#frail words collapse

[rastronomicals]

July 1:

On the 1st of July, 1966, Bob Dylan disseminated Blonde On Blonde, his double album.

This just isn't Dylan's first double album, it's rock music's. They aren't really sure when it was released, but Friday the first of July seems a pretty good guess.

On the 1st of July, 1986, Misfits let loose unto a world that may or may not have been ready for it Misfits, their almost omnipresent compilation album.

On this date in 1987, Napalm Death released their first album, Scum.

On this date in 2003, As I Lay Dying, the band who thought they were a rap artist, released their second album, Frail Words Collapse.

[joeyxvanity]

94 hours of regret

[okwonyo]

CUFFING SEASON 𓂃 gymrat!enhypen 𓈒

𝗜𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗥𝗔𝗭𝗜𝗢𝗡𝗘 ✶ ────── 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝖿𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗒. 𝗂 𝗇𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗀 𝖻𝗈𝗒.

엔하이픈 & fem!rea 14OO fluff established relationship cautions kissing skinship ˊᯅˋ altero

❛ 姫　❜ thanks to danipie for the heeseung prompt and tam for jakes >< plus to jenn, tam and pockemonz for being my emotional support 🎀

reblogs⠀⠀ꢾ꣒⠀ feedbacks please

HEESEUNG ｡｡ ever since you moved in together, your boyfriend likes to walk around with a tank top embracing his upper body, showcasing his biceps and making you daydream about his chest.

frankly, this habit of his isn’t new to you— back when you lived in different apartments, he would always open the door while dressed in that sort of clothes.

you admired his arms for a while during the long times whereas you were together. gaze dragging over his hands to reach his biceps, you always wondered if the ribbon you put in your hair could fit around his big muscles.

“do you think it’d fit?” the ribbon is held between your index finger and your thumb as you question your boyfriend.

he looks at his biceps then at the pink hair accessory in your hand. seeing the sheer happiness on your face, he smiles “we can always try, sweetheart.”

wiping the grin off his face as he watches you wrap the thing around his flexed bicep is impossible. it is fun and you find it irresistibly hot— wrapping his arm is like marking him as yours. and you both love it.

JAY ｡｡ honestly, you think you are dreaming even now, deep in doze still, when you step into the kitchen and are met with a heaven-sent view in front of you.

with a mouth agape and eyes growing wide, you admire the back of your boyfriend. you want to thank whoever created gyms and thank your fortune for making your boyfriend such an addict.

his muscular and defined back shines, stares back at you as he is focused on making breakfast. the laces of the pink apron he wears on top of his naked torso wraps his waist perfectly.

it feels like heaven when your cheek collapses on his hot naked skin. you hug his waist like a teddy bear— almost melting into his skin. and god, he smells too good.

it’s dreamy when he kisses the top of your head, “good morning, baby,” he greets you, but you are too enamored by the vision of his broad shoulders a few moments ago to respond just yet.

you only hum, thinking that today will be a great day.

JAKE ｡｡ your phone rings as you are making yourself lunch. upon picking it up, a breathy voice reaches you through the phone. given the hour of the day, you don’t need to double check to know who it is.

“hi, princess, you good?” he greets you and you can hear the grin in his tone. a groan comes quick after— proving his current physical effort and confirming that he is at the gym, as he always is.

“yes, i’m good, jake,” the deep breath you take makes you able to respond after a few seconds. the next question is automatic, “how are you?”

“’m good, babe, i’m on the lat pulldown machine right now.” it would have been better, way better, if he hadn’t said that. or if he never showed you what a lat pulldown looks like.

but he did, and you cannot wipe the image of him sitting, his wide shoulders flexing alongside his back as he pulls the lat down. it makes you feel dizzy, him groaning again doesn’t help.

due to your silence, he continues. his voice is whiny, your knees get weaker, “i’ll finish my set quickly and take you on a date, alright?”

imagining him at the gym makes your whole behind fragile. your voice is locked in your throat and you tongue won’t move. but you’d let that man take you anywhere he’d like— the frail sounds of agreement you make are a confirmation of it.

SUNGHOON ｡｡ “stop moving around,” he commands, rather gently. his smile is too big for his words to be an order, he is so close to you that you can’t stop giggling. but you do stop moving.

the man’s beauty hits you one more time as your eyes focus on him. your boyfriend has his hands either side of your torso, next to your arms while you lay down on the floor.

he lower himself slowly, his lips brush over yours ever so gently, a quick kiss before he pushes on his arms and gets in his initial position. he is the one who got that idea, claiming that it’ll motivate him more.

it is in the privacy of your living room that he does another push up, his chest presses against yours when he lowers himself. this time, the kiss linger a little more than the last one.

you should have known that this exercise wouldn’t last long. it takes him less than three pushups to start focusing on your lips a little too much. “you know what? nevermind.”

his weight drops on you, a little ‘oof’ escapes from his mouth and a gentle ‘sorry, darling’ does the same from his. you kiss him back quickly when his mouth gets on yours.

SUNOO ｡｡ when you first met, his gym journey wasn’t as long as it is currently. therefore, you were used to his old, already quite muscular build. when he started going more regularly to the point where it was almost everyday, the changes weren’t very obvious to you.

of course, you knew he was getting more buffed every passing day but you didn’t realize how much until now. when your head is resting on his chest, covered by the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

it takes you a bit to realize how firm his chest feels under your resting head. you stay still for a moment, then your eyebrows furrow as you rub your cheek against his chest.

his arms tighten around your form, and you realize that his pecks are not the only parts that got more muscular. his chest vibrates as he laughs, “what are you doing?”

taken out of your examination, your gaze shoots up. it’s absurd how his natural cute face is on top of that kind of build. “since when are you hulk?”

JUNGWON ｡｡ during the time when he isn’t getting on your nerves or teasing you, he spends his energy on lifting weights at the gym and working on his muscles.

therefore, you know how well his body is built. you can tell, honestly, whenever you surreptitiously peek at him while he takes off his shirt to put on a hoodie instead. his big shoulders and small waist looks back at you, his beceps flex as he folds the clothing piece.

his muscles might be one of his greatest assets, to both send you into a spiral and irritate you the most. because being manhandled everywhere by your boyfriend creates an eruption of butterflies in your stomach but not being able to fight back makes you want to bite him.

“leave me alone!” you laugh when he lifts you off the floor in a swift mention. you are unable to move your arms as he jailed them in his embrace when he rushed to you.

the man quite literally throws you on your shared bed, making your body bounce against the mattress. you are breathless from both laughing, running away from him— even more when you find him on top of you.

you try to push him away when he leans closer. well, not really trying, because you don’t put any strength in the process. he ends up getting his kiss at the end, and he is quite content about it.

RIKI ｡｡ after occupying your room more than you do, even when you are not here, it is natural for him to have a place in your dressing where he can put his clothes.

the first time you thought about it, there wasn’t any big deal or issue related to it. it is the natural course of things, and you love that he is always there with you.

but it gets harder for you when he actually changes. when he takes off his shirt right before your eyes, letting you have a look of the creation he worked hard to have.

embarrassment becomes a prominent emotion in your head whenever you catch yourself staring at his defined abs. it is torture, you cannot yake your eyes off of them.

only a short amount of time passes before he notices it. soon enough , your boyfriend is smirking at you with his shirt in his hand, “like what you see?”

it’s a shame that you actually do. rather very much than not.

taglist open + net— @sgz-net

[cosycafune]

'CAN'T YOU HANDLE ME, BABY?'

0.8k words. sleeping with a man, Toji, double your age wasn’t on your bucket list. however, a tinder match up leaves you sexually curious — throwing away your sanity.

synopsis of acts: back shots, multiple creampies, unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, orgasms, him fucking you, whilst watching through the mirror, size difference, big balls, teasing, taunting, crying, mentions of oral, picture taking, infedelity and potential more. not proofread.

NOTHING within you knew what you did to end up here, struggling to take the man that you met on plain, old Tinder. A cum bucket wasn’t your first thought, even if you were a bratty mess.

A writhing mess, you’re mindlessly arched — Toji’s thick, heavy walls slapping against your filled cunt. Strings of thick, warm cum had filled you for hours, but Toji wasn’t willing to let you go. Unable to cry out anymore, consumed by Toji’s brutal pace, your body quivers heavily.

Not a sound fled from your lips, simply broken moans that barely surfaced — a symbol of your worn out self. To you, finding a man on a dating site, like this was extremely rare. However, nothing within you could decline the bulky, gruff, athletic man who kindly matched with a frail, doll-like you. No matter your weight, you still remained something miniscule, in need of conquering before Toji.

“Toji, can’t…last,” Stuffed effortlessly with Toji’s ropes of cum, his thick cock mashing your insides, you falter upon the ample bed with your strained words.

A large, overwhelming pile of saliva remains upon the sheets while Toji grins at you collapsing upon the blankets, being sure to drill into a quivering you. Shit, his ample smile never once faded within the mirror — a wicked grin licking upon his features with every ample thrust.

Innately, Toji’s girth exceeded anything you had ever experienced before, along with his length. Therefore, taking him for this long completely consumed you. Nonetheless, you never listened to your internal thoughts — warning yourself that you couldn’t handle him.

Even with him so deeply within your stomach, pulverising you, your cunt desperately sang his rough praises. Even as your beaten upon bubble butt weakly remains up, Toji can’t help but roughly steady your hips — colliding with a silently moaning you with glee.

Never had you been so fanciful with men who remain significantly older, but you couldn’t help but grind against him when he first entered your home. The restraint you once garnered wavered the moment Toji aligned his ample cock against your lips, throat fucking you recklessly for an hour. Wickedly, he tore into you immensely — so pleased with a teary, bubble-lipped you still yearning to take more. Fat globs of tears streamed down your face, but you couldn’t help but continue to let him throat fuck you — taking a picture and sending it to your toxic boyfriend.

Even whilst you almost choked, his cock lewdly smacking against your lips, Toji contently pushed you into intaking more. To you, you knew he discovered sadistic pleasure in seeing a naked, kneeling you — scattered with a sea of hickeys — obediently before his cock. Seeing you worship ever vein, the beads of cum that spew, the length of it, your battering doe eyes, completely consumed Toji immensely.

“Shit, I know you can…take it!” Toji bellows as he continues to flaunt his almost unbearable sexual drive, his sculpted hips prompting lewd sounds to flow from your squelching cunt. Squelching sounds cut through the serenity of the room, along with the straggled sounds that flee from your lips.

“‘Can’t believe you’ve been taking it…this long,” Knowing you’re flowing with Toji’s cum, even though you’re still being slip open by him, Toji grins with unfathomable glee.

“Fhm,” Wordlessly, exhausted, Toji softly tugs on your hair — forcing you to admire your teary, mascara-stained features in the posed mirror.

“A mess, and I’ve barely started,” Scoffing with his murmurs, Toji hums whilst your features are out of focus — completely corrupted by his cock.

“‘Can’t you… handle me, baby?” Grunting, feeling your walls tighten for the millionth time, Toji’s question falls pointless to a cumming you.

“Ohh,” Only bringing yourself to mutter something so useless, Toji realises the only thing holding up your conquered physique is his thick, veiny arm.

“Mhm! Yes!” Picking up his pace, Toji bellows while his ample balls bash against your buzzing clit — pushing you down on the bed.

“Ahhh!” Finding might to cry out, you gasp at Toji’s body weight falling upon you whilst he thrusts his deepest — pushing you further down on the bed.

“You’re…cute,” Moments away from finishing, Toji thrusts his deepest within you — his thick cock causing you to let out a struggled gasp.

“S-So…deep,” Muttering, Toji grins at your subtle coherency — drawing himself cumming his deepest within you once more.

“‘Better not…take birth control,” Remaining tattered, cum-stuffed vigorously, Toji admires his work — bringing his words to your ear.

“‘Didn’t stuff you…to not carry my…baby,” Not longing to pull out, Toji carves himself into moaning loudly through his words — his eyes rolling back at his cum shooting within your womb.

“Ngh!” Jolting at Toji’s bucket-load of cum punch your gut, you feel yourself accidentally come undone — endlessly filled with his prestige baby batter.

“Hm, weren’t you…saying you’d take me for hours?” Tiredly mumbling, Toji glances at an almost asleep you within the mirror — drool departing from your parted lips.

“Can’t you handle more of me, baby?” Desperation tinting Toji’s voice, he continues to conduct his slow pace — so content by the warmth of your clutching cunt.

do not modify or reupload any of my works. all works are written by me. all rights reserved; cosycafune. 2024.

[lightseoul]

HOLD ME CLOSE (HOLD ME TIGHT) (3.8k)

pairing. k. bakugou x reader

synopsis. masaru has a stroke that nearly kills him. bakugou handles it well—until he doesn’t. (read on ao3)

cw. pro-hero!katsuki, aged-up (32), established relationship, mentions of illness, themes of grief, discussions of past trauma (bkg's)

a/n. i hope y'all cry because this made me cry lmao. writing really is easy if you take heavy inspiration from your personal experiences lol. this is written from bkg's pov, and serves as a mini character analysis as well ig?

bakugou remembers it clear as day.

it was only a few weeks after the two of you celebrated his 32nd birthday in a secluded resort out of town when he got the call.

he was in the middle of chastising his klutz of a sidekick’s ear off for forgetting to submit an important case report when his phone started ringing, and the very fact that it wasn’t your ringtone further soured his already worsening mood.

with a final reprimand laced with an hr-appropriate amount of expletives, he dismissed the rookie, leaving him alone in his pristine, corner office.

he recalls sighing in annoyance upon seeing the caller id, as well as his clipped tone when he greeted the old hag with a curt, “what.”

that annoyance was immediately replaced with alarm, however, when his usually bright mother spoke into the microphone, her typically level voice shaking with unmistakable fear.

“it’s your father, katsuki…” she started, and he instantly braced himself for the impact.

mitsuki takes a shaky inhale. “…he’s having a stroke. we’re on the way to the hospital. please, come here.”

he didn’t need to be told twice.

he remembers being on autopilot—the entire way to the suburban peripheries of musutafu where his parents decided to move after he got his own place at the age of 22. he’s not entirely sure—the journey over now a hazy blur—but he might’ve sent you the link to his location, because you magically arrived at the local hospital around fifteen minutes after him.

the moment he saw you burst into the entrance of the emergency room, a huge, tidal wave of relief immediately washed over him, he thought he could’ve collapsed. the second you lock eyes, he witnessed a whirlwind of emotions dance across your beautiful features, before you ran over to where he stood near the vending machine, unceremoniously crashing into his arms.

at that point, he had no idea what made you drop everything—including the precious work that you do—and just follow him based on an ambiguous gps locator he sent you without context, but he was glad you did.

because it was only as you held him so close to you all the while soothing his back and chanting soft ‘it’s okay’s’ in his ear did it hit him.

the fact that he’s fucking terrified.

it must’ve been at least three hours of stewing in tense silence in the emergency room’s waiting area before the two of you finally saw mitsuki.

he remembers the way his heart ached when he first laid eyes on his mother, someone who’s typically radiant and spirited and happy, now looking too frail and painfully vulnerable.

words weren’t exchanged as the three of you walked towards each other, and he promptly engulfed his mother into a tight hug before he could talk himself out of it.

“how is he?” he whispered into the side of her head, choosing to ask then, in the middle of a hug, because he didn’t know if he could stand the look on her face when she answered.

“he’s alive,” she managed to get out, but she said it so tentatively that he knew it was too soon to feel any sort of relief.

“but…?” he recalls asking with bated breath.

“it was a hemorrhagic stroke. it’s… it’s bad, katsuki.”

it wasn’t until a few more hours later, when the two of you were finally granted permission to enter masaru’s hospital room together with mitsuki, did he realize what bad meant.

some parts of this story are blurry now, but the way his stomach dropped at the sight of his father remains to be unforgettable.

the sight of him paralyzed, head to toe.

masaru remained confined in the hospital for a few weeks more after that. the three of you took turns—one would go home to clean up and catch some sleep while the remaining two kept watch and assisted the man.

you almost got booted out of there on the second day, with the nurse saying only immediate family was allowed due to overcrowding in the hospital, but bakugou was quick to step in and say you were practically married.

when the nurse politely pressed for more details while looking pointedly at your ring finger and the lack of a wedding band, he lied and said you forgot to wear it in your rush to get there.

she didn’t seem too convinced, but she thankfully let it go, probably because it was #2 pro-hero dynamight who said so, eventually exiting the room after checking masaru’s vitals.

he remembers you heaving a sigh of relief once the three of you were left alone, tossing him a small smile that sent a familiar shot of longing straight to his veins.

one day, he recalls thinking to himself, you will be married.

just—not now.

the first day home was as much of a nightmare as he expected it to be.

growing up, and until that moment, he never really found himself wanting siblings.

sure, it got pretty lonely during his childhood, but he almost always had kids following him around what with how flashy his quirk is, and he had izuku, which he can now admit was (and still is) his best friend.

plus, you always said you loved how he’d roughhouse you, which you chalked up to him being an only child and not having had the opportunity to do that with anyone else.

but, as the three of you struggled to lift masaru out of the car and into his newly minted wheelchair, he remembers wishing for a brother or a sister who could lend a helping hand and make sure all of masaru’s numb body parts were carefully looked out for.

it’s fucking hilarious, how he didn’t just lift his father all by himself with his pro-hero muscles, but the fear of accidentally hurting him even more turned out to be more paralyzing than he anticipated.

not that he would ever admit that to anyone.

not even you.

but as he watched you and his mother fluttering around, tending to masaru’s needs not even a minute you get in the house, it struck him that maybe he should.

you might not be his sibling (thank god, no), but you will most likely become his parents’ daughter if things go his way.

and, whether he liked it or not, he’s got to do something about the growing ache in his chest that’s only growing wider by the second.

the next few weeks he spent busying himself with the stuff that came with looking after a stroke patient.

mitsuki, who’s done nothing but throw herself into caring for her husband, insisted on helping him find the people they needed, but bakugou didn’t even let her get a word in.

when he tucked himself into bed right next to you later that night in his new bedroom (you moved in with him to his parents’ despite his protests), he recalls ranting about how the old hag was getting on his nerves with her inability to just let him handle shit.

“have i ever been incompetent?” he huffed, turning on his side so he could lie facing you. “it’s like she doesn’t even trust me.”

“i think the two of you just want the same for the other, kats,” came your steady yet gentle voice, not missing a beat and totally unfazed by his petulant behavior.

“…waddya mean?”

you reached out to caress his cheek, and he remembers how soft your fingers felt and how his eyes momentarily fluttered close at the warmth.

at the sight, you flashed him a sad smile before pressing on.

“you’re both hurting, but the two of you would rather carry the weight by yourselves instead of burdening the other. it’s how you and mitsuki show you care.”

he didn’t say anything after that.

at least, for a while.

finally, he spoke up. “…i just don’t like to be bossed around, is all.”

to that, you only tossed him a knowing look. “yup, just that. definitely. never mind your immense sense of responsibility and the stubborn yet admirable way you carry everybody’s bur—”

“yeah, yeah,” he cut you off before you could ramble any further. “i get it.”

seemingly satisfied, you grinned up at him before pulling him close, cradling his head by your chest.

with the new position, he could feel your familiar, rhythmic heartbeat.

your heartbeat that he liked to listen to for reassurance—telltale evidence that you’re alive and right next to him, and that no villain has wrestled you out of his firm grip.

and as he lay there snuggled into you and listening to the consistent pulse, he found his frantic, loud thoughts slowly but steadily being lulled to a hum.

thoughts that he knew you’d kick to the moon if you found out he’s been thinking them.

thoughts like maybe he’s just selfishly gatekeeping all the tasks so he could distract himself from the pain that’s threatening to swallow him whole.

thoughts like maybe he deserved this for all the wrong he’s done growing up.

thoughts like maybe his mother would be in far less pain if it were him instead of his saint of a father who had to go through this.

he fell into a fitted sleep that night.

after a few more weeks of searching for and screening applicants, and with your and mitsuki’s approval, he finally settled on a stay-in caregiver and physical therapist.

it took quite a while for the two to learn the ropes and master how he wanted things to be done around here, but they eventually got there, and when they did, they cleared a lot of stuff that has been on everybody’s plates ever since masaru had the stroke.

with that, mitsuki insisted the two of you go home to your shared condominium and get back into working full-time again, but neither of you relented. he tried to get you to return, not wanting to hold you back from the important things that you do, but you were quick to dismiss him.

he didn’t tell you then and there, but he secretly wished you would.

he’d never confess this to anybody, but he’d definitely crumble without you around.

he remembers one specific thursday, when you first started getting masaru into exercising his left, albeit non-dominant hand, by drawing.

it was silly, but he recalls not even being able to look his father in the eye as the two of you sat across from him who was plastered in his wheelchair, a small coffee table between you, on which sat a piece of paper, a pencil, a box of crayons, and an all might plushie you swiftly grabbed from his bedroom.

and as he sat there avoiding his father’s gaze, he watched you as you talked animatedly to the man, explaining the deceivingly simple activity: he just had to try and draw the plushie, after which, if he still had the energy, he could color in using the crayons you dug out from bakugou’s drawers.

but masaru wasn’t having it.

the man only stared at you in disinterest as you tried your best to engage him. despite himself, bakugou felt indignation creep up his spine.

he knew. fuck, he really did. after he made sure you’ve fallen asleep, he had spent nights researching his father’s condition, poring over mountains and mountains of information all in the name of being able to better understand and help him.

so he knew—he knew that strokes, especially severe ones, can cause noticeable changes in one’s personality, at least in the short term. it can turn someone sensitive and in tune with others’ emotions into someone who’s apathetic and seemingly self-absorbed.

still, that knowledge doesn’t stop him from jumping on his feet when masaru, his kind, sweet father, angrily wiped off the table with his left arm, sending the materials you worked hard to gather scattered all over the floor.

and, before he could stop himself: “hey!”

you were onto him in an instant, a soothing albeit restraining hold on his shoulder. “katsuki, it’s okay.”

he was about to open his mouth to spit venom when he felt you tighten your grip. he didn’t have to glance at you to know you were looking at him the way you always did when you were begging him to stay quiet.

and because he loved (loves) you, he did.

and as he wordlessly picked up the papers and pens in silence, he couldn’t help but mourn over his father, and the patience and calmness that characterized his being.

the very patience and calmness that he always wished he had, instead of his temper and aggressiveness, because that’s what you, of all people, deserved.

and then the all-too-familiar guilt hit him again.

because why was he acting like his father died, when he was still very much alive?

simple, bakugou thought to himself.

it’s because it feels like he has.

his relationship with masaru didn’t get better after that.

he’d been trying, he really had been. if not for you, who’d been tending to his father like he was your very own, then for his mother, whose fatigue and sadness have been chipping away at her by the minute.

he was washing the dishes in the kitchen after you’ve had dinner—all the while his parents watched tv in the living room—when you walked in, a couple more dirty plates in tow.

he wouldn’t have noticed he was glaring down at the brick of butter on the shelf if you didn’t point it out.

“a few more seconds and that’s gonna melt,” you quipped.

he looked back at you, gears in his head turning for a beat, before he chuckled half-heartedly and turned back to the sink.

behind him, he recalls hearing a click, which he now identifies as you putting down the plates on the kitchen island, before he felt your arms wrap around his middle, encasing him in a hug.

your voice was smooth when you drawled out, “what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, baby?”

still, and despite all the shit that’s been going on in his life, he still found himself shuddering at the pet name.

“nothing.”

“really?” came your immediate response. “because i was getting kinda jealous with how hard you were staring at that butter.”

at that, bakugou couldn’t help but snort. you followed suit, that delightful laugh echoing across the small room.

“stupid,” he simply retorted, although both of you knew there was no bite to it.

you didn’t press him for more after that, choosing to just hold yourself against his back in comfortable silence—which he now knows he’s grateful for.

because at that time, he couldn’t have told you he was feeling nothing but resentment for his pitiful father.

his pitiful father who loved to put butter in virtually every dish he whipped up.

his pitiful father who probably wouldn’t be pitiful if he just led an active lifestyle, monitored his health, and made better choices so that his poor mother wouldn’t have to go through all this.

his train of thought was interrupted, however, when a pang of that same old guilt hit his chest, and then he was once again flooded with scalding shame.

because what else should he be feeling for his father aside from empathy, as someone who has had far too many brushes with death itself?

“…katsuki?”

he recalls jolting ever so minutely, before turning his head to look at you, who, by then, was already standing behind him, apparently already having released him from the hug.

“huh?”

“i was just asking you,” you continued as if he didn’t just zone out. “our friends want to come by and visit, if you’re okay with it. is that alright with you?”

the last thing he needed was for his nerd-ass friends to visit and witness his family’s dirty laundry, which would inevitably be aired out for them to see given the circumstances. his entire life, he always, always, kept those from prying eyes, even if they were his closest buddies’.

but, at the mention of his friends, he found his heart clenching in yearning despite himself.

and so, before he could talk himself out of it, he nodded in approval.

“…and so that’s how i saved the little girl who was convinced i was the bad guy!”

he remembers everyone in the room erupting in laughter at kirishima’s story, even masaru, who’s been steadily gaining control of the left side of his body back.

his right has seen little to no improvement, but you and mitsuki have been making it a point to celebrate every win, no matter how small.

at kirishima’s gag, bakugou himself couldn’t help the somewhat imperceptible smirk that encroached on his face, which izuku, unfortunately, caught sight of. the #1 pro-hero beamed at him, and it took bakugou every ounce of self-control not to roll his eyes at the nerd.

“what about you, midoriya-kun?” asked mitsuki, who’s seated on a stool right beside her husband, who’s nestled comfortably in the reclining chair you got him about a month ago.

at the call out, the green-haired man shifted his attention to the lady, before sheepishly retorting with: “oh, i just try to be funny.”

that granted him his round of laughter, and this time bakugou finally allowed himself to give into the visceral urge to roll his eyes.

he must’ve been being so obvious with his expressions, because it’s you who managed to catch him again, shooting him a chastising but nevertheless playful look.

before he could wink at you or do anything in response, though, he recalls mitsuki standing up quite abruptly, startling the five of you.

you shot her a question before anyone else could. “what is it, mitsuki-san?”

“i didn’t notice! we’ve run out of tea and snacks. sorry—” she leaned down to get the trays, “—let me get some mo—”

“i’ll do it!” volunteered the ever-good-natured izuku, who moved so fast the plates were on him before the rest could blink.

“i’ll help the nerd,” bakugou added, standing up before taking some of the cups from his rival lest the latter drops them.

at the uncharacteristically generous offer, izuku once again beamed at him, which bakugou immediately dismissed with a wave of a hand.

the short trek to the kitchen was quiet amidst the background noise, which has been brought up a notch thanks to kirishima’s vivid storytelling.

without a word, bakugou gestured where to get a refill on the snacks while he busied himself with brewing more tea.

the silence that engulfed them was comfortable—familiar—that was, until, izuku broke it.

“thanks again, kacchan.”

bakugou felt his eye twitch at the nickname. “for what?”

izuku turned on his feet to regard his best friend, a grateful smile gracing his boyish features. “for letting me and ei visit. i just wanted you to know i appreciate it. i’m sure it’s not easy having guests around while, you know…”

he wasn’t about to tell the nerd he and kirishima were the only ones he felt comfortable enough to visit at the moment, so he merely nodded.

(un)fortunately, the greenhead took it as a sign to continue.

“she’s been amazing, huh?”

bakugou met the man’s soft gaze, which was directed toward you.

“yeah,” came his sure reply. he remembers not even knowing where to start, so he just simply left it at that.

a pregnant pause.

“you’ve been doing great, too, kacchan.”

that caught him off guard.

he must’ve looked stunned, because izuku shrugged quite timidly, before: “we all see how hard you’re working.”

the #1 pro-hero hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether or not to say the next thing, ultimately deciding for it.

“…but don’t forget to take care of yourself, too, alright?”

and just as fast as he scooped the trays back in the living room, izuku patted him on the shoulder before taking the cups from him and waltzing rather clumsily out of the kitchen.

later that night, bakugou found himself unable to fall asleep.

it’s been ages since you both got into bed, and you were now on your side with your back turned against him, probably already fast asleep.

he recalls just staring up at the off-white ceiling, playing back in his head the earlier conversation he had with izuku again and again and again.

“you’ve been doing great, too, kacchan,” was what the nerd said.

if he only knew.

if he only knew the terrible thoughts that had been plaguing his mind since shit went down.

there’s a reason why he hasn’t said a single word about the things he’d been thinking since day one.

there’s a reason why he’s kept all of this shit to himself even though they were fucking heavy to carry all on his own.

it was because he was scared of them, and even more scared of what people would make of him when he finally verbalized them into existence.

what you would make of him.

he’s spent most of his life running away from who he used to be, that the mere thought that he might have just always been that guy this entire time is like a fucking 100% detroit smash to the gut.

he didn’t even notice he was crying until he felt a single tear go down the side of his face.

he quickly reached up to wipe it away.

to his horror, he felt you shift beside him, and he found himself frozen in fear as he waited for you to settle into another position in your sleep.

but that didn’t come.

instead, he remembers so, so clearly how you turned to face him—absolutely, evidently wide awake—with such a worried expression on your gorgeous face, and how he just completely lost it at the sight of you.

he remembers how you scooped him into your arms as ugly sobs finally wracked his body, how you led his arms to wrap around your waist to help anchor him as he cried into your chest.

he remembers the soothing circles you rubbed on his back as you started to cry with him, your sniffles the only thing he heard aside from his own weeping.

he remembers the way your voice cracked when you started whispering ‘i’m here’s’ in his ear. and, he doesn’t know if it’s because that line carries a massive fucking weight for him, or that it’s you—the love of his life—who’s saying them, but the words wash over the entirety of his exhausted body like a violent storm, leaving him shivering in its wake.

he remembers deciding then and there, that he was going to tell you everything.

maybe tomorrow, but not now.

for now, and in the safety of your arms, he finds himself finally allowing the grief—the grief that he’s unknowingly been trying to tamp down—to come forward and make itself known.

tagging. @bunnysaursushii @yawnzzzzzzzz @cholios @kashee-h @iluv-ace @lotuslovers @elarakive @sugurusmoon

˖⁺‧₊ as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated <3 have a nice day!

[shaiyasstuff]

wilted promises | sylus | chapter 2

synopsis : Sylus once vowed to love and protect you, but love, like flowers left untended, withered beneath the weight of silence and duty. In the hollow halls of your shared home, he watched as you faded���slowly, quietly—until the day you collapsed, slipping between life and death like a ghost of the woman you once were. content : non-canon!, marriage!AU, self-loathing(?), ANGST with little comfort(?), reader goes insane, set in somewhat victorian era, painter!reader, childhood lovers, sylus is a noble. - "The saddest moments come when we realize the time we’ve lost cannot return." - unknown.

parts : one | two

“I promised to protect you, to love you, to stand by your side—yet here you are, shattered by my own hands. Tell me, how do I live with that?”

It had been years since that first promise—the one he made while holding a datura to you, vowing to protect you, to love you, for all eternity.

He still remembers the way your eyes shone with trust and belief.

But the weight of his family’s expectations and the harshness of reality have stolen those promises from both of you.

He never wanted it to be like this; he never intended for the love you shared to rot beneath layers of indifference.

He knows he’s been cold, distant and cruel.

But every word he says, every action he takes, was all to protect you.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

To Sylus, in some twisted sense of belief, he thought pushing you away, if he made you hate him, it’s because the world was cruel.

He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you hurt by its sharp edges.

He became cruel because he thought that would shield you from the storms he’s endured.

Because he would rather you hate him than face the reality of a world that doesn’t care about you.

He couldn’t bear to let you in, to let you see just how broken he’s become, how trapped he was by expectations that were never his to begin with.

Perhaps that was his biggest mistake.

Every time he saw you, he sees the woman who once believed in him, who trusted him to keep his promises.

And he dies a little more inside.

He promised you forever.

And forever, he will protect you—from the world and from himself.

Because for him, he never stopped loving you.

—•

The car screeched into the emergency bay, tires screaming as he barely managed to pull it to a stop.

He threw the door open, his breath ragged, his hands trembling as he pulled your frail form from the passenger seat.

You were too light. Too cold.

His heart pounded against his ribs as he carried you through the hospital doors, his grip on you desperate, his mind spiraling.

“Not like this. Please, not like this.”

“Help!” His voice was raw, the sharp edge of panic bleeding through as he staggered into the corridor.

A group of nurses rushed toward him.

“She’s losing too much blood.”

The words rang in his ears like a death sentence.

The gurney wheeled past him, hands pulling you away from him, and all he could do was stand there, frozen, useless.

A doctor turned to him, frowning. “Has she been unwell recently?”

His breath caught.

“She… she just started to paint,” he choked out, his own voice foreign to him. “She’s barely been eating, but I never—” His throat closed. He swallowed against the rising panic. “I didn’t think it was this bad.”

The doctor’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded, signaling his team to move faster.

Minutes felt like hours.

The walls were too white. Too quiet.

Sylus stood there, gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles bone-white, watching them work on you.

His hands shook. His stomach churned.

“How did I let it get this bad?”

The doctor returned, face solemn.

“We’ve stabilized her for now, but she’s in critical condition. She’s severely malnourished, and there’s internal damage from the blood loss.”

The words hit like a hammer.

“We need to run tests, but it’s too soon to tell how this will play out.”

The words faded out.

“Can I see her?” His voice was barely a whisper.

The doctor shook his head. “Not yet.”

The world blurred at the edges.

He could only watch you being taken away, limp and lifeless.

His blood ran cold.

He didn’t deserve you.

He never had.

He whispered to the empty hallway, his voice breaking.

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t protect you. I didn’t love you like I should have. But please—don’t leave me.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him, but he didn’t care.

He needed you to know.

He needed you.

—•

Sylus watched as you consigned your art to the flames.

Your movements were steady, calm in a way that unsettled him.

He remembered how you used to speak of your paintings with quiet passion, how your eyes would glow with pride as you lingered over every brushstroke.

He’d thought the portraits were your sanctuary, the only place you could escape him, escape this life.

And now, you were burning them.

“Why?”

The question left him before he could stop it, rough and strained.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t pause. Another painting slipped into the fire, its edges curling, the flames devouring it.

“Because I don’t need them anymore,”

Your voice low, steady. Final.

“They were only ever reminders of what I could never have.”

Your words struck harder than any accusation.

Sylus felt something twist in his chest, a confusion that spiraled into guilt.

He wanted to stop you.

Wanted to pull the paintings from the fire.

Wanted to say something, anything.

But he stood still.

Frozen. Watching.

Your voice was cold, resolute.

“Everything can burn for all I care.”

The flames crackled between you, licking at the remnants of what once was.

And for a fleeting moment, he wondered if you meant more than just the paintings.

If you meant him, too.

But he said nothing.

Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

—•

Sylus sat in the sterile waiting room, staring blankly at the door to your room.

His fists trembled at his sides.

The weight of everything—his mistakes, his cruelty—pressed down on him, suffocating.

He felt helpless, unable to undo the damage he had caused.

“What have I done?”

The question repeated in his mind, mocking him.

His guilt was overwhelming, gnawing at him like a constant ache.

He had pushed you to this point, broken the woman he loved with his pride, his anger, his neglect.

And now you lay there, unconscious, fighting for a life he had destroyed.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising as he fought back tears.

“Please wake up.”

He was desperate.

He couldn’t lose you—not like this, not after everything.

His regret gnawed at him, bitter and relentless.

Every moment of your marriage felt like a failure now, a cruel joke played on both of you.

When the nurse appeared, her calm demeanour only made him feel worse.

“She’s stable,” she said, but it didn’t matter.

Stability wasn’t enough.

He collapsed back into the chair, his chest tight. All he could do was wait, pray, and beg for forgiveness in silence.

Then the phone rang.

He didn’t need to look at the caller ID to know who it was.

“Where in the world have you been?! You haven’t been answering your messages,”

His mother.

“And what’s this nonsense about your wife? You need to pull yourself together.”

His father’s voice joined in, colder than ever.

“You’ve made a mess of things, boy. Marrying her was a disgrace to this family. A commoner. We raised you better than this.”

He hadn’t thought about their disapproval in weeks.

The shame they’d cast on him for marrying someone beneath their social status, their constant insistence on duty and legacy, had been a constant pressure from the start.

“She’s not just a commoner,” Sylus muttered, but his voice faltered, barely a whisper.

The words felt hollow, like they didn’t even matter anymore.

The reality was, he didn’t know what he had expected from them.

Understanding?

Compassion?

But instead, all he received was disdain.

“You’re throwing away your life for someone who can’t even stand on her own two feet!” his father barked.

“You owe it to the family to move past this and fix the mess you’ve made.”

Sylus’ hand tightened on the phone.

His knuckles were white, and for a moment, he felt his anger flare.

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

They didn’t know the woman he’d married—the one who had filled his life with colour, with warmth, with purpose.

“Watch your tongue,” he growled, his voice raw.

“Do not act like you know me.”

There was a long silence on the other end.

“This charade cannot go on. If she remains in that state, then tell me, what purpose does she even serve?” She didn’t even pretend to care.

“You will be at the family gathering next week. I will not ask again. Do not make me come find you.”

The line went dead.

He sat there in the oppressive silence, the phone still pressed to his ear, staring at the empty room around him.

They hadn’t cared about her, or about him, in years.

Everything was about status, about their own wealth and image, and he had foolishly believed they could ever understand the depth of what he had with her.

His stomach turned as the reality settled over him.

The love he had once taken for granted now felt like an isolated island in a sea of cold indifference.

He wanted to scream, to shout at the void, but he just sat there instead, feeling small, helpless, and utterly alone.

Tears threatened to fall, but he swallowed them back, blinking them away.

How did we get here?

The silence that followed was deafening, and he could feel the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on him.

In the end, they didn’t care.

His marriage, his life, none of it mattered.

It was all about the name, the title, the legacy.

Could he fix what he had broken?

Could he?

The weight of his family’s expectations was suffocating, a constant, invisible force that had shaped every decision, every move he made.

They had built a future for him, a legacy he was expected to uphold, to continue.

Their voices, their unyielding demands, had always been in the back of his mind, a chorus of what he should be, who he should become.

But in the quiet of the hospital room, as he frowned at your unmoving body, lifeless and vulnerable, he realized the cost of it all.

The life he had imagined for both of you, the woman he had once loved so deeply, had been crushed under the pressure of his obligations.

The weight of his family’s approval had turned him into someone who could barely recognise himself.

He had traded your warmth, your love, for the cold, suffocating grip of duty.

He had always told himself that the sacrifices he made were for you, that he was doing it for your future, for your happiness.

But now, seeing you in this state, he understood the truth.

He had destroyed everything you once had, all for the approval of people who would never understand what he had lost.

The guilt gnawed at him, relentless, as he held your hand, praying you would wake up.

Every breath you took felt like a thread he was desperately clinging to, and in that moment, he hated himself.

He hated what he had become.

He had let his family dictate his choices, and in doing so, he had ruined the one thing that ever truly mattered—you.

“I failed you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Sylus sat by your bedside, his hand trembling as it rested lightly on yours.

The sterile smell of the hospital, the beeping of machines, the bright, harsh lights above—it all felt so foreign, so wrong.

His mind was a mess of thoughts, of guilt, of sorrow.

Sylus buried his face in his hands, the overwhelming weight of his regret threatening to crush him.

“Why can’t I stop hurting you?”

His breath came in short gasps, his chest tight as though the very air had thickened with guilt.

“Please, stop,” he muttered, his voice breaking. “Please, just stop.”

But the memories didn’t listen. They flooded him, relentless, suffocating.

He saw you again, standing in the garden, your hands trembling as you held a single datura flower.

“..stop..”

The plea, broken and fragile, echoed in his ears like a haunting song.

He could hear it over and over again, your voice shaking as he crushed your beloved flowers.

“…please..” you had begged him, and he hadn’t cared.

He wanted to hurt you.

The image twisted in his mind.

He saw you crumpled on the floor, the broken flower petals around you, your heart shattered like the fragile stems you’d nurtured.

“No!” Sylus shouted, slamming his fists into the armrests of the chair.

But the memories surged forward, unstoppable.

He saw your pale face in the dim light of your home, the hurt in your eyes as he had spat those cruel words at you.

“I don’t want them to know I’m married to an ugly woman like you.”

He remembered you recoiling, the pain flashing across your face as the reality of his cruelty set in.

But instead of stopping, he had hardened, refusing to let you see the cracks in his own heart.

He clenched his fists, a shudder wracking his body.

“I didn’t see you,” he whispered to himself.

“I didn’t see… what I had. What I was losing.”

His mind flashed to your wedding day, your first slow dance in that abandoned chapel, the way you had glowed with joy.

You had believed in him.

“I will always protect you,”

He had promised you.

But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the weight of that promise.

The memories were suffocating, choking him.

“Stop, please… I can’t take it anymore.”

But they didn’t stop.

They kept coming.

Every word, every action, every moment of cruelty.

He could feel his heart breaking with each one.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked as the memories flooded him, his words slipping into the empty room, as if hoping you could hear him, that you could somehow know he had finally realized the truth.

Then another memory.

“I’ll cherish this datura until I die.”

The voice of the girl he’d once known—the one who had laughed easily and followed him everywhere, her joy as bright as the sun. The girl who had trusted him without question.

“You’re the worst!”

The memory strikes like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Back then, he had only laughed, dismissing your words as playful frustration—a harmless jest from the days when love was simple, unburdened by the weight of what was to come.

It had been routine.

You would pout, he would tease, and the world felt lighter, wrapped in the warmth of childhood’s fleeting innocence.

But now, the memory feels different. Heavier. Bitter.

There is no laughter, no teasing, no safety in the past. The words that once meant nothing now cut deeper than any blade.

Because now, he understood.

He really is the worst.

The worst man to stand beside you.

The worst person to bear the title of the one who was supposed to love and protect you.

And worst of all, he had let it happen.

“Enough.” His voice cracked as he sank deeper into his hands, as it would block them out, the guilt, the shame.

But you cannot turn back time, can you?

He wondered when exactly that promise had been broken—when the boy who vowed to protect you became the man who let you drown in the depths of his cruelty and neglect.

The weight of that memory pressed against his chest, suffocating and relentless.

He had promised to save you, and yet, there you were, drowning in the coldness he had wrapped around you like a shroud.

And he had stood by, he watched, doing nothing.

It wasn’t just the past that haunted him.

It was the knowledge that somewhere along the line, he had stopped being your saviour and had become the very storm pulling you under.

But it was too late now.

Too late to reach out. Too late to offer his hand.

—•

The dim light from the single lamp flickered, casting long shadows across the studio, and Sylus felt the weight of it all.

The suffocating air of regret and remorse clung to the walls like a heavy fog.

Your paintings, once a reflection of your love and joy had turned into a grotesque reflection to your agony, each brushstroke a cry he had never heard until it was too late.

The thought of how far you had fallen because of his cruelty tore at him.

His gaze fell on the last canvas you’d worked on, the most twisted of them all.

The datura’s petals stretched like fingers.

Your blood, now cold and dried, had splashed all over it.

He could almost hear you cackle in his mind, a hollow, sarcastic laughter, mocking him.

“Do you like it? Is this what you wanted?”

The question lingered in his mind, reverberating with every beat of his heart.

His fingers twitched at his sides, he wanted to destroy the canvases, to rip them down, to erase the painful reminders.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

He already tore your flowers apart once.

“..what..what did you..”

He ran his hand over his face in despair.

“…what did you see in me…?”

His voice cracked beneath it all, as he stared at the countless datura piled in the studio, the cacophony of red laughing at him, mocking him.

His gaze then fell on something different, something that stood out starkly against the sea of dark red.

A sliver of light caught his attention, something vibrant, full of life.

The colours of warm oranges, soft purples, and golden yellows seemed to glow in the dimly lit room.

The contrast was so jarring that it felt as if the painting was screaming at him, begging him to see it.

When he finally pulled it free, his breath caught in his throat.

Two figures, so young, so full of hope.

The field bathed in the golden light of a sunset, the two of you standing side by side, hands intertwined, holding daturas in your hands as you smiled at each other.

The painting was a reflection of everything he had lost—before the cruelty, before the distance, before the world he had shattered.

The sharp contrast of the vibrant colors against the oppressive, angry reds of the daturas surrounding it was almost painful.

The innocence, the love, the peace of that moment—it was all gone now.

His breath hitched as the tears began to rise, each one like a wave crashing against his chest.

“I… I remember this,” he whispered, his voice raw.

“I remember us. I remember you.”

You had stood before him, radiant, as though you had stepped out of a fairy tale.

The way the sunlight caught in your hair, turning it into a halo of gold, it made you seem almost otherworldly.

Your eyes had met his, blinking slowly, as if they were the galaxy themselves, deep and endless, drawing him in.

It was as though he was gazing into the very heart of the universe, lost in the infinite expanse of your gaze.

Your scent, soft and sweet, had been like honeysuckle, delicate and intoxicating, the kind that made him forget everything but you.

He could still remember how your presence had made the air feel lighter, brighter, as if nothing could ever go wrong when you were near.

Your laughter.

Your smile.

You.

That was before everything had begun to unravel.

That was before the cruelty, before the silence, before he had destroyed the one thing that had ever made him feel whole.

Now, the memories of that day were a painful reminder of the cold, broken silence that had replaced your presence.

The pain of losing you, of realizing how deeply he had hurt you, had settled into his bones like a permanent ache.

And all he could do was remember that look in your eyes, the way you had smiled at him like he was the center of your world.

He had believed it too, back then.

But now, he was left with nothing but the haunting emptiness of what he had destroyed with his own bare hands.

The tears fell faster now, unstoppable, as he sank to his knees.

He clutched the painting to his chest, the only remaining piece of you he could still hold onto.

“I was supposed to protect you,” he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

The words were barely audible, but they clawed at his throat, sharp and suffocating.

“I promised you the world. And I…” He faltered, his breath hitching as his chest tightened with the unbearable ache.

“I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything.”

Every word, every moment of regret, felt like a blade twisting deeper inside him.

The daturas around him were tall, suffocating, like a field of poison that seemed to encircle him, their dark beauty a constant reminder of how he had poisoned your love.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his remorse.

His entire body trembled with the grief that overwhelmed him.

“I’m sorry for every word, every moment I hurt you. For every time I… I pushed you away.”

He could hear nothing but the deafening silence of regret, the oppressive weight of the daturas closing in on him, each one a grim reminder that the love he had once had was now buried under a sea of thorns and poison.

And as he sat there, clutching the painting tighter to his chest, he realised it.

Nothing could bring you back.

Not the apologies, not the tears.

All he was left with was the haunting reminder of his failure, surrounded by the overwhelming, mocking presence of the daturas.

He had created this hell, and now he was trapped in it.

He wept.

The sobs racked his body, raw and uncontrollable, each one like a jagged shard of agony lodged deep within him.

His chest heaved with the weight of it, the pain too great to contain, too great to silence.

Tears poured from his eyes like rivers, hot and relentless, each drop an excruciating reminder of the destruction he had wrought.

It wasn’t just you he had lost.

He wept for the shattered man he had become, for the love that had once bloomed between you, now choked under the crushing weight of his mistakes.

The tears were an outpouring of everything he had denied—guilt, regret, longing, and a deep, gnawing sorrow for what was irreparably broken.

This was the last thing he had of you, the only remnant of the woman you had been before the darkness had consumed you both.

If only he could reach back into those moments, pull you back to him, make things right.

But he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped through his tears, his voice trembling with the weight of a thousand unspoken apologies.

“I’m so sorry… for everything… I didn’t see it. I didn’t see you. Please…”

The room felt colder, darker, as if the very air had thickened with his regret.

The bright contrast of the painting only amplified the emptiness around him, so full of life once, now nothing but a hollow echo of what had been.

The memory of you, once so vibrant, now faded, buried beneath the weight of his sins.

The memories were cruel.

The day of your first dance came rushing back—the soft echoes of your footsteps in that abandoned chapel.

He remembered the warmth of your hands in his, the joy on your face when he’d finally gotten the steps right.

“You’re terrible at this, Sy,” you giggled back then, your eyes sparkling.

“I’ll get better,” he’d promised, holding you close. “As long as you don’t let me go.”

But now, he chuckled bitterly to himself, tears running down his face.

“But I let you go, didn’t I?” His voice cracked.

“God, I let everything go.”

—•

Sylus woke to the sharp sting of daylight piercing through the room, and for a long moment, he didn’t move.

His body ached with exhaustion, weighed down by the weight of his emotions and the remnants of his guilt that clung to him like an unbearable fog.

The floor was cold beneath him, and as his blurry eyes focused, he realised that he was still on his knees, the stillness of the room almost suffocating.

His hand instinctively went to his face, feeling the roughness of dried tears, the lingering evidence of the storm that had raged within him the night before.

His chest tightened, his breath shallow.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this hollow.

The guilt was a constant ache in his chest, an ever-present reminder of how he had broken the one person who had meant more to him than anything.

You.

It was painful, the weight of his failures pressing down on him.

His heart clenched at the thought of you.

The woman he loved, the woman he had torn apart with his pride, his cruelty, his selfishness.

The thought of living the rest of his life knowing he had destroyed the woman he loved, knowing he had caused you so much pain.

It was unbearable.

“What now?” he asked himself, the question hanging in the air like a cruel, unanswered prayer.

He thought of you, still lifeless in that sterile hospital room.

The silence around him was deafening, a constant reminder of the space you no longer filled.

He was waiting for something, some sign, some miracle that would pull you from the void you had fallen into.

He could still see you in his mind’s eye.

Your face, pale and tranquil, the softness that had always been there now lost behind a veil of uncertainty.

When would you wake up?

Would you even want to look at him?

These questions rattled in his mind, each one more suffocating than the last.

“Please,” he thought, almost as a silent prayer, though he couldn’t find the words.

He couldn’t escape the gnawing fear.

That you might never return.

—•

He sat in his study, the cold glass of whiskey heavy in his hand, the amber liquid swirling lazily within.

The burn of the alcohol down his throat was a familiar, fleeting solace—a cruel balm to the wounds that festered in his chest.

His thoughts were scattered, his mind a blur of regret and self-doubt, but the sharp sting of the drink helped him forget, if only momentarily.

Time stretched on in the dimly lit room, the silence thick and oppressive, when a voice—soft, haunting—slipped into his consciousness.

“You promised.”

At first, it was just a faint whisper, a sound barely louder than a breath, but it made his hand falter.

He froze, the glass poised before his lips, his entire body stiffening.

The voice came again, this time clearer, more real.

“You promised me.”

His heart stuttered, the glass slipping from his fingers and crashing to the floor with a shattering thud, but his mind was focused entirely on the voice—your voice.

He could hear you.

He could your presence like a faint caress, reminding him of the promises he had made long ago.

The world around him seemed to tilt, his vision blurring as he closed his eyes, fighting to hold on to the fragile reality he knew was slipping away.

“No…” he whispered to himself, a desperate denial, but the voice only grew stronger.

“You said you would protect me. You said you would never leave me…”

The words cut deep, their weight sinking into him like an anchor.

He staggered back, his breath ragged, as if he had been struck. The guilt surged again—unrelenting, suffocating.

The cruel truth of it, too much to bear.

His trembling hands reached for the desk, gripping the edge as he bent forward, staring down at the empty space before him.

“I promised… I promised and I—”

The words died in his throat, a raw ache strangling his every attempt at expression.

For a moment, everything seemed to still.

The fog of regret, the numbness from the alcohol, it all began to fade away, leaving only the undeniable clarity of his failure.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but it was enough.

The voice in his mind grew faint, but still, he could feel it, still lingering in the shadows, soft and fragile, like a thread connecting you across the space he had destroyed.

He wanted to deny it.

Wanted to escape it.

But the past was a ghost he could never outrun.

His thoughts strayed to you, to your laughter, to the way your eyes glistened under the sunlight.

He could still picture it so clearly.

The two of you, young and hopeful, in the meadow, surrounded by flowers you loved so much..

You had been alive then. Together.

Now, all he had was emptiness, and the broken pieces of the person he had become.

The ghost of his regret came again, softly.

“You can’t undo the past.”

But Sylus shook his head, trying to shake the noise out.

“No, but I can start over.”

“You can’t.”

“I will be better,” a tear ran down his face.

“You destroyed them.”

“N-No..!” His voice cracked.

“You killed her.”

“I’ll fix this. I’ll fix us.” He was desperate.

“She’s never coming back.”

“…no…”

[ozzgin]

Due to a rather embarrassing bureaucratic mistake, you - a mere human - have been appointed as the new Death of the Monster Realm. The monster souls are confused (and unexpectedly aroused) to find a small, frail creature as their guide through the Underworld. Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance, collab with Kafka

“Who the hell are you?”

Before you stands a Beast. Your body is frozen in sheer terror, crumbling under his all-knowing stare. You feel like you’re facing God Himself. Could it be? Have you died? God certainly looked a little more merciful in those Christian depictions.

You swallow dryly and open your mouth, words rolling out clumsily.

“I-…it’s (Y/N). I’ve been told to come in.”

The creature continues to glare at you incredulously before abruptly turning and speeding towards an enormous desk, a sudden realization occurring to him. He throws papers around, as if searching for something, occasionally releasing a thundering curse. Aha! There it is.

He collapses into a chair, head resting in his clawed hands.

“There has been a mistake. You're not supposed to be here", he growls, defeated. "And yet, it can't be fixed."

He scans your features briefly, taking his time and searching for the words.

"Listen, kid. I don't know how to tell you this any better: you're going to be guiding souls into their Afterlife. Monster souls."

You blink.

"Alright. Is there some training for it?"

The Beast is a little taken aback by your nonchalance. Given the extraordinary circumstances, he expected you to cry, beg and scream. Perhaps you won't be such a terrible fit, after all.

"You will learn from me. I am the previously appointed Death, and have been here for the past millennium."

Formalities finally aside, he takes you through the colossal, arched halls, explaining your job through words shrouded in mystery and cosmic terror. You nod and scribble obediently in your little notebook.

Thus begins your task as the new Death of the Monster Realm. A never-before-seen peculiarity: the ferocious, departed creatures are greeted by the small frame of a...human. Their eyes widen in disbelief.

In Monster culture, Death has always been described as the creature above all creatures. A blasphemy of gargantuan dimensions, with many eyes and horns, a pitch-black blight of dread. Even the highest-ranked Monsters shudder upon his arrival.

You wave your hand dismissively. It's the hundredth time today you've received this reaction of utter shock. Let's move on, shall we, you think to yourself sarcastically.

The path to the Gate feels like an eternity. Without exception, the monsters will ask you too many questions. Not about their situation, mind you, about yourself. Are you truly a human? How did you come to be the legendary guidance of souls? What was your life like before this? Surely you must have some interesting stories from your life as a mere mortal.

The former Death stands up from his seat.

"What do you mean, there's an increase in lost souls? Is that damn human not doing their job?" he demands, turning to the servant who'd come to announce the latest statistics.

"They are, Sir. It's just...Well..." the beast is visibly tense. "It's the monsters who don't want to leave."

"And? We've had plenty of those before. Why're they refusing to pass this time?"

The answer is clearly of a sensitive nature. The short, stocky butler fidgets and stumbles, then finally confesses meekly:

"They claim to have fallen in love with the human."

In all his eternity working as the Soul Collector, he'd never imagined such ridiculousness. He'd always been feared and well-respected, performing his task swiftly and without issue. It never occurred to him that he'd have to include as a guidance step "how to handle the monster souls flirting with you." He grabs his scythe and marches outside with an exasperated sigh.

Somehow, he doubts his retirement will come anytime soon.

[More Monsters]

[yan-randomfandom]

Hii! Could I request a yan! Jinx with a darling who is on hunger strike? (Bacically, darling got kidnapped and so she decided to stop eating till she gets freed...is that even a word?)

Anyways, ty 4 reading my request and I would be really happy if you were to fuffil it <3

Make sure u drink enough water!

Yandere!Jinx x GN!Starving!Reader

a/n: thank you for your kind words anon! 😺 i just realized how much energy i gave mc here omg 😭🙏

tw; starvation, kidnapped MC ermm

💧 ;

Stubbornness is something both you and Jinx share. It's built into your very core. She knows this, and yet, here we are.

You're tied to a chair, looking away from her with a deep frown on your face—unwilling to eat.

"My sweetest," Jinx groans, dragging out her words. "Darling, baby, angel..." She places her hands on the back of your chair, her breath brushing the tip of your nose—"beloved."

...

You roll your eyes. "It stinks."

With an offended gasp, she recoils from you, her eye twitching. "I— You— Come on! At least I had dinner, but you? You haven't eaten anything for days!"

As if the Gods have a sense of humor, your stomach lets out a loud, drawn-out rumble. It goes on for a few moments... like her hideout wasn't quiet enough already. You have half the heart to glance at Jinx, who's watching you with an unimpressed expression.

Against your better judgment, and despite the deadly stomachache, you don't say anything.

Jinx pushes the bowl of food in front of you. "...Your, uh, stomach's hungry. Please. I just want you to eat—"

"I want you to let me go," you snap, glaring at her. You emphasize your point by rattling the chair with your frail limbs in frustration. "It doesn't help that you tied my arms and legs up. Honestly."

She returns your look, almost clueless. "It didn't have to be that way! You kept trying to escape!"

"I wonder why!!"

An annoyed groan. You can't even tell if it was from you, or her. Maybe both.

...

...

"...I told you I can't," she mutters softly. Not when she started a war.

You scoff and turn away. "Not that you can't. You won't."

Jinx does not reply.

Then, she chuckles. "Still amazin'. All this energy, even in starvation."

...

You press your lips together. Truth be told, you're barely holding it together. You're simply not giving up. Even if it's out of spite. Especially.

She starts walking. The sound of her booted footsteps grows fainter and fainter until, finally—the exit closes.

Jinx left you.

Nothing else accompanies you but the quiet humming and faint lights in her hideout.

Your body seizes the chance to collapse, eyes closing in one blink.

...

The next time you wake up, you grudgingly rub your eyes. A yawn escapes you.

You stretch your body. Your joints pop, relief spreading all across—

Wait.

You sit up from the softest surface you've ever been on in a while. It takes a moment to clear your vision, but once it does, you fall in disbelief.

Lifting your hand, you eye your wrists suspiciously. The patterns of the rope is still visible. But faint. It must have been a while since they were removed.

The chair you've been stuck in for days is gone. Your limbs are untied, finally fucking free from the numbness. A small fan offers a refreshing breeze next to you.

Your heart starts racing.

A whiff of your favorite scent. You perk up.

There's a glass of water filled with ice on the table. Beside it, an irresistible array of food. All your favorite types.

You don't even think twice.

either u try to escape or eat the food—your choice. do both tho cuz u might idk die

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Life, Death, and the Space in Between Part Three (Agatha Harkness x Reader x Rio Vidal)

Summary: The Road is wild and wicked.

Words: 2277

Warnings: Arguments, talks of death, canon death, language?

A/N: Anything I have to fix, I'll go back and fix later. I am too in love with these characters. You're welcome.

-X-

Cradling the boy’s head in her lap, Agatha stared at Rio with watery eyes, a recreation of a moment long since passed. “Don’t. Don’t.”

Shrugging casually, your lover peered over the body of the dying Teen, watching thoughtfully as Jen began to attempt to heal him.

You weren’t entirely interested in watching a teenager drift from the mortal plane but something caught your eye and you inched closer, oblivious to Agatha’s noise of warning. One of the gifts you had procured when becoming the goddess of life was the ability to see lifelines. To examine and determine the strands of someone’s very essence. If they were meant to die, or beyond saving outside of celestial intervention, the strands would grow black and shrivel while a healthy lifeline was pure white and strong.

His was -

“What do you see?” Rio breathed, mouth close to your ear as you both stared at Teen.

Unlike Life, Death could not see a lifeline. She relied on Life for such things. She could see souls - spirits, essences; able to reach out and pluck them from their temporary vessels when their time had come. But she could only ever take what was hers to claim; what the cosmos were owed.

“His lifeline is broken.”

She inhaled sharply, gaze shooting up to your profile. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

Turning, you walked away from the group, using the dense forest to shade you from view. Taking a deep breath, you pressed the tips of your fingers together before stretching them apart. Where there should be a plain white cord, frail but solid as Jenn healed Teen, there was instead a cord that was black and blistered in the center. Stretching it further, you could see the beginning of his lifeline up until now.

Rio’s eyes were trained on the white cord. “What…”

“That boy died. Should be dead. That is something more than his heart stopping and then being revived. Otherwise it would’ve healed over. I don’t-” you cut yourself off, staring blankly at the lifeline. “This isn’t natural. Whatever that boy is, he’s-”

“An abomination,” Death’s raspy voice rang out and you glanced at the woman, unsurprised to see skull and bone staring back at you. She shook her head, the visage returning. “He goes against every order of nature. The fact he has escaped his reaping is a slight, and must be corrected.”

“Do you think Agatha knows?” you murmured, watching the coven shift his limp body to a more comfortable space, building a makeshift nest for him. “That there’s something wrong with him.”

“If she’s not certain, she has to suspect,” Rio replied, expression grave. “But she’s using him as a way to handle her grief. Replacing our son with this teenager who shouldn’t exist.”

Studying the white cord, your brows furrowed. Sparks of blue and red flared from it, more red towards the beginning before shifting into mostly blue sparks, something that was completely out of place and unexpected. “Do you see this?”

Reaching out, Rio’s fingers glided off the cord, completely devoid of emotion. “That fucking red witch. He is the reason the Road is real. The son of the Scarlet Witch and their weird reality bending bullshit powers. After the collapse of the Hex, I felt pulled there but I never found what I was searching for. It must’ve been his soul finding a home before I could find him.”

Letting the cord fizzle out in your hands, you pressed your forehead against Rio’s. Her cool breath fanned across your lips, dark eyes nearly black beneath the weight of knowledge and pain.

“I have to take him,” she whispered brokenly. “I have to take another child from her.”

“We should wait. See what becomes of this road.” Your lips brushed over hers, feather light and gentle.

There was sadness filling the space between you, of understanding what must be and what would happen after.

-X-

Sitting around a campfire discussing scars wasn’t exactly your idea of a fun evening but leaning against Rio’s side and watching the fire crackle softened your disdain. These witches weren’t terrible; in fact, you quite liked them all. Lilia was the epitome of a divination witch, her odd outbursts and strange mumblings charming. Alice, a protector who had her whole life ahead of her. Jen, searching for something stolen but making the best of it, even if she was scamming mortals. It would’ve been a shame for them to have died under Agatha’s magic, though you hated how powerless she still was.

Especially on such a dangerous road.

The moment Agatha settled somewhat close to you, all you wanted to do was drink in the warmth of being so close to her again. She told about a knitting needle scar, but you knew the truth. The scar along her elbow was from Nicholas. Or, rather, from the unfortunate pet your young son had managed to charm into coming home with him. That raccoon had taken one look at Agatha and screeched at the top of its lungs. His claws had nicked her elbow as he rushed away, but if she wanted to lie, who were you to judge?

“I have a scar,” Rio piped up, earning identical looks from you and Agatha. Your brow was furrowed, knowing you’d traced every inch of that body with fingers and tongue, but remembering no visible scars.

“No, you don’t,” she argued, and a wave of guilt passed through your bond.

Reaching out, you gripped Rio’s hand as she bowed her head. Her scar was internal. A never-closing wound that just never properly came back together because the thread had been hidden away from sight and nothing else could suture it closed. The kind that itched and burned for all eternity, constantly reminding her of the worst moments of her existence.

Slapping her thighs, Agatha escaped the conversation as soon as Rio finished speaking, skulking off into the forest to catch her breath. You were up and chasing after her seconds later, the green witch hot on your heels. Her back was to you, barely concealed sniffles audible in the silence of The Road.

“Agatha,” you whispered, her back easily meeting your front as you stopped behind her. Your arm encircled her waist, holding her close for the first time in centuries. It was like coming home all over again.

Rio settled in front of her, a cool hand on flushed skin. Her thumb trailed below Agatha’s eye, wiping away the fresh tear.

“That boy –”

Agatha’s face dipped close to Rio’s, breath fanning across it as she inched closer to her mouth. You could see the green witch’s mouth move, telling herself it wasn’t time, and you finished her heartbreaking confirmation.

“He’s not ours,” you whispered regretfully, feeling how Agatha tensed in your embrace.

The energy shift was subtle before Agatha yanked herself from your arms, putting substantial distance between you. She was hugging herself, as if trying to keep herself from crumbling into dust. Holding together the broken slivers of her heart.

“You don’t think I know that?” she hissed furiously, tears clinging to long lashes. “I know my little boy is long gone. Because you let him die.”

Stumbling back as if struck, you glared at Agatha with a fury you didn’t know you possessed. “I didn’t let him die! I kept him alive for years! While that sickness ravaged his body, I was the one pouring magic into Nicky to keep him breathing! You have no idea how many nights he almost left this world, but I broke every rule to sustain him longer. Don’t you dare say I let him die!”

A cool hand touched your shoulder, fingers digging deep into the flesh as Rio’s dark eyes bore into you but you could only see the gaping Agatha in that moment.

“How fucking dare you accuse me of not doing everything I could to keep Nicky here? You were not the only one who loved him. Who still loves him.” You stormed closer to the shivering witch, barely cognizant of the other witches and an unsteady Teen peering around the trees to watch the show.

“And yet he still died,” she spat bitterly, glancing down at your balled fist. “What? Did I strike a nerve? The all-powerful Life still bowing to Death?”

White magic flared around you, illuminating the otherwise darkened forest. There were noises of surprise at the sudden lightshow but you didn’t care.

“Fuck you, Agatha Harkness,” you hissed. “If it doesn’t fit your idea of how things should’ve gone, you refuse to see the truth. I have spent centuries excusing your behavior but all you will ever see is what you want. We’re the villains because you didn’t have the power to save him either!”

The sharp gasp beside you echoed through the pounding in your mind, clearing the red fog clouding your vision.

“You know, the Darkhold told me something about you,” Agatha said coldly, staring deep into your eyes. “You can visit the afterlife. That you can take people there too. Yet you never offered to let me see him again.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Bullshit! You can walk the line of life and death, and you could have told me. Could have… taken me to him,” she whispered, trembling with grief, thinking about having her little boy tucked into her arms once more.

Rio stepped closer, her hand sliding down to tangle your fingers together, both to soothe your fury and to stop it from becoming something darker. “That book lies, Agatha, and you know it. It shows you what you want to see. You want to see Nicky. So it gave you an answer in hopes of keeping you.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw blue flaring with twitching fingertips. You watched a familiar purple match the dancing blue across the tips of Agatha’s digits and your eyes widened fractionally.

“I cannot bring the living to the afterlife. Anyone who walks into that plane can never leave. It’s the way of the cosmos.” Your voice was tinged in desperation, begging the woman you loved to just… listen. “There’s a price all must pay who enter.”

There was a lull and for a moment, you hoped maybe she was seeing reason, before Agatha lunged at you. Her hand slammed into your chest, purple erupting around you and swallowing your vision. Purple and Agatha and furious, begging eyes.

All you could hear was Rio’s furious, panicked roar, “No!” ringing in your ears before there was…

Nothing.

Then you were falling.

And falling fast.

-X-

Being yanked from one dimension into another plane of existence was jarring. It didn’t happen often, unless you were in a different place than Rio and the universe called you home, but you imagined it was like being tossed headfirst into a blender that was on high.

As your back slammed into solid ground, you groaned low in your throat before slowly looking up at the sky. Or, what should’ve been the sky, except it was replaced with a beautiful, never-ending starlit void. There was no sun here, no moon, but you could see for miles and miles, never needing another light source.

“Oh no.”

Agatha’s limp form was a few feet away from you, but your spirit felt heavy. Neither of you were meant to be here and while you could pass somewhat freely without the imposing threat of danger, the same couldn’t be said for your witch.

“Agatha, get up,” you called out, carefully forcing yourself to an upright position. The astral body was similar but different from the mortal vessel you carried. Here, there was little imperfection, and you were simply the embodiment of Life. As meant to be.

However, Agatha’s had remained perfectly… Agatha.

It was like wading through waist high water to get to her. Hands pulsing white, you touched her shoulder and she jolted up with a gasp. You weren’t sure what such a journey had done to a mortal, but she seemed somewhat coherent – which you supposed was good.

“W-what? Where are we?” she demanded, peering around at the odd scenery of the afterlife as she stood.

“We have to go,” you replied sharply, glowing hand reaching out to grab her wrist but she jerked away, deftly dodging your grip.

“Is this the afterlife? Is he here?” She didn’t wait for your answer before cupping her hands to her mouth. “Nicky! Nicky! Are you here? It’s okay! It’s Mama!”

Waves of pain wracked through your spirit and you watched darkness creeping closer to the foreign entity.

No, no, no. It’s not her time. This isn’t…

Agatha continued screaming, her voice echoing throughout the plane until a long-missed voice called back from the distance, disbelief evident.

“Mama?”

Agatha bolted towards the voice and you watched tendrils of the afterlife chase after her, drawn to the soul still within her body.

Steeling yourself for what was to come; white light seeped from your fingers and filled the space around you, encouraging the darkness towards yourself instead. The sting was immediate and intense as darkness slipped into your body like blades, but you swallowed down the scream.

You promised to protect her.

And so you would.

-X-

Back on the Road, Rio cried out as a hand flew to her chest, the bond between you burning like a fire let loose to rage. Her long quiet heart thumped painfully, following the slowing beats of your own in perfect tandem. Her other hand was cupping your clammy cheek, wiping the sweat and tears falling down your cheeks.

“Oh, my love… what have you done?”

[simplyalicee]

˚₊‧꒰ა bittersweet ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Sebastian x GN!reader, angst(?) and fluff

TW: none

You were tired. Oh, so tired.

Your fraile figure trembled from the unbearable freezing temperature. Your body ached with exhaustion and hunger. When was the last time you had a proper meal? Hours felt like days. You were numb. So much pain, yet you stood. How could you possibly continue with your state? You felt as if you were about to collapse from the pressure.

You wanted to go back. Stop your mission and head back to the surface. But could you risk that potential for freedom? To go back empty-handed and be tossed back in your cell? To risk more years of being falsely incarcerated? No, no you could not. You hadn't seen the light of day for years. It felt like forever since you've last saw your loved ones. You craved their affection, their gentle touch, their words sweet like honey. You missed them so terribly.

Going back was not an option.

Urbanshade made the objective very clear; retrieve the crystal. You weren't disclosed of any other information. You were going into this deadly mission practically blind. You were left to navigate through the destroyed labs and risk your life with dangerous creatures with the thirst of blood and malice. It always amazed yet terrified you of how capable every entity was.

Speaking of... what was that sound?

You heard the faint sounds of something— screaming? No, it didn't sound like screaming. But whatever it was, time ran shorter as the room shook, knocking drawers and other objects down to the ground. Glass shattered on the ground. You grew frantic of this new presence and rushed to the nearest locker. You crammed yourself inside and closed your eyes tightly, bracing yourself for an angler fish to swoop by.

But it wasn't an angler fish.

Instead, you were met with pounding against the locker doors. You shook with the locker and, fortunately, instinctively dug your bruised fingers into the opening slits of the locker. You opened your eyes to see an entirely new entity— all you could see were the many eyes that burned through your soul. You could feel your heart race as this new creature kept pounding on the locker, aching to reach you. Tears streamed down your face. Your grip loosened. You fought to keep up and keep the doors closed, but your exhaustion was catching up quicker.

As the doors were slammed against one final time, your fingers gave up and ceased proper functioning. You lost your grip. The locker shook once more and you closed your eyes. You prepared yourself to be met with nothing but cold, stinging death. You took what you thought was your last breath and murmured a goodbye.

But nothing happened.

Intrigued, you open your eyes and saw nothing. Was it already gone? You couldn't tell, but your heart pounded the longer you stayed inside. You quickly hopped out and took deep breaths to calm yourself. What was that thing? What did it want? Dumb question, it wanted you dead. Everything down here wanted you dead. But you tried not to think about that too much.

Once calmed down, you looked around your surroundings, noting the new hazards laid before you. You were so tired. You wanted to rest so badly. But rest was not an option here. You had researchers that needed your help, unfortunately. With a sigh, you forced your aching body through the doors and continued your path.

Foot after foot, breath after breath, you really were unsure if you'd make it out alive. You were deprived of food, sleep, and warmth. Not to mention that there were more ponds of water to swim through than anticipated. You were soaked. And, with the harsh coldness burning your exposed skin, you were left numb and pained. The urge to cry became strong but you were simply too weak to cry.

Come door 50, you were met with another dark room. Wonderful. Your flashlight was nearly out of juice and other light sources you had on you were dead. So much for savoring light. You decided to try to save the remaining battery power and venture through the darkness. Each footstep inside made you more paranoid of those squiddles. Those horrific faces that would burn into you if you dared to flash your light or come close.

Alas, as your paranoia was at an all-time high, you heard a voice call out to you.

"Hey friend, over here."

You shrieked and jumped from the sudden break of silence. Oh no, was tnis your demise? You couldn't tell anymore. But judging from whoever just spoke to you actually communicated with you through language instead of aggression, you were quick to get moving to find the source. Now was the good time to use the flashlight. You turned the light on and cautiously waved the light around. You found more desks, the usual. But a vent caught your eye. Maybe it came from there? You were uncertain, but it was better than being out here. With a mumble, you got down to your knees and crawled through the tight space.

The path wasn't long, and thank heavens that there was some decent lighting up ahead. You crawled and made your way into a decently big room. But that's not what caught your eye, obviously. As you stood up and began dusting yourself, your eyes met some... thing? Unimaginable. Your jaw dropped. This creature was huge, possibly 20 to 30 times bigger than you. You couldn't help but stare at his features; pale blue skin, his eyes glowing a soft cyan, his black hair that looked soft to the touch, his attire covering his upper body; you couldn't help but be both amazed and petrified.

"Welcome, new friend! Don't be afraid, I'm not going to hurt you. My name is Sebastian, your only friend." His voice was oddly warm and welcoming, but you knew to not underestimate him over some hospitality. You were very small compared to him.

Sebastian opened his mouth to continue but stopped himself almost immediately. You were confused for a moment, not aware that you were slowly slumping to the ground. You were trying to pay attention and had not realized your own body was giving up on you. And Sebastian was no idiot. He could easily tell you weren't well. And before you knew it, your knees buckled below you, causing you to slip and crash down on the floor. Consciousness slipped mere seconds after.

Sebastian stared down at you for a short moment. He was clearly dumbfounded, had he not expected this outcome. He could just leave you be on the cold surface. But instead, he slowly reached his hands out and carefully picked you up. You were so small, so fragile. So tired and numb. Sebastian frowned, knowing there wasn't much he could do. He felt your cold state and shivered.

"You're colder than ice," he murmured under his breath. In a way, he kind of felt bad. There were no blankets around, so Sebastian resorted to carefully holding you in his arms to keep you warm. He kept you close to him as his eyes examined your state. He simply sighed and shook his head. Why go this far for you? You might as well be someone ungrateful, right? His thoughts rushed through his head but yet kept you in his arms regardless. Eventually, he gave up and sighed.

"You owe me," he mumbled under his breath and covered you with his jacket before leaning himself against the wall. He couldn't believe he was doing this for you. So ungrateful.

Although, he hadn't had something to hold in a little while. So maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Written closely to lore, writer is tired.

[heyimkana]

Hey Kana... I just saw my crush hugging another girl (it hurt me) because I've liked him for about 10 years. Can you make a short scenario about Jinwoo comforting a crying Reader?💔❤️‍🩹

omg babe 😭 i'm so sorry to hear that 😭 I hope you're doing much better now 🥺 i'm sorry this took me a while but i wanted to make sure i wrote something decent enough to cheer you up hehe

(i tried to keep the mood light and fluffy cause i figured you already cried enough afjslddsfsdf 😭. Also, to make it easier to read, I changed your crush's name to Kihoon LOL I hope that's okay!)

It’s late evening. Jinwoo’s apartment is dimly lit, wrapped in the soft glow of a few scattered lamps and the pale light bleeding through the curtains from the streetlamps outside. He sits on the couch, a stack of Hunter Association documents spread across the coffee table in front of him—urgent, of course—but his pen stills mid-sentence when a knock echoes through the apartment.

He already knows who it is. That familiar heartbeat. That unmistakable presence.

“Coming,” he calls, setting the pen aside as he stands.

When he opens the door, there you are—his childhood friend. The one he’s secretly loved for years. But tonight, you're not smiling. You look like the world cracked open beneath your feet.

“Hey, what happe—” Before he can finish, your voice slices through the silence.

“Oppa, you know how I always see you as a big brother, right?”

His brows pull together at the suddenness of your words, but his expression stays gentle. “Yeah, of course. What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Can I be really childish and annoying for a minute?”

He can’t help the corner of his mouth from twitching. “You’re annoying every day, so I’m kind of used to it.”

You take a deep breath. And then—

“LOVE SUCKS!”

Jinwoo flinches at the sudden outburst, eyes wide. He glances down the hallway, half-expecting a neighbor to peek out, then looks back at you, ears still ringing. “That’s… a very loud opinion.”

“Oh, I’ve got opinions, alright!” you rant, unstoppable. “Love is overrated. Relationships are overrated. Anyone in love is either an idiot or a masochist! No matter how much you love someone, they’ll always fall for someone else. Someone prettier. With a nicer smile, or a better nose, or who can sing or cook or do stupid backflips or—ugh! BEING IN LOVE IS SO STUPID!”

Jinwoo stands quietly, watching you unravel—equal parts surprised and quietly amused. You’re fiery. Heartbreakingly endearing, even when furious.

“…And what brought this on?”

“No reason,” you say, waving your hands like you’re swatting the truth away. “I just think love is stupid. Don’t you agree?”

He sighs and steps aside to let you stomp in properly. “Alright, drama queen. Come in before you wake up my neighbors.” With a soft chuckle, he closes the door behind you.

“I told you I was going to be childish,” you mutter, collapsing onto the couch.

He follows, settling beside you, his voice gentler now. “Okay. So what really happened?”

Guided by that gentleness, that sincere concern laced with curiosity, your facade shatters, revealing a frail, doleful girl underneath. “I saw... Son Kihoon hugging Han Semi today. I guess they’re together now.” The exhale that escapes you carries a piece of a broken heart, your voice softening, cracking on the edges. “I know it's just a crush, but… I've liked him for ten years now. It hurts.”

His heart clenches. Seeing you like this—so raw, so wounded—makes something ache deep in his chest. He wants to pull you into his arms, to soothe you with his warmth, to kiss your temple to make you realize you’re not as alone and unloved as you think you are. But he doesn’t. He never does. Doesn’t allow himself to. 

“I get it,” he says softly. “Ten years is a long time."

You tighten your fists, your teeth sinking into your quivering lip. "I-if I cry, will you laugh at me?"

Jinwoo hates it. Hates that there's someone out there who makes you cry, and he can't do anything about it. Hates that you're crying over something that he can't help recover. He sighs, all due to the disappointment he holds toward himself. "No," he says, his smile tender. "No, I won't."

And with that, he strips you bare. You break down into tears, your nails sinking into your thighs before he pulls you close with one hand, letting you rest your face in the curve of his shoulder. He just sits there and wait, his fingers threading carefully through your strands, pacifying you without a word. But that's the comfort you desperately need. You didn't seek for advice, didn't want to be told white lies, you just needed a shoulder to cry on and he gave it to you, broad and warm with a calming, pleasant scent that soothes you to your bone.

He still hates it. If only he was the one you were in love with. He would've never made you feel this way. And he would've held your hand, and kissed your tears away, one by one, replacing them with silent affection.

After a while, you finally regain the strength to pull away. He smiles softly, fingers itching to brush away the tears. "Better now?"

"Yeah." You sniffle. "Sorry, I... got my snots all over your jacket. I've never seen you worn this before. Is it brand new?"

"Yes."

"Sorry."

"It's all right."

You look at each other and you find yourself trading chuckles. "God, I feel so much better now. Screw Kihoon. I don't need him. Not when I have you, right, Oppa?" You beam, bumping your shoulders together.

Jinwoo's lips tighten into a line but he forces them to curve. "You knew from the start, didn't you? That he didn’t feel the same way?”

You nod, your heart still aching over the thought. “Well, yeah… but it doesn’t stop the pain.”

Jinwoo watches as your lower lip trembles and you quickly turn your face away, blinking back the tears that threaten to emerge again. He stays silent, hands clenched in his lap. He wants to reach out. He always does. But he shouldn't.

“Maybe it’s for the best,” he says, sympathy in his eyes. “At least now you can move on.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’ve never fallen for someone who didn’t like you back, have you? I mean, look at you—if you liked someone, she’d be insane not to like you back. You wouldn’t get how this feels, Oppa.”

The words hit harder than they should.

He looks at you, lips parting as if to speak, but then—he hesitates. He wants to tell you. How wrong you are. That he knows exactly how it feels. That he lives it every day you smile at him and call him Oppa.

“You’d be surprised how wrong you are,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Jinwoo rises to his feet, trying to shake the weight in his chest. “Well... I’ve got ice cream. Want some?”

“Oppa…” Your voice is small, fragile, but there’s a shimmer in your eyes, a hint of gratitude, and a quite joy amidst the sadness. “Yes, please.”

A tender, affectionate smile adorns his lips. “Okay.” He ruffles your hair, like how a caring brother would, then heads into the kitchen. When he returns, he has a pint of ice cream and two spoons. Without a word, he sits beside you again, sets the ice cream between you both, and offers you one of the spoons. “All right, dig in.”

You grab the spoon with a sniff. “If I get fat, I’m blaming both Son Kihoon and you.”

Jinwoo chuckles, the sound low and warm. “If you get fat, that’s on you. I’m just here being a supportive friend in your time of crisis.”

You shoot him a look, lips twitching upward. “Couldn’t you have supported me in a way that didn’t involve ruining my waistline?”

He leans back slightly, teasing. “And how exactly should I have supported you, then?”

You tap your spoon against your chin, thinking aloud. “Hmm… What could the great S-Rank Hunter Sung Jinwoo do to make a girl happy?”

He hums to himself, playing along. “I could punch Son Kihoon for you.”

You gasp dramatically, hand to your chest. “Don’t you dare! He’s my precious one.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile falters for half a second. That word—precious—burns just a little too much when it’s meant for someone else. Jinwoo pokes your side again, light and playful. “You say ‘precious.’ I say… ‘punchable.’”

You laugh, finally. A real, full laugh. “You know, Oppa, you don’t act like this around anyone else, do you? In public, you’re always so serious. The stoic, silent type. But here you are, being a complete dork.”

“I see your mood’s improving,” he scoffs. “That sharp tongue of yours is back.” He shrugs then, more quietly. “I guess it just means I’m more myself around you.”

“Oh, I’m still upset, don’t get me wrong. But this ice cream is doing wonders.” When you glance at him, the impish gleam in your eyes softens. You brush your shoulder gently against his, eyes warm. “I’m glad you can be yourself around me. I feel the same way, too. That’s why I came here, you know? The moment I felt awful, my feet just… brought me here. Because I knew you’d somehow make it better. I always feel at ease with you, Oppa.”

His heart clenches. Every word you say is exactly what he wants to hear—just not like this. Not while he’s still just the “safe” one. The “comfort” one. The friend. But he swallows that ache down.

“Of course. Anytime,” he murmurs, forcing out a smile. “What are friends for?”

You pause, eyes a little hesitant when you stare at him. “Hey, can I… be completely honest for a second? It’s gonna sound really sappy. Maybe even cringe. Just warning you.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Go ahead. I’ll try not to cringe too hard.”

You set the ice cream on your lap and let out a slow breath. “You know how people say you can’t choose who you love?” You tarry, watching his face carefully. “Sometimes I think… if I could choose—if I could forget Kihoon for even a second—and choose someone to fall for… I’d choose you, Oppa.”

He turns still. 

It hits him like a quiet earthquake, everything shifting beneath his feet. It’s both everything he’s wanted to hear… and the most painful hypothetical he’s ever been handed. 

He looks down, struggling to keep his expression neutral. “And… why would you choose me?”

“A thousand reasons,” you answer instantly with a smile, tender yet radiant. “You’re kind. You’ve always been there when I needed someone. You protect me—even when you’re not physically there, I still feel protected. You’re blunt sometimes, but never cruel. You tell the truth when everyone else feeds me sweet lies. You’re strong, stronger than anyone I know. And I always feel safe around you. Comforted. Like being at home, surrounded by the people I love.” You slow down for a bit, voice quieter now. “You respect people—women, especially. You take good care of your family. I’ve watched you carry burdens most people wouldn’t survive, and you never ask for anything in return. Meanwhile, here I am sobbing over a guy who barely saw me. You’re everything I aim to be. I admire you so much, Oppa.”

He swallows hard. The lump in his throat is stubborn. “I… see.”

Jinwoo fixates his gaze on his lap before it slowly travels back to you. You’re smiling, relaxed, completely unaware of how deeply you’ve just wounded and uplifted him all at once.

“I don’t think I deserve all that,” he says. “I’m just… me.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Exactly. That’s why I admire you. You don’t pretend to be anyone else. You’re just you.” Your grin stretches on your face, brighter than the sun. “You’re cool, Oppa. Any girl would be lucky to have you.”

He wants to scream. Or laugh. Or just hold you and tell you the truth—that the girl who’s “lucky” enough to have him already exists. She’s sitting right here. And she doesn’t want him.

“Really?” he says instead, a little dry. “Any girl?”

You hum, scooping another spoonful. “Why? Do you have someone in mind?”

He tries to laugh it off. “No. Just surprised. You make it sound like I could have anyone I wanted.”

You tilt your head, chewing thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine anyone turning you down, honestly. She’d have to be insane.”

Every word is another twist of the blade. Jinwoo smiles—because he always does—but inside, his heart’s bleeding.

He watches you enjoy your ice cream, your expression soft and cheerful again. “How long are you going to keep eating that?”

“Shut up,” you grumble around another spoonful. “I’m eating my feelings, thank you very much. Also, I feel super embarrassed after that whole confession, so I need to distract myself with sugar and denial.”

He laughs softly, watching you avoid the conversation with spoonfuls of ice cream. You’re so cute when you’re flustered, and something about seeing you like this—curled on his couch, eating the comfort food he brought—makes his chest feel warm. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?" You tilt your head to the side. "Sure.”

He draws in a breath. The question is simple, but the answer might ruin him. Still, he has to know. “Hypothetically… if I told you I liked someone, what would you say?”

You blink, taken aback. “Hmm… I’d ask who the lucky girl is. You’ve never talked to me about girls before—so I don’t even know your type. But if you told me her name and she was, like, the worst person alive, I’d have to slap some sense into you.” Your body shakes lightly with mirth at the thought.

He smiles at that. It’s comforting knowing you'd be honest, even if it hurt. “But what if she’s not the worst? What if she’s actually… a really good person?”

That makes you pause. He notices your smile falter just a bit, your fingers stilling against your cup. “Well… I guess I’d be happy for you then.” You glance away. “And maybe a little jealous. You got to be in a relationship before me. But yeah… I’d be glad.”

His gaze lingers on your face. He should feel relieved—but all he feels is a sharp ache in his chest. “Yeah? You’d be happy for me?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” You toss him a small, earnest smile. “You’re like a brother to me, Oppa. If someone out there makes you happy, that’s a good thing.”

The word brother hits harder than it should. He swallows, hard. “Right. Of course.” 

“So… who is she?”

“What?”

“Come on, you’ve never asked things like this before. There must be someone in your mind. Who is it?”

His lips curve into a mischievous smile, a shield for the storm inside. “Not telling.”

You narrow your eyes. “That doesn’t sound fair. I told you everything about Kihoon.”

He shrugs with exaggerated indifference. “Welcome to a one-sided conversation.”

“You jerk. I take back every nice thing I said about you earlier. You’re annoying.” But you’re smiling, leaning toward him with that same stubborn determination that always gets him in trouble. “C’mon, Oppa. Just a hint?”

He chuckles at how relentless you are. “You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?”

You pout. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll guess. You just nod if I get it right.”

“You’re turning this into a game now?” he says, trying not to laugh.

“I have to, don’t I? Cause you’re being a pain in my ass.” You finish your last drop of ice cream, setting the cup aside. “Okay, first guess—Cha Hae-In.”

He bursts into a soft chuckle. “Wrong.”

You gape. “Seriously? Not her? But she’s gorgeous!”

“She is,” he agrees, shaking his head, “but nope.”

You frown, deep in thought. “Uhh… Park Heejin?”

It amuses him further. You’re just naming all of the attractive girls now. “Nope.”

“Ugh. Who is it then?” You tap your chin, fully invested now. “I’ve got one guess left, right?”

He leans forward slightly, intrigued despite himself. “Mm. Make it count.”

You squint at him, ruminating for a moment, before your eyes brighten with enlightment. “Oh, I know. It’s been obvious this whole time. I’m a genius. The answer was right in front of me.”

His breath catches. Your confidence makes his heart hammer in his chest. 

You beam, your chin tilted upward in confidence. “It’s Joohee. Lee Joohee.”

Silence. Then—“What?”

“Joohee! You guys used to be super close. She liked you even back when you were still an E-rank. She’s the only one that makes sense.”

He stares at you, then bursts into laughter—half in disbelief, half in agony. “You… You think I’m in love with Joohee?”

You frown. “Why is that so funny?”

“God, you’re ridiculous,” he mutters through chuckles, shaking his head. “So, so stupid.”

“Excuse me?”

He finally calms down, meeting your glare with a gaze filled with both fondness and exasperation. “It's not Johee."

"Who, then?"

"I can’t tell you,” he says softly, his smile fading into something gentler, more vulnerable.

“Why not?” You pout again, more serious this time. “I thought we told each other everything…”

He hesitates. He’s standing on the edge of a precipice, heart pounding. “It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he says quietly. “It’s just… complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

He looks at you, his eyes filled with a mix of longing and fear. “If I told you… would you be mad?”

Your brows furrow. “Why would I be mad?”

“Just promise me you won’t be,” he says, his voice rougher now, almost pleading. “Whatever I say… just listen, okay? Don’t… walk away. Don’t hate me.”

You look a little unsettled, but you nod. “You’re scaring me, but… Okay. I promise.”

He exhales slowly, gathering every ounce of courage he has. “There’s something I’ve never told you. I’ve carried it for a long time… and I kept quiet, thinking it was better that way.” His voice is shaking now, his gaze locked to yours. “But being around you tonight, hearing the things you said… I just—” He breaks a little, his next line slipping out in a breathy whisper. “I don’t think I can hide it anymore.”

You’re silent, watching him. Listening.

“I… I’m in love with you,” he says at last and your breath hitches in your throat.

"What...?"

“I'm in love with you," he repeats, firmly this time, holding your gaze even though his own wavers, terrified of rejection. "I've been in love with you for a while and I’ve been trying not to be. But every time you walk into a room, everything else just... fades. You’re so important to me, more than anyone—more than anything—else. You drive me crazy, you’re stubborn, you’re impatient, and you’re loud—so loud—and you’re messy with your ice cream, and you call me annoying—but—” He stops for air, his heart thrumming, his voice reducing to almost a murmur. “I’d take all of that if it meant I got to stay by your side.”

You’re frozen in place, barely breathing. “Oppa—”

“And I know you don’t feel the same way,” he rushes, his head falling forward as he clasps his hands together, his knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping himself, trying to maintain control. “I know I’m just a friend to you. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t care more than that.” His voice nearly shatters. “You’re everything to me. And it fucking kills me because… I can’t have you.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, lips parted in surprise. He searches your face, waiting—dreading—your response. Every second feels like an eternity, like a pair of hands clasping tight around his throat.

And then, quietly, you say, “I… I’ve never noticed that you... feel that way about me.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh, something brittle and small. “You’ve never noticed that I don’t talk to other girls the way I talk to you? That I don't treat them the way I treat you?” His heart races, every word scraped from the rawest part of him.

Your stomach flips. “No, I—” The words catch in your throat and you surrender with your shoulders sagging. “Since… Since when…?”

Jinwoo draws in a shaky breath, his gaze never leaving yours. “Years. I’ve been in love with you for years.”

If your heart hadn’t broken before, it’s crumbling to pieces now. “Y-years…?”

He looks away. “I always knew you didn’t feel the same. That’s why I never said anything. I was going to take it to my grave, but...” His voice falters, thick with emotion. You can hear the vulnerability trembling at the edges of each word.

You’re perched still on your seat. Your heart beats like a drum. “I... I don’t know what to say…”

He closes his eyes briefly, collecting himself. When he opens them again, he wears an expression that breaks your heart—so calm, so gentle, and yet unmistakably pained.

“It’s fine. Like I said, I know you don’t feel the same. I know this probably changes things between us, but… It doesn’t have to. If all you want is for us to stay friends... I’ll understand. I’ll… We’ll stay that way. I promise.” His voice is careful, low, hushed—like he’s offering something fragile that’s already starting to crack.

Your jaw tightens. Taking a breath, you steel yourself and capture his gaze. “Oppa, I... I’ve only ever thought of you as a brother and—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, quietly. He doesn’t flinch, but you can feel the weight in his voice. “You don’t have to say it. I get it.”

You bite your lip, guilt twisting in your chest. There’s something else you want to confess, something that you’ve been buried deep down, too, just like his feelings, but you’re unsure if you should say it. No, he's not letting you say it. “I’m sorry…” It’s all you manage to say for now as your feelings are still in disarray.

He shakes his head, trying to soften the ache with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. “Don’t be. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one being stupid—confessing when I should’ve just kept being your friend.”

Your heart plummets to your stomach. “Oppa, that’s not—”

But Jinwoo stands abruptly, not wanting to prolong the conversation. His disappointment hangs heavy in the air. His gaze everywhere but your face. “It’s already late. I should take you home.”

“You... You want me to leave?”

He hesitates, visibly torn. He wants to stay, to talk, to hope—but also to run. “It’s… for the best. We both need some space.”

His voice is flat. Controlled. It’s the only way he knows how to survive this.

You watch him, eyes shaking both in incredulity and heartbreak. He’s just going to end the conversation like this?

It doesn’t matter what you think. He’s already made his decision. Jinwoo snatches his keys, grabs you another jacket to protect you from the cold night air, and walks to the door, holding it open for you like he’s holding open the end of something you never thought would end.

You return to your feet, feeling like they’re shackled. And with every step you take, your heart begs you to stay. Begs him to turn around, and see you, and smile at you the way he always does.

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t look at you, not anymore.

***

The car ride is suffocating.

Silence presses down like fog. Jinwoo’s hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed forward. He doesn’t acknowledge you, not even with a glance.

When he pulls up in front of your apartment, he shuts off the engine. The car goes still, painfully quiet. “We’re here,” he says, voice taut.

And it snaps, the patience and the self-control that have been thinning into a thread. “Oppa—”

He stops you with a call of your name. His voice is sharp, not angry—just strained, leaving your lips parted with nothing to say. “It’s… It’s really late. Just go inside and take a rest. I’ll see you around.”

Your chest tightens. It feels like rejection, like the door to your friendship is quietly closing. The words you had been composing all the way here crumble into dust. You step out of the car, still too rattled to say good night, and drag your feet toward the building, your heart aching.

Behind you, Jinwoo watches with every cell in his body begging him to reach out. To apologize. To talk. To run toward you and hug you and stroke your hair and explain why he doesn’t have the strength to look at you just yet. His hands tremble, itching to do just that, but he doesn’t move.

When you disappear from view, he drops his head into his hands.

“Fuck.”

He presses his forehead to the steering wheel, breathing hard, every breath an effort to stay in one piece. After a long moment, he gets out of the car and sucks in the night air. The cold air bites at him, but it’s nothing compared to the ache inside.

Then, out of nowhere, he hears it.

“Oppa!”

Your voice cuts through the night like a blade. His eyes snap open. You’re running toward him, eyes brimming with tears.

“What—” His voice catches. “Why are you here? I thought you went inside—”

“I hate you!” you cry, storming up to him. Your fists hit his chest as tears spill over. “You’re so unfair!”

He stumbles back, against the car, stunned. Your name tumbles off his lips but you don’t give him a chance to follow that with anything else.

“Years!” you shout, hitting him again, clouds of your hot breath painting the frosty night. “You’ve been in love with me for years and only now you decided to tell me?!”

His mouth opens, but no words come out. He braces himself, overwhelmed by your emotion, by you.

“Why?” you choke out. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you just tell me the truth? If you had done just that, I would’ve... I would've...” Your voice breaks, and the rest falls into a sob.

His heart cracks with yours. He wants to hold you. God, he wants to. But he can't. He shouldn't. He clenches his fists at his sides, trying to stay strong, trying to understand what caused your emotions to flare like this. “Please don’t cry—”

“And whose fault is that, you idiot?!” you shout with no bite in your voice, only shivers. “You told me you loved me, and then you just assumed everything on your own. You didn’t even look me in the eyes. And then you drove me home without saying anything, told me we needed some space when all I wanted to do was to talk it out with you. Do you understand how you make me feel right now?”

He’s speechless. Your words hit like thunder, like truth. “I… didn’t think you’d want to talk to me after that,” he admits, his eyes downcast. “I assumed you felt awkward.”

“Yes, it was awkward! Of course it was!” you cry out. “It feels suffocating just to be with you right now but I don’t want it to end like this. I don’t want you to act cold or pretend like nothing happened. And I don't want you to look at me like that. Like you're breaking apart and you won't let me in, you won't let me help, and I—” You whimper. "I don't want to make you feel sad... And I don’t want you to avoid me..."

He exhales sharply, jaw clenched. “I don’t want to avoid you either, I just… I didn’t think you’d be this upset. I thought you hated knowing how I feel about you.”

“Why the hell would I hate knowing that you’re in love with me?”

He looks at you then, and the look in his eyes is almost unbearable. “Because you don’t love me back. You see me as a friend. As a brother. You don’t see me the way I see you.”

Your lip quivers. Your chest feels like it’s going to shatter from the pressure. “Idiot,” you whisper. Then you start pounding your fists against his chest again. “You’re such an idiot, Oppa!”

He lets you shove him. Lets you push him until his back hits the side of the car with a soft thud. He doesn’t resist—he just takes it. Takes every ounce of your anger and frustration, every fist pounding against his chest. His eyes never leave your face. They stay locked on your expression, your trembling lips, the tears slipping down your cheeks.

It hurts. Every strike is a dagger, not because of your strength, but the emotions you put in every pound. But Jinwoo doesn’t raise a hand to stop you. He accepts it all, as if your pain is the only thing anchoring him to this moment. And somehow, beneath the ache, he feels relief. Because you’re not indifferent. You're feeling—burning. And maybe, just maybe, that means there’s still something left between you.

Each word you throw at him, every tear, every blow, it sparks something reckless inside him. Hope.

He welcomes the pain, drinks it in. Needs it. It’s proof that you still feel something. He wants to believe that behind all the fury and heartbreak, there’s still a corner of your heart that beats for him.

So he stays still and takes it.

Because if there’s even a sliver of affection, no matter how small, it’s enough. He clings to it—your words, your tears, your touch. He needs to believe he doesn’t have to let go of you. Not yet.

He can’t stop himself, he can’t stop the flood of affection and love for you that’s rising up in his chest. His hand cups your face, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, his touch gentle and tender. He’s holding you as if you’re going to disappear if he isn’t in complete physical contact with you. His expression is soft, gentle, filled with tender emotion, while his eyes show the pain he’s in, the pain he feels in his chest.

He pulls you in, cradling you against his chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, like you’re a lifeline, like he’s holding his world together by sheer force of will. His face buries into your hair, breathing you in. You soothe him, even in the middle of the storm.

“I’m sorry…” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. His heart hammers in his chest as he holds you. This moment, fragile and fleeting, feels like a miracle. “I’m so sorry…”

“For what..?” you sob, burying your face in his chest.

“For everything,” he chokes. “For loving you in silence. For keeping it all in. For making you cry. For making you angry. I’m sorry for all of it.”

You don’t answer at first. You just hold him tighter, your own emotions unraveling, too raw to speak.

He holds you like you might slip away if he loosens his grip. Your warmth is a balm, your presence a blessing. He tightens his hold. His heart is a mess, barely stitched together.

Then you whisper, voice quivering, “Oppa… Can I be... completely honest with you for a second?”

His breath catches. He nods slowly, head still resting against yours, every nerve attuned to you.

“I… When you told me you loved me… I didn’t hate it. I felt—happy.”

He freezes. His heart stutters, then races. He tries to stay calm, tries to tether himself, but your words crash over him like a wave. “What… what do you mean?”

You lean back, just enough to look into his eyes. “A part of me, a huge part of me felt like I was the luckiest girl in the world to have a man like you say those things to me. I felt grateful. And I felt so happy, and there’s… a side of me that wants to say it back. To tell you I love you, to let you know that there’s always been a part of me who sees you as something more than a friend. But we’ve been friends for years, and all this time, you never told me anything, never showed that you’d want us to be more than friends. So I shut it down, and I taught myself to move on, to find someone else. And I found Kihoon. Even though he doesn’t feel the same way about me, half of my heart still beats for him. The same way the other half did for you when you told me you loved me.”

His heart lurches. Her words both uplift and devastate. To know that you felt something—anything—for him in the past, ignites a radiant spark of hope. But Kihoon… the name lands like a stone in his chest.

Still, he swallows the pain. He doesn't let it consume him. He doesn't beg. He just breathes, slow and steady.

His hands lift again, cupping your face with devotion in each fingertips. “You say part of you loves me… Then why not give me that part?”

Your voice breaks. “Because I don’t want to give you a part of it—I want to give you everything. But I can’t, not right now. I don’t want to sound shallow, and I don’t want you to start doubting my feelings later on. I don’t want you to think that the reason why I accept your feelings is because I can’t be with Kihoon. I don’t want to make you feel like I’m settling for second best, or worse, because I feel sorry for you. If I gave you my heart—when I give you my heart, I want you to believe that you own it. Completely.” 

He feels the breath catch in his throat at your words. He wants you. All of you. But that honesty—that clarity—is exactly why he loves you.

He nods, eyes glistening. “I know. I know you’re right.” His voice shakes. He presses his forehead to yours, trying to ground himself. “But… it’s so hard to be patient.”

You almost give in, just from the way he’s begging silently with his eyes. “I don’t want you to doubt my feelings,” you repeat softly.

“I don’t,” he breathes. “I’ll never doubt your feelings, but if you want to wait then... I will. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

The words are a vow, whispered through lips trembling with restraint. He wants to kiss you—God, he wants it more than anything. But he stays still. Barely holding on.

He opens his eyes, gazing at you beneath heavy lashes. You’re so close. One small move, and his lips would brush yours.

You swallow, your breathing turns heavy. You can feel his gaze cascading to your lips. “I just… need time to sort out my feelings…”

He’s burning inside. The need to hold you, to taste you, it roars inside him like wildfire. But he doesn’t move. “How long…” he murmurs, barely audible. “How long do I have to wait?”

The pain in your face breaks him. “I’m not sure.” In a moment of weakness, of surrender, your eyes flicker to his lips, too. “I need to forget about Kihoon and… focus on my feelings for you.”

He catches your drifting gaze and his heart slams against his ribs.

Your fingers clutch his shirt tighter, anchoring yourself to him. And that small gesture—so intimate, so telling—sets him ablaze.

You’re looking at his mouth, breath shallow. You want him, too. He can feel it. It’s driving him mad.

He leans in, just enough that your noses brush. His breath dances across your lips.

"Please..." Jinwoo whispers, barely knowing what he’s asking. It’s a prayer, a plea for something he can’t even name. A kiss. Your heart. A promise.

He’s barely holding it together, his breath is coming in short pants. “You should... push me away...”

“I know…” You murmur back, your eyes tracing his lips, still.

His eyes are locked onto your face, his head tilted to hover over yours. You’re so close he can almost feel your breath against his skin. This is torture, this is pure torture. “Then why don’t you…?”

“I don’t know…” Your voice trembles, your strength ebbing as you clutch him tighter.

He sees the moment you stop fighting. The moment you lean into him, soft and yielding.

And he almost breaks.

But even now, even in the center of the storm, he waits. He won’t take what you’re not ready to give. He can’t. Not like this.

He breathes you in, dizzy with want. Still, he waits.

“Can I…” He starts, shivers in his voice. “Can I be completely honest with you for a second?”

You nod slowly, eyes half-lidded, lost in him. “Yes…”

He wets his lips, eyes flicking down to your mouth for just a moment—barely a heartbeat—but it’s enough. He’s trying to focus. Trying so damn hard. Because if he doesn’t, he knows he’ll lose control. And he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on.

“I’ve… I’ve dreamed about this,” Jinwoo breathes, voice low and close—so close that if you leaned in even a fraction, you'll taste the vibration on your lips.

“About… what?” you whisper, barely audible.

“You and me,” he murmurs, the words slipping into the silence between you like a secret. His gaze drops again, hungry and haunted. “I’ve dreamed about kissing you for so long.”

You lick your lips, and his eyes track the movement like he’s memorizing it. “You… you have…?”

He exhales, shaky and raw, the sound more confession than breath. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about it. About holding you… kissing you… tasting you.”

He’s trembling with restraint, every muscle taut, breath hot against your skin. But still—still—he doesn’t close the gap.

“Can I…?” he asks, voice rough, frayed with need. “Can I kiss you?”

It’s a plea. A prayer. He’s hanging on by a thread, and your answer is the only thing holding him back.

You know you should say no. You made him promise to wait. And you made the same promise to yourself—to let go of Kihoon before giving your heart to someone else. But in this moment, that promise cracks.

Because when his thumb brushes your bottom lip, tugging it down with the gentlest touch, your resolve slips.

He’s so close. You can taste him in the air.

“Ye—”

You don’t get the word out.

His lips crash against yours.

One hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. The other wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His kiss is desperate—starved. He pours years of longing, pain, and buried passion into it, kissing you like he’s trying to reclaim time itself.

Jinwoo deepens the kiss, pressing closer, tasting you like he’s been parched. He doesn’t want to stop. He can’t.

A soft whimper escapes you, and something in him snaps. He lifts you effortlessly, pinning you against the car, his hips pressing between your legs. His tongue finds yours, the kiss turning urgent, demanding—devouring.

He only pulls back when the need for air forces him to, gasping, breath ragged. But even then, he doesn’t stray far. He catches your bottom lip between his teeth and nips—gently, but possessively.

You break apart, panting, your chest rising and falling against his. You don’t move far, your legs shaking as you return to the ground. Your foreheads almost touch, the air between you charged, crackling with the weight of everything unsaid.

He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his voice rough with emotion. “Sorry… I got a little carried away...”

You shake your head, still breathless. “It’s… it’s okay...”

He closes his eyes, trying to collect himself. That kiss—you—are more than he ever let himself imagine. Every fantasy pales in comparison to this.

“You should go,” he murmurs, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “It’s getting late. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

You hesitate. “Promise you won’t avoid me?”

He opens his eyes, smiling softly. “I promise," he carves the word with his lips, pressing them right against your temple.

He steps back, like it physically hurts to create that space, hands clenched as if to keep from reaching for you again. He watches you slowly move toward the entrance door of your building, gaze drinking in every detail of you like he’s trying to etch the moment into memory.

Then, just before you slip inside, he calls out. “Wait.”

You turn, heart pounding. “Y-yes?”

He stuffs his hands into the pockets, trying to look composed. Steady. But his voice wavers. “Can I be completely honest with you for a second?”

You give a nervous little laugh. “Sure.”

He watches you for a beat too long, garnering all the feelings he holds for you, trying to find a way to place them into sentences. He draws a breath. 

“I love you,” he says, followed by your name, softly, but with unshakable clarity. “I love you more than anything. I love you more than I think I could. And I know I will always love you even if you don't love me back. So stop looking at me like I’m just a friend… or an older brother. Start looking at me like a man. A man who wants you, who needs you. I’ll be waiting. No matter how long it takes, I’ll be here, waiting for you to come back to me.”

You stiffen, face flushed, lips parted—but no words come. It’s just… impossible to say anything when he speaks so sincerely, when he gazes at you so fondly, when he loves you so ardently.

Jinwoo smiles again, gentler now, relieved that he’s spoken everything he’d been bottling up for so long. “Good night.”

“G-good night,” you whisper back, as it is all you can manage.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” He tosses you one last gaze, one full of longing, before he slips inside his car and drives off.

You stand there, your face heating up, your mind spinning, your world suddenly tilted on its axis. There’s only one name swirling inside your brain, and it doesn’t belong to the same man who broke your heart earlier today. It belongs to the man who mended it. Who took care of it, then shattered it, healed it, burned it, and kissed it with so much passion, it left your nerves tingling long after he’s gone.

Tomorrow….

What's going to happen tomorrow?

***

A/N: I don't know how to end this and i've dragged it too long lsadfskdflsd I SWEAR I WANTED IT TO BE JUST A DRABBLE IDK WHAT HAPPENED

ANYWAY I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT BYE I'M RUNNING

[rastronomicals]

4:05 PM EDT April 1, 2024:

As I Lay Dying - “Song 10” From the album Frail Words Collapse (July 1, 2003)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

–

[soulessjourney]

Shattered Bonds

A/N: I'm back after a very much long needed break! Between starting a new job and graduating, things have been super hectic. So, why not come back with an angsty fanfic with Azriel? I also may or may not be working on the long-awaited part 2 of 'Exile'.

Paring: Azriel x fem!Reader

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: After being injured in battle, Azriel is consumed by guilt. But when you finally wake, you're confronted with the harsh reality that perhaps you were always replaceable.

Warnings: Violence, Language, hurt no comfort, Azriel lowkey is a dick, Injured Reader, Angst, Duel(ish) POV, Mentions of pregnancy

Death and smoke fill your lungs. A sticky substance clings to your skin, though at this point, you're unsure if it’s yours or someone else’s. Metal clashes against metal, and your hands sting from both the vibration and the rawness caused by gripping the sword's hilt. You pivot on your foot, turning quickly to keep up with your opponent, your blades moving at lightning speed. Then, you feel a foot slam into your stomach, sending you flying backward across the rough brick ground. The surface tears into your skin like tiny knives, shredding your clothes in the process.

You scramble to your feet, your eyes darting around for your attacker. Instead, they land on a blue glow and dark hair. Azriel. But before you can process this, a sharp pain stabs your side. Gasping, you turn and plunge your sword into your attacker, your eyes blazing with fury. You lock onto the wide eyes of your victim just as another sharp pain strikes your stomach. Looking down, you see something silver protruding from your abdomen.

Green wisps shoot out from you, your lip curling as blood dribbles from the corner of your mouth. You drive the sword deeper into him as he begins to gag, foam forming at the edges of his mouth. You watch as he collapses to the ground, clawing at his neck before eventually falling still. Staggering back, you wince at the ever-growing burn in your abdomen, the green wisps swirling as if seeking something.

You fall back against the crumbling building behind you, sliding down the wall as you tilt your head back, feeling the weight of your exhaustion. Your vision blurs, your mind hazy, as you clutch your stomach, finding it harder and harder to keep your eyes open. A red glow catches your attention, and someone sprints toward you, dropping to their knees, unsure hands hovering over your wound.

“Cassian?” Your voice is frail, barely a whisper. If your mother could hear you now, she’d be laughing in pure disappointment.

Cassian smiles down at you and gently brushes the hair from your face. “Hey there, Bug. Hang on for me, alright? Azriel is coming.” You smile at the nickname he gave you when you were younger, back when you had an obsession with ladybugs.

Nodding, you close your eyes and lean into him. “It hurts, Cass,” you mumble, wincing as you shift, trying to find some comfort.

“I know, I know. But you did such a good job,” he whispers, combing your hair back before pressing his hands firmly against your wound to stem the bleeding.

The world around you seems to darken, and you glance up to meet the eyes of your mate. Smiling weakly, you reach out to him. “Hey, Az,” you whisper as your eyes flutter closed. His horrified expression tells you everything—the wound isn’t something that can be easily fixed. In other words, it’s a "you might die" kind of wound. Joy.

Azriel looked pale, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes widened. He gently pulls you toward him, holding you close as his thumb strokes softly across your cheek. His gaze darts around frantically before locking onto Cassian.

“We need to get her back. She’s not going to survive. Let Rhys and the others know,” he says, urgency clear in his voice.

Leaning into him, you feel the comforting embrace of his shadows surrounding you. Your eyes grow heavy, and before long, sleep overtakes you.

Azriel paced around the room as you lay motionless in the bed. Every glance at you gnawed at his heart, guilt consuming him. His shadows hadn't left your side, hovering as if trying to heal you somehow. His pacing came to an abrupt stop when his brothers and Madja entered the room. Azriel didn’t miss the more somber expressions they wore, and even Madja's eyes seemed duller than before.

He turned to them, desperation shining in his gaze. “Well? What did Madja say?” he asked, his voice tight with anxiety. Cassian and Rhysand exchanged a look, as if communicating silently. Cassian nodded, then pursed his lips before facing Azriel.

“Well, there’s a chance Y/N could make it,” Cassian said gently.

Azriel felt as though his ears were ringing. A chance. Just a chance that you might wake up and survive. It wasn't a guarantee, only a possibility. His frustration boiled over. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Can’t we do something to wake her? If not, why did we even bring her back?” he spat, his shadows retracting toward him, draping over his shoulders like a dark cape.

Madja shook her head as she finished changing the dressing on your wounds. “We’ve done all we can, boy. It's her fight now. I suggest you stay here—if she wakes, the first thing she’ll want is her mate,” Madja said, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “You need to be there for her, as she has been for you countless times.”

With that, she nodded to the brothers and quietly left the room, the door clicking softly behind her.

Azriel clenched and unclenched his fists, glaring at the ground. Cassian, already knowing what his brother was about to say, gently gripped his shoulder. “It’s not—”

“But it is my fault," Azriel snapped. "She wanted to stay behind and protect Feyre and the others, and I convinced her to come because I couldn’t bear to be away from her for so long. She was unsure of her skills, and I talked her into it. I’m to blame for all of this. I almost got my mate killed.” He spun, his gaze shifting between his brothers and you.

Rhysand sighed, pushing off the wall he had been leaning against. “Az, Cassian’s right. You can’t blame yourself for this. Y/N was already set on coming. She talked to me about it—she was worried about you and didn’t want to leave you stranded in battle while she stayed behind.”

Azriel let out a low growl, his siphons flashing, causing Cassian to tense. “Either way, I couldn’t protect her. And now look at her—she’s fighting for her life, and I don’t know if she’ll ever wake up.” He stepped closer to you, sinking into the chair beside your bed and gently taking your hand. “Just give me some time alone. I need to think while still being here for her,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on your chest, searching for any sign of your shallow breathing.

Cassian opened his mouth to respond, but Rhysand placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head. Silently, Cassian closed his mouth, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room, Rhysand following close behind. The door clicked shut, leaving Azriel alone in the deafening silence.

Azriel let his eyes trace over your face, as if committing every feature, every imperfection to memory. Gently, he ran his fingers through your hair and pressed his lips to the back of your hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should’ve stayed by your side, like you asked. I shouldn’t have fought with you about it. You needed me, and I turned my back on you, and this is the result.”

He felt like a danger to you. Even if you survived, he believed he would only continue to put you in harm's way. You could never have a peaceful life with him. All he wanted was for you to be safe and happy, but he’d failed when it mattered most. You were his entire universe, and yet he couldn’t protect you. He had convinced himself that by staying by his side, you would never be safe—that he didn’t deserve you, not if it meant you ended up like this.

The door creaked open, and Elain poked her head in, glancing around. Stepping in, she cleared her throat softly. “Oh, Azriel, I didn’t realize you’d be here. I thought you were still with Madja and the others,” she said gently. Noticing his gaze on the moon lilies, she smiled and approached the table next to your bed. “Moon lilies. They were her favorite. For a while, I thought she was going to take over the whole garden with them. Luckily, I talked her into taking over the area by the pond. It’s beautiful with the flowers there,” Elain said, smiling down at you.

Azriel looked up at Elain, his expression unreadable. Letting go of your hand, he stood and cleared his throat. “Speaking of the flowers, I saw you loading the cart earlier. I assume you’re making rounds around Velaris to hand them out. Would you like some help?” he asked, his voice even.

Their eyes met, and Elain studied him for a moment, as if searching for the intent behind his offer. After a brief hesitation, she nodded and motioned toward the door.

You pace around the room, your leathers hugging you tightly. Nesta had spent hours wrestling with your hair, her shaky hands finally managing to braid it back. She’d have a fit if she saw the strands that had already fallen loose. Chewing on your nail, your gaze snaps to Azriel, who watches you from the bed. “I don’t know about this, Az. We still don’t know what I’m capable of. What if I hurt the wrong person?” you ask, your pacing quickening slightly.

Azriel huffs as he continues sharpening Truth-Teller. “Stop worrying so much. It’s war, Y/N. Accidents are going to happen. You can’t always prevent them. One day, you’ll have to face the reality of what you can do and accept it. I can’t always be there to shield you from the harsh truths.” His tone is sharp, and it brings you to an abrupt halt.

“I’m not asking you to shield me, Azriel. I’m asking you to be there if I lose control,” you push back, crossing your arms over your chest. Azriel tenses at the use of his full name.

Setting the dagger in his lap, he turns to face you. “And I can’t do that. My place is by Rhysand’s side, and you know that. I can’t abandon him just to keep you safe all the time. This is your chance to learn how to handle things on your own for once.”

A dry laugh escapes you, and you throw your hands up in frustration. “I never asked you to abandon him, Azriel! You were the one who insisted I come with you—especially when we don’t know what I’m capable of or that I can’t control these abilities yet. So, I’m sorry if I’m a little scared,” you say, your voice catching.

Azriel scoffs as he stands, gathering his things. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Y/N. And if not, just don’t die. We don’t need more problems weighing down the court.” His words hit you like a blow, leaving you speechless, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Taking your silence as an answer, Azriel turns his back and walks out of the room, leaving you standing there, staring at the door.

Your eyes snap open as a rush of air fills your lungs. Choking, you cough violently, feeling a hand on your back, rubbing soothing circles. Your body tenses at the unfamiliar touch, and you instinctively jerk back, putting distance between yourself and the unknown figure.

“Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s okay,” a familiar voice reassures. As your vision clears, you find yourself face to face with Cassian, his frown deepening at your reaction.

Relaxing slightly, you offer him a small smile and shift back into your original position. “Where’s Azriel?” you ask, noticing something flicker in his eyes, though you can’t quite identify the emotion. Maybe you weren’t fully awake enough to process it. Glancing around the room, you spot a few vases of dead flowers and a subtle change in the decor. Confusion clouds your face. “Cassian, how long have I been asleep?”

Cassian clears his throat, looking away as he gathers his thoughts. “It’s been about ten months,” he finally says.

It feels like a jolt of electricity surges through you. Ignoring his protests, you slide out of bed and limp toward the window. “Ten months? How—what—there’s no way,” you mutter, staring at your reflection in the glass. You turn your head from side to side, inspecting your appearance. Your face had slimmed significantly, and your eyes were slightly sunken. You still looked like yourself, but there was something off, something different. “Cassian, where is Azriel? Is he on a mission?”

Cassian sighs, running a hand over his face as he averts his gaze once again. “It’s better if I show you rather than tell you,” he mutters, glaring toward the door. “Get cleaned up, and once you’re ready, we’ll head downstairs,” he says, moving to sit on one of the couches. “I’ll wait here. Take your time.”

Nodding slowly, you turn toward the bathroom and walk in to bathe. You were somewhat clean, but it was clear they had only managed to wash the areas they could reach with a small towel. At least they had taken care of you, in some way. Stepping into the bath, you sink into the water, staring blankly at the wall. Ten months. You had been in that state for ten months, leaving your family to wait and worry.

Your thoughts drift to Azriel. Why hadn’t he been there when you woke? Why did the other end of the bond feel so empty and cold?

Sucking in a deep breath, you tug on the bond, holding it tight as you wait for a response. But when none comes, your heart clenches. Panic sets in as you hurriedly finish bathing and dressing. Throwing the door open, you face Cassian. “Has something happened to Azriel? Is he alright?”

Cassian lets out a dry snort and stands. “Yeah, something happened,” he mutters, offering you his arm. Taking it, you shoot him a confused look as the two of you walk together. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.”

As you and Cassian descend the stairs, the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and silverware fill the air. A soft smile tugs at your lips as you step into the room. Mor is the first to notice you, her eyes brimming with tears as she suddenly stands and rushes toward you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

“Please don’t tell me this is a dream,” she rasps, clinging to you.

You and Mor had always been like sisters. Growing up surrounded by the boys, her arrival in your life had been a blessing.

“It’s not a dream,” you whisper, hugging her back just as tightly. But after a few moments, you feel Mor tense, as if she suddenly remembered something. She pulls away, giving you a sad smile that only deepens your confusion. As you look around the room, everyone avoids your gaze, though a palpable tension hangs in the air, laced with something like anger.

Your eyes shift between them, trying to understand, until they finally land on Azriel. He sits frozen, fork midair, eyes wide, body rigid. Next to him, Elaine quickly looks away, nervously biting her lip—a habit she had whenever she felt guilty about something.

“Azriel?” you call out, your voice trembling slightly. The sound of his name seems to snap him out of his stupor, and he drops his fork, spilling his drink onto Elaine’s lap.

Elaine stands abruptly, and your eyes widen in shock. Before you, a very pregnant Elaine rises, her hand instinctively resting on her belly. Your gaze travels downward, catching the glint of a ring on her finger. “You and Lucien finally made it official?” you ask, a smile breaking across your face. “I’m so happy for you!” You laugh, but the sound dies quickly when you notice everyone else’s glances shifting toward Azriel.

That’s when you see it—something you had somehow missed before. On his finger, where he once wore the engagement ring meant for you, sits a wedding band, one that matches Elaine’s.

A chill runs down your spine as your eyes snap back to his. The room feels suddenly colder, and you feel the ground give way beneath you.

“No…” you whisper, your vision blurring as the weight of it all crashes down on you.

The ring on your finger suddenly felt like it was searing into your skin, and you blinked rapidly, trying to stop the tears from falling. "This is a joke, right? Some sick prank you both decided to pull?" When silence met your words, the rage inside you began to swell, and your breathing quickened. "So you’re telling me that while I was fighting for my life, you were out here screwing Elain, and somewhere along the way, you got married—and the best part? She’s pregnant?"

Something snapped inside you, and from the corner of your eye, you saw green wisps materialize, curling around you like tendrils of raw power.

Rhysand stood abruptly, and Cassian shifted closer to Nesta, instinctively protective. “Y/N, you need to breathe. I understand you're angry, but this isn’t the place to test your abilities after being asleep for ten months,” Rhysand said, trying to calm you.

You shook your head, fists clenched. “You want me to calm down? My supposed mate left me to rot in that room, just so he could chase after Elain. He abandoned me and every promise he made! I didn’t ask to be in that room—I didn’t ask to get hurt. So why should I bow down to your request when the real traitor is right here in front of all of you!”

With a final burst of fury, a smoky green tendril shot out, aimed directly at Azriel and Elain. His shadows barely blocked the blow. Elain screamed, curling in on herself to protect her stomach, while Azriel staggered back, overwhelmed by the torrent of emotions surging through the bond. The betrayal, the hurt, the rage—all of it hit him like a wave, causing him to drop to his knees, gasping for breath.

You stepped closer, looming over him, and pulled the ring from your finger, letting it fall to the ground in front of him. Azriel picked it up without hesitation, his eyes wide with guilt.

"Don’t look at me like that, Azriel. It makes you look pathetic," you spat. "You chose this the moment you left me in that room to chase after Elain. After 200 years together, I was never going to compare to her, even as your mate. You’ve made it clear, Azriel—I’m replaceable."

You took a step back, but Azriel’s hand shot out, catching yours in desperation. “Y/N, you don’t understand—you can’t do this. Please don’t leave me,” he pleaded, his voice broken, his face twisted with regret.

Seeing him on his knees, begging—it made you feel sick.

You pulled your hand away, standing tall as the green tendrils swirled and coiled around you, making you seem larger than life. "I can, because you left me to die the moment you chose Elain over me. You made your bed, Azriel—now lie in it. Don’t bother looking for me, because if you do, I’ll do everything in my power to destroy you."

With those final words, you turned and walked out, leaving behind your family, your home, and every happy memory you once held dear. All that was left was anger and a thirst for vengeance.

A/N: I do hope you guys enjoyed! It may not be the best after a long time away, but I figured it was a great way to finally make my comeback after so long!

[socialobligation]

Need... Worried asf monoma x barely alive reader who got their ass sent to the hospital... Shit ton of angst and a fluffy ending and my life is yours unc 🙏🙏

what silence held | n. monoma

the mission went wrong. she didn't make it out whole. he held what was left, whispering promises and apologies into bloodstained skin, praying she'd come back just once more. (2407 words)

neito monoma had always been a figure sculpted from layers of meticulous deflection and purposeful arrogance, a carefully constructed image designed to repel rather than invite closeness. beneath that armor, however, lay an earnestness few had glimpsed, an admiration that had quietly rooted itself deep within him, growing stronger with every interaction he had shared with you—an admiration he kept stubbornly hidden behind sarcasm and rivalry.

but now, standing rigid and hollow-eyed before the stark hospital window separating him from your battered form, monoma felt every carefully laid barrier crumble beneath the weight of profound fear. the clinical white lights cast sharp, unforgiving reflections across the polished floors, illuminating your frail, unmoving figure beneath the sterile sheets. the stark contrast between your vibrant spirit—once so full of stubborn resolve—and the battered body now sustained by machines cut deep into his consciousness, a visceral pain he'd never known before.

your body was a ruin.

blood still crusted around the stitches at your temple, a wound that split your skin down to the bone. your left eye, swollen shut, was purpled nearly black. dried blood rimmed your nostrils. deep bruises bloomed across your collarbone and arms, fingerprints in violent shades of plum and yellow. a jagged gash peeked from beneath the gauze on your abdomen, where they'd reopened you twice due to internal bleeding. a rib had pierced your lung. he'd overheard the doctors say it was a miracle you'd made it to the hospital at all.

inside the room, it was too quiet.

the low whir of the oxygen machine, the faint hiss of air being pushed into your lungs, the soft, consistent beeping of the heart monitor—it should have been reassuring. instead, it felt like a countdown, like a fragile metronome ticking away the seconds you might have left. monoma sat motionless in the corner of your room, the plastic chair beneath him stiff and biting. the rhythmic tick of the wall clock carved into his skull with every passing second, each one sounding louder than the last.

he hated it. hated the silence. hated the way it filled his ears and forced him to listen to the slow, labored breaths you weren't taking on your own. hated the sterility, the scent of antiseptic that clung to the air like guilt. he wanted to scream, but the moment he opened his mouth, nothing came. just the sound of that damned beeping.

monoma sat in rigid silence, watching as your chest rose with the help of the machines, not strength. not anymore. all he could do was sit there and remember. not the good memories. no—the last thing he wanted, the thing he couldn't stop seeing, was how it happened. how you ended up like this. how he let you end up like this.

and then he was back there.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the air was thick with smoke and ash, turning daylight into a choking haze that painted the battlefield in bruised, sickly hues. rubble littered the ground, the shattered remains of buildings cracked open like bone, and the screams of distant civilians echoed behind the veil of destruction. fires burned unchecked, consuming what little structure remained. it was the kind of scene that stripped away any illusion of heroism—just ruin, blood, and the desperate need to survive.

monoma was bleeding.

he stumbled behind a half-collapsed wall, hand pressed tightly against his ribs, where something inside cracked with every breath. he had copied a quirk minutes ago—strength, maybe, or speed—but the user had gone down too fast, and now the power was bleeding out of him like the rest of his strength. he was running on fumes. his vision was doubled. he was useless.

he was alone.

except for you.

you were still standing. just barely.

ahead of him, through the smoke and flame, you faced the villain who had carved through half your team like wet paper. their quirk was monstrous—pure kinetic manipulation, an ability that turned every limb into a wrecking ball. every punch split concrete. every kick ruptured the earth. the sheer pressure rolling off their body was suffocating.

and you stood in front of it.

you were a wreck. blood soaked your shirt, a dark patch blooming from your side where a rebar had grazed your abdomen. one of your arms dangled slightly off-kilter—dislocated or broken, monoma couldn't tell. your face was almost unrecognizable: your cheek had split open, swollen to the size of your fist, and one eye had completely shut from the bruising. blood matted your hair and dried at the corners of your mouth. your jaw trembled with exhaustion.

but your legs held. barely.

"stay down," the villain growled, voice grating through clenched teeth. "i'll make it quick."

you spat blood at their feet. "you first."

monoma wanted to scream.

you moved first.

you ducked under the first blow. the wind it produced nearly knocked you off balance. you countered, striking fast—a jab to the ribs, a glowing blast of energy from your fingertips—but it only staggered them.

then they retaliated.

their elbow cracked against your jaw with the force of a sledgehammer. monoma saw your teeth snap together hard, blood spraying as your head snapped to the side. you crumpled against a lamppost, rebounded, and charged again with reckless, suicidal momentum.

he wanted to stop you. he wanted to grab your wrist and scream that it wasn't worth it.

but he couldn't even stand.

the villain slammed their foot into your stomach, lifting you off the ground. you flew ten feet and landed with a sound that monoma never wanted to hear again—flesh hitting stone, followed by silence. a wheeze escaped you, thin and wet.

you pushed up on shaking elbows, coughing violently. blood spilled from your mouth. you were wheezing, your breath broken like cracked glass. you reached for the pavement, tried to draw strength into your limbs, but your knees collapsed.

still, you got up.

monoma watched in horror as the villain lunged again.

they grabbed you by the throat and lifted you from the ground. your legs kicked weakly, a final show of resistance. your fingers clawed at their wrist, tearing at the skin, but you couldn't breathe.

they slammed you into a wall.

then the ground.

then again.

you weren't even screaming anymore. just hoarse, rasping gasps.

they punched you in the stomach. once. twice. three times. each hit echoed with a sickening crush. blood streamed freely from your mouth and nose. your arms dropped. your eyes rolled. your head lolled.

monoma could barely see. he was crawling—literally dragging himself across the pavement, nails scraping along the broken asphalt. he left a trail of blood behind him, from his own split skin, from your splattered remains.

you made a noise. it wasn't a word. just something small. a protest. a whimper.

the villain dropped you like a broken doll.

you didn't move.

monoma reached you in time to catch your head before it hit the ground. your face was slack, your eyes glassy. blood bubbled at your lips. he could feel the broken ribs beneath your skin, the sick heat of internal bleeding pressing against your side.

your chest fluttered. barely breathing.

your lips moved.

he leaned in. "don't—don't talk. you're okay. you're okay, just hold on."

your fingers twitched. you tried to raise your arm, but it fell uselessly.

and then, the villain turned.

monoma looked up. he met their eyes—calm, detached, like they were already moving past this scene.

he didn't have the strength to fight. he didn't even have the strength to stand.

but he spread himself over your body anyway, shielding what little was left of you.

sirens in the distance. voices. shouting. too far. too late.

he screamed your name. screamed for help until his voice cracked.

when the others finally arrived, they had to pry his fingers off you. he was still trying to hold your head. still whispering, "she's still breathing," even though you weren't.

they started cpr before they got you on the gurney.

monoma watched the chest compressions. the blood that seeped through the gauze. the oxygen mask they fitted over your mouth. the way your body jolted with every push.

he saw them restart your heart.

twice.

he saw the paramedic shake their head.

he rode in the ambulance. he held your hand the entire way.

and he didn't realize he was still whispering your name until they pulled him off at the er doors, dragging him back as the double doors slammed shut between you.

and he stood there, hands shaking, blood everywhere, not knowing if you were alive or already gone.

and in that moment, monoma broke.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

his body jolted forward, dragged violently back into the present. the smell of blood still clung to his nose, phantom pain still pulsed in his chest where he'd slammed against the pavement. but your hand was still there. still in his. and barely—just barely—you were still breathing.

he stood up suddenly and crossed to your bedside, dragging the chair behind him, the legs screeching softly against the floor. he took your hand into both of his, warming it with his touch, rubbing gently like he could coax life back into you through sheer willpower. his thumbs traced the bones beneath your skin, too sharp now, too still.

"you always did chase trouble," he whispered again, throat raw. "always leaping into things like you were invincible. i admired it, you know. even when i mocked you, i admired it."

he swallowed, breath shaking. "you make people braver just by standing beside them. you make me braver. and i hate how much i didn't say it before."

his voice wavered as he leaned forward. "you have to wake up. i need you to wake up."

the monitor continued its measured beeping.

and then, in an instant, that beeping stuttered. changed. slowed.

it was like watching a glass fall from a ledge. monoma's head snapped toward the monitor.

then the alarm.

the shrill wail of the machines filled the room, loud and final. flatline.

"code blue! room 308!"

monoma stumbled back as a tidal wave of medical staff poured into the room. hands gripped his arms, pulling him away, guiding him to the wall.

your body convulsed once under the defibrillator's shock. a nurse straddled the bed, counting out compressions as another prepared the next jolt. the beeping was gone. it had been replaced by that long, singular tone—flat and cruel.

he could see the color draining from your face. could see how your limbs had fallen loose, like strings cut from a marionette. you weren't breathing. your chest didn't rise. and he felt something inside him crack wide open.

the compressions were brutal. blood bubbled at your lips from the force of them, smeared across your cheek as your head lolled uselessly to the side. the nurse's hands were slicked in it. every thrust against your sternum echoed in monoma's ribs like he was being punched himself.

"again! clear!"

the jolt lifted your chest off the bed. still nothing.

one of the nurses looked up at another, eyes wide. "her vitals are too unstable. i—i don't know if we're going to get her back."

"we keep going!" another shouted, voice fraying at the edges. "she's young. she can still fight."

but doubt was a living thing in the room now. it crept through the gaping silence between the shocks, through the gory mess staining your gown, through the flatness of your chest.

monoma shoved against the arm trying to steady him. "please," he said, voice low and strangled. "please just—just do something. don't let her—don't let her die."

he was shoved back as they resumed cpr. he could hear bones breaking. could hear his own blood in his ears, roaring.

he was watching you die.

and then.

a single, weak beep.

then another.

the line began to flutter, erratic but blessedly alive. the flat tone faded into silence.

"we have a pulse!"

monoma collapsed into the nearest chair like a marionette cut loose. his hands were shaking violently. he reached for your hand again—still cold, still limp—but now, thankfully, attached to something living.

he didn't speak for hours. couldn't. his voice felt locked somewhere deep in his chest, behind the weight of what he'd seen. what he'd almost lost.

—

days passed in a haze.

he hardly left the room. ate only when someone forced him. he sat beside you, head bowed, whispering things you couldn't hear but said anyway. apologies. promises. secrets.

he memorized the peaks and valleys of the monitor's readout, flinched at every hiccup in the rhythm. he learned the shift rotations of the nurses, knew which ones brought your meds, which one checked the iv. he hated all of them for seeing you like this.

when your fingers twitched, he almost didn't notice.

then, they moved again.

he sat bolt upright. "y/n?"

your eyes fluttered, unfocused. your lips parted. "neito..?"

the breath he exhaled was more like a sob. "you're awake. you're really awake."

you tried to smile. "i feel like i got hit by a truck."

he laughed, broken and soft. "you look like it too. but you're here."

silence stretched between you again. but this time, it was the kind that held weight.

there were things in the air—things he had left unsaid. things you'd never had the chance to hear.

monoma reached out, brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead. "there's something i have to tell you."

you blinked slowly, but your gaze was steady. "okay."

"i can't... i can't keep pretending i don't care. you've always meant more to me than i let on. i admire you. i rely on you—" he paused, breath catching. "i love you. i didn't know how badly until i thought you were gone."

your breath caught too—but not from weakness. your eyes softened, a glint of warmth returning to your face.

"i think i've been waiting to hear that for a long time."

monoma swallowed hard, trying and failing to suppress the tremor in his hands. "then i'm sorry it took almost losing you to say it."

you smiled, slow and tired. "i forgive you. but you're not getting rid of me that easily."

he leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours. the machines continued to beep, slow and steady. for the first time in days, monoma let himself close his eyes.

"then i'm not going anywhere. ever."

[outofgloom]

SPIRIT OF FLAME, HEAR ME

Staggered in under the black stone, sick from the teleport. He’d barely made it. Could feel how close it had been, as the power ebbed. He fell to his knees, succumbing to the shivering exhaustion that spread through his core and into his limbs. 

Once, he had been strong. He remembered how the villagers of Ta-Koro had first looked at him from behind their thin spears: fear and hope mixed. They were frail, weakened by the darkness, but still they had raised open hands toward him.

“Mata Nui has answered,” they’d said in hushed tones. Then, beseeching: “O Spirit of Flame, hear us!”

The Armor had abandoned him. Angonce had warned...“Contingency against contingency” or something equally as cryptic. Not only that: The Armor had taken its power with it, emptied him of all the strange abilities it had granted. Teleportation was all he’d been able to manage. One last escape, and no more.

All that was left now was his own elemental power, but even that.... The Hunter’s black ceramic lances throbbed where they protruded from his back, draining his energies. Dark and smooth and alien. He couldn’t get them out. He’d have to try again....

Jaw clenched, he crawled forward a pace, felt cool air on his brow, and remembered that he was maskless. That’d have to be first. He reached out with his mind. It was hard, much too hard...but then he felt his old Hau respond. It came to him from however far away and covered his face with its familiar shape, filled him with its familiar energy.

Better. He breathed and pushed back against the pain in his body. Now he raised a hand in front of his face. Focused again. It was still hard, but not like before. Come on!

Radiance. A small tongue of fire sprang to life above his palm. It grew. Yes, it was alive. He was alive. For now.

“Listen to me!” he’d yelled, trying to make himself heard as the Hunter smashed blunt arms against his shield. He’d used the Armor to exert telekinetic control then, arresting his foe’s upper limbs. The great eye fixed on him with an expression of...Amusement? Insult?

“Your creators don’t want this!” he’d gasped, breathless from his wounds. “And neither do mine. We must stop. They don’t want this destruction.”

The Hunter had no real mouth, but words came from somewhere, a metallic clamor issuing from the gaps in its carapace.

“THEY DO.”

He’d felt it then. An unlatching, a withdrawal. The air shimmered as his telekinesis failed. The Armor twisted him, wrenched itself from his body and limbs and face, and flung him away. Teleportation saved him from the impact, but not much else, and then...

The tiny flame danced before his eyes. Alive.

They have answered you. They have shown you what they want.

Pain swelled in his body, and his hand began to shake. His arm sagged, and his breath came in gasps. He was weak, weakened by the darkness, and there was no one here to help.

He struggled to raise his hand a little higher, felt the warmth on his mask.

“Spirit of Flame...hear me,” he whispered.

Then he collapsed forward, and was still.

The flame wavered in the air. Trembled.

But it did not go out.

[ceoofglytchell]

Fear not

Summary: Aegon walks in on his new wife having an anxiety attack.

Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Word count: 1301 words

Warnings: TW: anxiety attacks! , heavy angst, hurt/comfort, talks of dying, fear of death, probably ooc aegon, good husband aegon <3, no description for the reader, no mention of Y/N

Notes: This is short and self indulgent, but I needed to get this out of my drafts. The next fic is gonna be the winner of the poll! Enjoy 💛

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Nothing feels real. Your mouth and lips are numb, your ears are ringing and you feel like you cannot breathe.

You gasp desperately for air, trying to force some oxygen into your lungs, while you press your hand against your chest, which feels tight and strange. The stinging pain between or under your ribs does not make things any better.

You hold on to your armchair with your other hand, which is in front of the lit fireplace in your and Aegon's marital chambers.

Aegon... Two weeks ago you were married in the Great Sept and became husband and wife.

At first you had your doubts, but so far he has done nothing to make you regret this union. Yes, he is a drunkard and yes he takes his nightly duties as a husband very seriously, but you like that. You like him.

And in return you know that he values ​​you just as much.

But how would he react if he saw you now? Weak, frail, gasping for air, shaking all over and with tears running down your cheeks?

Weak.

That is what your father always called you when you had another of those attacks. The maesters assured you that it was from all the stress a young woman like you must be feeling - or just the general fact that you are a woman - but nothing helps you fight it.

It feels like you are dying.

And all the questions that are going through your head are only making it worse. The voices in your head are screaming at you that there must be something wrong with your heart and that you will collapse at any moment and no longer be there, or that it must be something with your head.

It frightens you terribly and you cannot escape this vicious circle of bad thoughts.

Not far from the fireplace and the armchair you are leaning against, the door opens and Aegon comes running in, a grin on his face, as he is happy to finally be alone with his beautiful new wife.

But then suddenly his eyes fall on you and he immediately realizes that something is very wrong.

"Wife?" he asks you carefully, whereupon you sob even louder. It breaks his heart.

He approaches you with quick steps and gently puts a hand on your shoulder. "My beloved... what is wrong?"

For the first time in what feels like hours, you look up and almost feel relieved, were it not for the shortness of breath and the feeling of pulling in your chest, as well as the fear of losing your life.

It is your greatest fear. You do not want the Stranger to come and get you. You still want to experience so much. You still have your whole life ahead of you and you want to spend it with your husband and give him heirs and raise them. You want to be a mother, a grandmother. You cannot die yet.

"Darling, talk to me," Aegon begs, taking your face in his hands so that you have to look into his beautiful amethyst colored eyes.

The sight of him and his obvious concern for you touched you to the core and you can't do anything but cry even harder, tears rolling down your flushed cheeks.

"I-I can't breathe," you finally answer him, whereupon his eyes widen and he strokes his thumbs soothingly over the soft flesh of your cheeks.

"Then we breathe together, do you hear me?" he assures you and takes a deep breath.

You try to imitate him, but you can't. The panic grew. What if there really was something wrong with you? What if you were to die in his arms right now?

"Listen to me, darling. Look at me and breathe with me.”

The prince takes a long breath, holding the air for four seconds before slowly letting it out again. Criston taught him this one evening when he was suffering from something similar. He had been so afraid back then, which his grandsire kept shouting at him for, but since then he has learned that fear is not a weakness. On the contrary. It makes you strong.

You can feel how slowly but surely your lungs are filling up with air again and the dizziness is also subsiding. The feeling in your right side, it is strange and inexplicable, remains, however. As always.

Sometimes it seems as if you are dazed or not the same person.

“I don’t want to die, Aegon. Aegon, please, I can’t, I-“ you beg in sheer panic.

Your lord husband mmediately shakes his head and gently wipes the tears from your cheeks. He can’t bear to see you like this. And your words? What has gotten into you? What is going on?

"You will not die, my love. I am here. I am with you and nothing can happen to you. I promise you that I will fight the Stranger with my bare hands if he comes to take you away from me," he promises you and nods his head gently to show you that he means it.

"As long as I am here, nothing can happen to you."

Slowly you feel yourself being able to breathe again, the pain in your chest subsiding and the dizziness slowly fading, although you can still feel it lurking in the background.

The feelings are always there. They lurk in the depths of your mind and suddenly burst out of you.

During the last few days they have not been so strong and you almost had the feeling that the gods finally had compassion on you and took them away from you. Apparently that is not the case.

And now your beloved knows about it. About your shame.

"Better?" Aegon asks you gently, whereupon you nod hesitantly, but you can immediately feel new tears forming in your eyes. Tears of exhaustion and relief.

"Yes," you sob quietly and Aegon cannot help but hold you close and stroke your back with his hands.

"Oh, my poor darling. I did not know you were suffering so much. You should have told me," he whispers, pressing a few gentle kisses to your hair.

You buried your head in the fabric of his tunic, which was soaked with the salty water of your tears. Neither you nor he was interested in that right now.

All he wanted was for you to get better. He can't bear to see you like this.

"I did not want to look weak in your eyes."

Aegon immediately shakes his head and presses a few more kisses to your pretty head.

"You are not weak, wife. You are anything but that. You are so strong," he murmurs, kissing your forehead lovingly.

Your body is still shaking and you can feel the tiredness overcoming you. Your anxiety attack has completely overwhelmed you and left you even weaker.

"I love you. With all my heart. And I will always be here for you, do you hear me?"

His words melt your heart and a new wave of sadness overwhelms you and tears fall down your face again.

"Shhh, my girl, I'm here," he whispers before gently lifting you in his arms and carrying you to the bed.

He lovingly lays you down on the soft sheets and lies down next to you and immediately takes you in his arms. Your head rests on his chest and you listen to his calming heartbeat and enjoy the warmth of his body.

"Sleep, my love. I'll be here when you wake up."

The uncomfortable feeling is still there, but your eyes are heavy and you have slowly closed them and are falling into a dreamless sleep with your beloved husband by your side.

And you know you are safe with him.

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Taglist: @bey0nd-1he-stars @sassypain

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Aegon x Twin Sister!Reader comes next week (since that looks like it’s gonna win the poll so far)