/or feet in the water (this may be calming or grounding). Quality time and good company is always a friendly gesture!

In my opinion: We can learn a lot from the ocean. We can receive many blessings from it. It’s only right that we do something in return. We are symbiotic with water. It’s important that we value it.

Water Types & Common Uses/Properties

Disclaimer: The following list is nuanced, as it can change depending on culture or practice. I tried to be inclusive, but this is a brief guide. Depending on your practice, make sure you are mindful with your intentions and energy work, be aware of what properties you'd like to utilize and which you wouldn't.

River water: Flow, movement, travel, banishing (cleanse yourself of ill health, negativity, etc, as you let abundance, good health, prosperity rain down on you), communication with the spirit world. Often associated with creation, fertility, and purification

Ocean water: Purification (cleanses & refreshes), healing (in many ways, one of which is deep shadow work), power, divination, opens energy centers

Lake water: Peace, stillness, divination, knowledge, strength

Storm water: High energy, force, personal power, big changers, chaos

Holy well water: Blessings, healing, purification, protection

Dew: Renewal, healing, beauty

Moon water: Lunar energy (depends on the moon phase), emotions, empathy, intuition, intentions

Sun water: Solar energy, illumination, power

Floral / herbal waters: Holds the energies of those plants

Snow / ice: Stagnation, stillness, getting unstuck (if melted), transformation

Conch Shells

Conch shells are, and can be, used for a variety of purposes and practices. This section includes some of the usages, benefits, associations, and properties of conch shells.

Common / Main Spiritual properties:

1. Used for good luck, healing and protection

2. Feminine energy

3. Energy purification

Other Spiritual properties:

Communication with the spirit world

Abundance and prosperity

Getting rid of negative energy and evil spirits

Brilliance, luster, purity, and auspicious beginnings

The existence of the spirit of the sea

The animation of succeeding generations by the spirit of the ancestors

Rituals & Symbolism:

ceremonial instruments in Pre-Incan temples

metaphysical symbol of fertility, luck, infinity, and interconnectedness (according to the Metropolitan Museum)

used in some cultural weddings, for brides to blow a conch shell as part of rituals (I believe this is Bengali but don't quote me on that)

Conch shells are used in rituals to mark important religious, life and agricultural milestones, like birth/death or religious initiation

in Hinduism, conch shells are used for their purifying properties

In some African-American and Afro-Caribbean cemeteries, conch shells are placed on graves

representation of infinity and the cyclical nature of life, death, and rebirth, as well as interconnectedness and Indigenous concepts of time (the spiral)

Fertility and feminine aspects of birth, life, etc

A vessel filled with the water of life and a symbol of the womb

Mother of Pearl

Mother of pearl is, and can be, used for a variety of purposes and practices. This section goes over some of the spiritual usages, benefits, associations, and properties of mother of pearl.

Healing (physical and mental/emotional):

Soothes or calms emotions

Stirs, balances & harmonizes emotions

Healing (the mind):

Divinity and intuition

Potentially enhances psychic sensitivity and imagination

More:

Prosperity

Feminine energy

Potentially protects against negative energies

Thank you for reading this far!

I hope that these bits of information are somehow helpful to you!

[acosmicventure]

Planet That Influence Your Birth Day

Beyond birthdays and calendars, each day of the week is ruled by a celestial force — a planet that whispers its unique energy into your soul.

Let us journey through the days, and meet the seven celestial guardians — the planets that breathed life into your story, the day you took your first breath.

Born on Sun Day – The Soulful Leaders

Golden light courses through your veins.

If you were born on a Sunday, the mighty Sun is your celestial parent. You are radiant, warm, and born to shine.

Leadership feels natural to you — not as a burden, but as a blessing. You walk into rooms and change the temperature.

You inspire, uplift, and sometimes intimidate, for the Sun burns as much as it gives life.

Your life’s path asks you to embrace confidence, to rise even when dimmed, and to live with purpose as your light touches the world.

Born on Moon Day – The Keepers of Emotion (Monday)

Silver tides echo in your soul.

Monday-born souls are ruled by the Moon, the mother of intuition, emotions, and memory.

You are deeply connected to the unseen — moods, dreams, energies. You may feel more, sense more, and love with a quiet intensity.

Your gift is empathy, your challenge is learning to protect your softness. Like the Moon, you wax and wane, but your glow never fades.

You are a nurturer, a storyteller, a gentle tide washing over those in need of comfort.

Born on Mars Day – The Warriors of Passion (Tuesday)

Fire and will live in your heartbeat.

Tuesday-born are ruled by Mars, the red planet of action, drive, and desire.

You were born to move, to pursue, to conquer your own Everest. Courage is your currency.

You might act before you think, but your instincts are fierce and honest. You burn bright, sometimes too fast, but your life is anything but dull.

Conflict may follow you, but it’s there to teach you the art of sacred battle — choosing what’s worth fighting for and what deserves peace.

Born on Mercury Day – The Messengers of Light (Wednesday)

Words are your wings, curiosity your compass.

If Wednesday cradled your birth, Mercury kissed your mind. You are quick, witty, ever curious.

Communication is your superpower — whether through speech, writing, or thought. You live for ideas, connections, and movement.

A student of life and a teacher by nature, you weave information like thread into stories and solutions.

Restless, you’re always learning or traveling — even if just in thought. Your lesson is grounding, your gift is clarity.

Born on Jupiter Day – The Children of Fortune (Thursday)

Wisdom and wonder walk beside you.

Thursday-born are blessed by Jupiter, the planet of expansion, growth, and divine wisdom.

You are the philosopher, the optimistic seeker, the generous spirit.

Life wants to give you more — more knowledge, more opportunity, more experiences — but asks that you learn how to channel abundance with grace.

You believe in goodness, fairness, and justice. You may often find yourself teaching, guiding, or uplifting others simply through your natural light and perspective.

Born on Venus Day – The Romantics (Friday)

Beauty drips from your essence like rose petals.

If you were born on a Friday, Venus holds your heart. Love, beauty, art, and connection are the sacred threads of your life.

You notice the little things — the soft color of twilight, the melody in a laugh, the comfort of touch.

Relationships are your mirror, art your expression, and harmony your longing.

You’re not just romantic in love — you’re romantic in life.

Your journey is to discover that true beauty begins within, and that your softness is your strength.

Born on Saturn Day – The Old Souls (Saturday)

You carry time in your bones.

Saturday-born are the children of Saturn — the wise, the enduring.

You may feel older than your years, more responsible, more contemplative.

Your path is not always easy, but it is rich with soul-deep lessons.

You are here to build, to persevere, to master something great.

Structure comforts you, but so does silence. You teach the world that slow doesn’t mean stuck — it means sacred.

In time, your life becomes a legacy.

The day you were born is more than just a mark on a calendar.

It is a note in the melody of the cosmos, a subtle influence that dances with your destiny.

Whether you burn like the Sun or reflect like the Moon, whether you march like Mars or bloom like Venus, the stars sing to you — every single day.

Let your birth day be a reminder of the planet walking beside you offering strength, lessons and wisdom.

A COSMIC VENTURE

[daisys-reality]

── 🥝ꜞ˖ ꒰ 𝙿𝙰𝙲: Connecting with your desired reality ꒱

⌇ reality shifting themed tarot reading | general disclaimers apply | masterlist

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙾𝙽𝙴 🥥

Trusting that that’s exactly where you need to be right now. Doing things that make you feel wholesome. Feeling connections with your precious people. Feeling emotions in regards to your connections with your DR people (love, empathy, hate, excitement, sadness, anger��). Your bonds with those people create a strong foundation. Meditating about being in your DR to feel inner peace - to feel at home (do it regularly - maybe even daily, not to shift, just for the sake of feeling at home and basking in the connection with your DR until it becomes second nature). Practice feeling gratitude (for your connections, for your DR, for all the opportunities given to you) and let this feeling wash through your whole body. Practice experiencing your DR through your senses - revel through beauty (aesthetics), art (moodboards), music (playlists, ambience videos), scents and sensuality (imagining the feeling of your DR clothes or the things around you or imaginary acts of love-dovey stuff lol). Make it a sweet experience (imagine tasting the food in your DR you’ve been dying to try, kissing your lover which you longed for for so long, speaking gently words to the people dear to you heart and imagine seeing them smile fondly at you) - involve your emotions or focus on how these things make you feel - don’t force it, just observe and acknowledge. Your deep emotions are your strong point. 

Don’t focus too much on the “finally getting there” part - for you this is not just a magical quick transition because it already started with your first shifting attempt, it all is a part of you transitioning - you need to focus more so on the slowly merging of yourself and this world - acknowledge the transitions and feel it intensely - in order to do so you must be fully present and ‘awake’ in the sense of you actively recognizing what you’re doing with no expectations or rules about what “should be”. You don’t need anyone's approval. Instead, just be unconditionally in awe of what this life is offering/presenting to you. Beauty is everywhere and you have the natural ability to see it. Devote yourself to it (seeing it). It will increase your mood, your energy and your ability to connect with what you desire.

Learning to rely on faith is a major thing in all kinds of spiritual practices. Letting loose and putting trust in yourself/the universe etc. Acknowledge personal fears and issues, finding out where they’re coming from and learning how to deal with them. Healing parts of yourself with patience, love and devotion. Devotion to yourself and your happiness. There is no need to rush. Time is irrelevant. Connect the mundane everyday life with the otherworld. Make your human life magical. You have a knack for it. 

If you are struggling with the “trusting” part and are more so the type to be a ‘control freak’ maybe try to switch your perception of things, like this for example: “Change is coming whether you like it or not. You may be feeling like things are out of your control, maybe they are. You will be forced to shift, you will be forced to be in your DR - fight against or accept it”.

Also, maybe do not try to talk about this with others in your CR, I feel like there are a few people in your environment (family or friends) who are not trustworthy enough and might make you out to be crazy - which might hurt and discourage you a lot. Please be careful with who you share all this with. Others might not be able to appreciate these things like you do. You’re such a precious person. Don’t let others dim your light.

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝚆𝙾 🌱

Doing activities here that relate to your DR that bring you immense joy and a sense of belonging, daydreaming freely about your DR and realizing consciously that all your fantasy will come true (the desired ones obviously) - see how that makes you feel and bask in that feeling. Making use of your creativity (making DR related content like posts, moodboards, playlists or stories or DR related clothes, accessories etc.), meditating on and/or imagining things about your DR that give you a sense of safety and emotional fulfillment ( ex. with relationships and family). Be at peace with your DR. Gaining inner peace will make you overflow with clarity and grace, reaching beyond depths, through your cells in your body to your soul. Practice feeling at home in your DR (imagine/visualize your DR self doing daily activities or self care at home etc.). Know that the ‘wholeness’ you feel in your DR with your precious DR people reflects the wholeness you’ve created for yourself. Doing things in the way that they align with your personal values will give you immense strength and resilience - you don’t need to bend over backwards or stretch yourself thin.

Don’t follow every other person and their advice, just follow your heart. I know that putting a lot of effort and energy into a situation is wearing you down, especially when you are not seeing the return. Right now you might lack confidence and feel as though you don't really know what you're doing. Or you might feel like something is hindering you from expressing the full range of your skills/ideas and keeping you locked up in a box, when all you want to do is to be free and flourish! You might be a little ungrounded or suppressing something - not wanting to deal with it - which confuses you in return. I feel like you’re someone who struggles with knowing what you really want, letting yourself be influenced by other people's dreams/desires  and therefore being indecisive about a lot of things. In your case, feeling stuck and unfulfilled is increasing your awareness of what you do want. This suspension in time is actually a blessing in disguise! Meditating on your ‘issues’ so that you can gain clarity before making any moves/decisions - clarity about your DR, who you want to be and what you want to experience - this clarity will bring you closer to your DR - emotionally but also on the mental/consciousness sphere (I don’t really want to say ‘physically’ here in this context but I hope you know what I mean lol). Sitting still and realizing that your life is bigger than this one moment. There are endless options and opportunities for you. Don’t get discouraged and keep moving. Every step you take is a step closer to your happiness (even if you can’t see it at that time, know that there is only movement forward not backwards). 

Be innovative, do things with grace and ease - it comes naturally to you. (Your DR people, the universe, we as a community etc) We  all have your back, there is no need to worry or be anxious. You are safe. Time is irrelevant.  Once you’re clear about your intentions and use them to fuel purposeful action. The more specific you are (about your overall intentions - not necessarily about your DR or script), the more you magnetize your creative energy and manifesting magic.

Try reassessing what you worship everyday (consciously or unconsciously). What are you elevating? Where does this ‘sacred ladder’ you climb ultimately lead to? What if instead of putting your DR at the center of your spiritual/shifting practice, you put yourself, a god/goddess, the universe or nature at the center? Think about how that would change your approach. I think honoring, devoting and worshiping something gives you a lot of joy, energy and an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude. Being humbled by the immense sense of wonder this life can bring leads to a shift in your perception. You can be in awe and feel breathtaking delight of this otherworldly opportunity (called shifting), it is very natural to do so. But even if you put it on a pedestal, don’t twist its nature of existence. There is no need to sacrifice something or to acquire a certain worth first to be able to finally shift. The ability to shift ‘realities’ is an innate ability of our consciousness, there is nothing being asked to be done in return. Being in awe about something and honoring it, does not equal giving your power away. Don’t forget or undermine yourself on this journey.  

When we were children (and even now), we can barely comprehend the vastness of our own lives, let alone the existence of other planets and realities. It’s  not long before we learn we (as in our CR self) aren’t necessarily the center of the universe: We are specks of stardust in one of its many skies. But we must all still do our part to take care of our own individual worlds, or else it throws everything else off-balance. So take care of your own little world (your mind, body...) but keep in mind that you are not alone in this world. Help and support is always available. 

Some quotes for you: “The distance between two objects is always relative. Objects in a mirror are closer than they appear.” ; “Don’t just take the picture - enter it.”; “Accept what you desire, not what you feel pressured to desire.”; “Be proud of the person you’ve become.”

𝙿𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴 🫐

There is something toxic going on in your psychic realm aka in your subconscious. It might be present in your relationships with people and things,  in your environment or in your thoughts/speech patterns in the way that your words have a sting of poison in them. Regardless of what it is, it needs to be identified and acknowledged first. Change comes second. Overall, I can see a theme of “self-realization through suffering”.  Right now, you might feel a little scattered, moody and directionless or like you being off-course. It feels like you’re hesitating in taking control of your life. You might be holding back due to various reasons. Sorry for having to call you out but you need to start to take responsibility for your inner resistance and make choices. Because of this lack of control you’re unable to handle any stress and pressure. It feels like your life is running over with way too much drama that you can barely keep up with. It's a very unpleasant feeling tbh.

Remember when you harm others, you harm yourself. A very negative outlook on others, yourself, your shifting journey or your life will only chain you to the ground - slowly clouding your focus, draining you of your willpower and leaving you only with frustration and aggression. 

There might be two or more forces pulling your psyche into seemingly opposite directions. As humans we tend to see things in black & white, forgetting all the gray in between. There might be someone or something (a feeling/desire) in your life that begins to fade away, or maybe is gone altogether now. You might want to hold onto it or bring it back to life in your DR. But the advice here is “Don’t fight it”. There are no neat and tidy bows to tie things up at the end, leaving you satisfied. Acceptance isn’t easy but it’s a thing you need to work towards. We create our own closure. You shouldn't build a home that will come crumbling down if a single person walks out of the front door, right?  When it comes down to it, we can’t depend on other people or things to make us feel happy or fulfilled. Fact is that people/things are going to leave from time to time and you’re the only one who’s guaranteed to stay. Take time to find sources of joy outside of your beloved people and things (ex. through mediating). You deserve happiness that lasts. So try to rethink your plans/ideas for your DR first of all.                                               

In addition, I think what you need right now is stability and structure. As I said in the beginning you need to make a choice/decision on where your destination is. Make a move and try to gain back a sense of control. Don’t get discouraged when you hit some road blocks along the way. Give yourself direction by choosing to live with a purpose and/or intention. You should know that forcing outcomes can be disappointing  and will not ultimately satisfy your needs. Try to build a routine or a ritual. Whether small or large, honoring rituals can help you feel grounded and connecting to your DR. You might even join a group that has a similar interest in your DR world or start something together with a friend creating rules you can follow together.  It might give you a sense of acceptance, unity and strengthen your beliefs and resolve. Try to gain more knowledge about your DR - for example if it’s in a ‘fictional’ universe try to watch/read the original CR source or read fanfictions - anything that gives you more of a feeling of how this world works, how people interact etc. While doing so you might come up with a lot more ideas you can’t wait to discuss with others. Your excitement and creativity might come back. You feel the need to put ideas into action and just go for it. Writing and speaking might come easily to you - so anything that involves that might be good to connect with your DR (ex. journaling, letter writing, vaunting, talking to yourself as your DR self). You will want to find answers and your drive will be immense. Your will be unstoppable and success inevitable. So go after what you want, and you will succeed! 

[crunchybeards]

I'm sure this has been beat to death by now, but my favourite aspect of Sam as a character is the fact that he truly does encapsulate one of the most pervasive themes in the game, the theme of being humane. Sorry for the really long ramble but I just wanted to get this off my chest and just genuinely commend the game for what it does with its protagonist. Be warned for spoilers for the whole game and some endings.

From the begining, Sam is shown to be an empathetic character, despite being a pseudo-silent protagonist. As different as every route can be, Sam always feels some form of very human remorse. He feels remorse over killing cursed individuals when he reflects in the mirror. He feels remorse for fucking up the ritual and damning the astronomers. He feels guilty over taking the resources of people who have become cursed, even though he knows that they won't be using them anymore. At least once per playthrough, he experiences some form of remorse towards another party.

As far as a reach as it is for me to say this, I personally saw the dialogue options that players can pick as Sam's own thoughts and the specific thoughts that you choose to pick are the thoughts that become fully realised and are added to his overall character for that playthrough. There are often a lot of dialogue options that are negative or reactionary. Yet every single time, there's at least one positive one, one where he feels empathy, one where he believes there is hope for an individual despite how bleak the situation may seem. Or at the very least he chooses to be civil and non-discriminatory towards a cursed person.

As grotesque as the game is and as twisted as the Cursed become, they're still human, they're still people even if not physically apparent. And 9 times out of 10, they still behave like people. My favourite aspect about the game is that there are some characters that seem like they're too far gone, that they only wish to hurt people and yet if kindness is extended towards them, they can still be saved. We see this with the hidden-away garage. The fish and chips shop. The Cursed are still willing to trade and salvage the situation as best as they can. They're making the most out of a shitty situation despite struggling interally with their sanity and adjusting to newly formed bodies.

Choosing to be humane at the end of the world is one of the best things about Sam's character. Nobody would hold it against him if he were to kill cursed individuals indiscriminately. There are several characters that he can befriend who have done the same like Hellen. But being given the option to negotiate, the option to talk and to extend an olive branch, he takes it. He talks to cursed individuals who are lucid, he even befriends a few like Joel. Even in the ending where he becomes a swarming mass of arms and feels overwhelmed by his new ever expanding form, even though he is so scared, he took a moment to calm himself down, pick himself up and get to work helping people. Even as a borderline Lovecraftian being, he actively chose to be the driving force for good. Even though the prior examples I listed are choices that can be made by the player, this ending proves that Sam is a genuinely good and humane person. In the 104 Gods ending, the gods still destroyed parts of humanity and even divided it further. In the Screaming Sky ending where the astronomers ascend into a unified god like entity as the Exhaulted Four, they were actively destroying the planet and killed random people in an unpredictable bloody purge. Every other instance of people being presented with this awesome change, they were destructive, unintentionally so due to insanity, but ultimately destructive. The sole exception to these realities is Sam. When he's aware of what he's become, he helps, he becomes the Saviour of Humanity. He could've been like any of the 104 Gods, start his own cult/ community, be the supreme ruler of Earth because like with the gods, who could stop him. But he didn't, and that's what truly does differentiate him. The Gods could've been lucid and with how they actively do rule over the earth in their respective zones, it appears as though they are. And yet we have Sam, a god in his own right, but is a good person (well except for the Perfect Ritual ending where he overwhelms the earth Xin Amon style but I attribute that to losing himself completely as opposed to his character's intention).

As corny as it may sound, Sam truly does choose to be kind as opposed to choosing the 'right' option of caving into fear and attacking enemies/ isolating himself. To Sam, being a kind person is not dependent on appearance, it isn't dependent on what you can personally get out of helping another person but it's about being a helper of your fellow man, regardless of everything that is happening. No matter the route, no matter the player's input, that humanity is always there and I admire that about him.

Tldr: