#how it’s the path to self-destruction and what that looks like

[zrvllya]

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the great war, taylor swift

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regulus black x reader ! one shot ⏾

and maybe it's the past that's talking, screamin' from the crypt

ᵎ!ᵎ graphic depictions of violence, self-harm, suicidal-ideation, self-destructive behavior, emotional trauma, toxic and abusive family dynamics, war themes, wartime violence, dark magic, dubious consent, blood, injury depictions, mental health struggles, forced allegiance, coercion

word count [ 10,000+ ]

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your knuckles were bruised like violets against the stark white of hospital sheets.

regulus sat beside your bed in a rickety wooden chair, his robes rumpled from sleep, or rather the lack of it. his eyes followed the movement of a mediwitch as she flitted about the small room before eventually departing, allowing the heavy silence between you two to settle once more.

"you shouldn't have done that," he finally said, voice low and ragged.

you didn't look at him, keeping your gaze fixed on the ceiling. "what else was i supposed to do?"

"literally anything else, y/n."

the clock on the wall ticked loudly, counting down seconds that felt like hours. forty-eight hours since you both received the mark. and here you were, hands bandaged from punching walls until they cracked and bled, sedated by potions after being found screaming in the bathroom of your place.

"i couldn't breathe," you whispered, still not looking at him. "it was burning and i couldn't—i just needed it to stop."

regulus's fingers curled into fists on his lap. "breaking your hands won't remove the mark."

"i know that," you snapped, finally turning to face him. his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles prominent against his pale skin. he looked as haunted as you felt. "don't you think i fucking know that?"

he reached for your hand, careful to avoid the bandages. it was a familiar gesture—how many times had his fingers entwined with yours beneath dining tables, in dark corridors, behind curtains? but now it felt different. heavier.

"we made a choice, y/n," he said softly.

"did we?" your laugh was hollow. "was it really a choice when the alternative was watching us— each other be slaughtered by our own families?"

regulus didn't answer. he didn't need to. you both knew the truth—you'd been bred for this, raised to serve, and now you were trapped. two purebloods fulfilling their destiny, following the path laid out since birth.

you thought about that morning, kneeling before the dark lord, sleeves pushed up to reveal unmarked forearms that would soon bear his brand. regulus beside you, shoulders squared with determination or resignation—you couldn't tell the difference anymore. his brother was long gone, escaped to a better life with better people. you sometimes wondered if regulus hated sirius for leaving him behind or admired him for having the courage to leave at all.

"do you remember," you began, voice barely audible, "when we were seven, and your mother caught us playing with muggle coins we'd found?"

his thumb traced circles on your wrist. "you took the blame."

"and you kissed me afterward, behind the curtains in the drawing room," you continued. "you said i was brave."

"you were." a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "you still are."

"i don't feel brave. i feel like i'm drowning." you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on you. "what are we doing, reg?"

he didn't answer immediately, instead bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips. "surviving," he finally said. "that's all we can do now."

memories swam through your consciousness like fish in murky water—fragmentary, distorted, but unmistakably real.

your bodies tangled in his bed at hogwarts, silencing charms cast so thickly the air felt heavy with them. his lips on your neck, your shoulder, lower. whispered promises neither of you had any business making.

your hand in his at your father's funeral, a subtle pressure of fingers against fingers while walburga black wailed with more theatricality than genuine grief.

studying in the library, knees touching beneath the table, pretending the contact was accidental when you both knew better.

and now, months after receiving the mark, you found yourself in your shared place once more, the one you immediately got together when finishing hogwarts, but everything had changed. the playfulness was gone from your encounters, replaced by a desperate need to feel something—anything—other than the constant dread that had become your companion.

"they're sending us on a raid tomorrow," regulus murmured against your bare shoulder, his arm draped heavily across your waist. "some mudblood family in sussex."

you stared at the ceiling, tracing the constellation patterns he'd charmed there years ago. "together?"

"yes. the dark lord thinks we work well as a pair." his laugh was bitter. "at least we'll have each other while we commit atrocities."

turning to face him, you studied his features in the dim light. he'd lost weight in recent months, his cheekbones more pronounced, giving him an almost gaunt appearance that reminded you too much of the portraits of dead blacks that lined the hallways.

"we don't have to do it," you whispered, though you both knew it was a lie.

he traced the outline of your face with his finger. "and what, die instead? watch you being tortured in front of me?"

"maybe." your voice cracked. "maybe that would be better than becoming this."

regulus pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "i'd die before i let anything happen to you."

"that's what i'm afraid of," you replied, fingers threading through his hair.

silence stretched between you, comfortable despite the weight of everything unsaid. you'd always communicated best in silence—a shared glance across a crowded room, fingers brushing as you passed in hallways, a subtle nod that contained entire conversations.

"do you remember the promise we made?" he asked suddenly. "before all this?"

you did. fifteen years old, hiding in the astronomy tower long after curfew, stars scattered above you like spilled diamonds. regulus had taken your hand, eyes serious in a way that seemed too old for his young face.

"no matter what happens, no matter what they make us do or become, i'll always find my way back to you."

you'd sealed it with a kiss, naively believing that your love would be enough to withstand whatever the world threw at you.

"we were children," you said now, voice hollow. "we didn't know what was coming."

his hand found yours in the darkness, fingers interlacing. "i meant it, though. i still do."

outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the windows like impatient fingers. somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three. in a few hours, you would both don masks and cloaks and become the monsters you were raised to be.

the raid went wrong.

it was supposed to be simple—a show of force, a message to the "impure" that nowhere was safe. but the order had been waiting, as if tipped off. the moment you and the other death eaters apparated onto the quiet suburban street, spells began flying.

in the chaos, you lost sight of regulus. curses illuminated the night in violent bursts of color—red, purple, the sickly green of killing curses cutting through fog like searchlights. screams echoed between houses as muggles fled in terror, not understanding the war that had suddenly erupted on their doorsteps.

you ducked behind a garden wall, blood trickling from a cut above your eye where a severing charm had nearly found its target. your mask felt suffocating, the silver filigree pressing into your skin as you gasped for breath.

"retreat!" someone shouted—bellatrix, you thought, though it was hard to tell with everyone masked. "now!"

death eaters began disappearing with sharp cracks of apparition. you stayed hidden, frantically scanning for regulus among the figures still dueling.

that's when you saw him, locked in combat with a tall wizard you recognized as one of the prewett brothers. regulus was holding his own, but barely. his movements were slowing, and even from a distance, you could see the dark stain spreading across his robes.

without thinking, you broke cover, racing toward him as another death eater fell to a stunning spell nearby. regulus turned at your approach, distracted for just a fraction of a second—but it was enough.

the spell hit him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward several meters. he crumpled to the ground, motionless.

your scream was muffled by your mask as you reached him, dropping to your knees beside his still form. blood was seeping through his robes, but his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.

prewett was advancing, wand raised for a finishing blow. you stood, positioning yourself between him and regulus, wand trembling in your grip.

"step aside," prewett commanded, his voice hard but not cruel.

"no." your voice broke on the single syllable.

something in your stance must have given him pause. he studied you for a moment, then glanced at regulus's prone form.

"he'll bleed out if he doesn't get help," he said finally. "is he worth dying for?"

you didn't hesitate. "yes."

prewett lowered his wand slightly. "take him and go. next time we meet, i won't be merciful."

you didn't need to be told twice. grabbing regulus, you concentrated through your panic and apparated, the crushing darkness a welcome escape from the battlefield.

the safe house was small, hidden deep in unplottable woods that had belonged to the yaxley family for generations. you'd brought regulus here instead of returning to his old home—walburga would have summoned the dark lord immediately, and neither of you could face him in this condition.

for three days, regulus drifted between consciousness and delirium as you worked tirelessly to heal him, applying every healing charm and potion you knew. your hands shook so badly you spilled more than you used, but gradually, his color improved, and his breathing steadied.

on the fourth day, he finally woke properly, eyes focusing on you as you changed the bandages on his chest.

"y/n," he rasped, throat dry from disuse. "where—?"

"safe house," you answered, helping him sip water from a cup. "no one knows we're here."

his eyes widened. "the dark lord—"

"thinks we're dead, or captured. i don't know. i haven't contacted anyone."

regulus struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at his healing wounds. "are you insane? he'll kill us both when we return."

"then we don't return," you said simply.

he stared at you as if seeing you for the first time. "what are you saying?"

you sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. for days, you'd been running on fear and determination, sleep coming only in brief snatches between tending to his wounds and jumping at every sound, convinced that death eaters would burst through the door at any moment.

"i'm saying i watched you nearly die, reg. i stood over your body, ready to die protecting you." your voice cracked. "and i realized something—i don't want to do this anymore. any of it."

"we don't have a choice," he said, but the words lacked conviction.

"there's always a choice." you took his hand, turning it over to expose the dark mark, stark against his pale skin. "this doesn't define us unless we let it."

he was quiet for a long moment, eyes fixed on the mark. "i've been... researching things. about him. about what he's done to ensure he can't die."

you went still. "what do you mean?"

"horcruxes," he whispered, the word itself seeming to darken the room. "he's made horcruxes, y/n. i don't know how many, but at least one."

the term was vaguely familiar from obscure texts in your family's library—the darkest of magic, splitting one's soul through murder to achieve a twisted form of immortality.

"how do you know this?"

"kreacher," he replied. "the dark lord borrowed him for something. when he returned, he was... different. traumatized. it took weeks to get the full story out of him."

regulus's eyes met yours, burning with an intensity you hadn't seen in months. "he's hidden one in a cave, protected by inferi and poison. i think i can get to it, destroy it."

"and then what? he has others, you said so yourself."

"then at least i've done something right." his hand gripped yours tightly. "something to balance the scales, even a little."

you recognized the look on his face—the same determination he'd shown when declaring he would become the person sirius had refused to be, when mastering particularly difficult spells, when promising to always find his way back to you.

"you're planning to die," you realized, voice barely audible.

he didn't deny it. "someone has to start dismantling him, piece by piece. why not us?"

"us?" your heart hammered against your ribs. "no, reg. just you, right? that's what you're planning."

his silence was answer enough.

"you fucking coward," you hissed, tears springing to your eyes. "you were going to leave me behind."

"to protect you!" he argued, reaching for you as you pulled away. "y/n, please—"

"no." you stood, putting distance between you. "every time i think we're in this together, you make decisions without me. you plotted this while lying beside me at night, didn't you? planned your noble sacrifice while watching me sleep?"

regulus struggled to his feet, swaying slightly from weakness. "it's not like that."

"then what is it like? explain it to me, reg. explain how abandoning me is somehow an act of love."

"because i can't watch you die!" he shouted, the outburst clearly costing him as he grimaced in pain. "i can't let you walk into that cave knowing you won't come out."

you stared at each other across the small room, both breathing heavily.

"but you expect me to keep living after you're gone?" you asked finally, voice small. "how is that fair?"

he had no answer for that.

three weeks passed in tense coexistence. regulus grew stronger daily, and with each improvement in his condition, the inevitable confrontation loomed larger between you.

you took turns sleeping in the single bed, the other keeping watch from a worn armchair by the window. you hunted in the woods for food, set protective enchantments, and lived like fugitives—which, in truth, you were.

on the twenty-third day, regulus found you sitting by the small stream that ran near the cabin, skipping stones across the surface with aggressive flicks of your wand.

"i've been thinking," he said, lowering himself carefully beside you.

"dangerous pastime for you," you replied, not looking at him.

he ignored the jab. "what if there's another way? not just destroying one horcrux, but finding information about all of them. something we could pass to someone who could actually defeat him."

you finally turned to him. "like who? dumbledore?"

regulus grimaced. "perhaps. or someone in the order."

"your brother," you guessed.

he nodded reluctantly. "sirius would know who to trust."

the idea of seeking help from the people you'd been raised to despise—blood traitors, muggle-lovers—should have been repulsive. instead, it felt like the first breath of fresh air after being underwater too long.

"so what's your plan now?" you asked.

"we still need to get the horcrux. but instead of... what i planned before, we find a way to substitute a fake, leave a message." his eyes met yours, hesitant but hopeful. "together."

you studied him—the boy you'd grown up with, the young man you'd fallen in love with, the death eater you'd followed into darkness. his features were so familiar you could trace them in your sleep, yet something had shifted in him, something fundamental.

"when did you start planning this rebellion?" you asked softly.

regulus looked away, watching the stream's gentle current. "i think it started the day sirius left. i was so angry with him—for abandoning the family, for choosing potter over us, for leaving me behind." he paused. "but part of me envied him. his certainty. his courage."

you reached for his hand, tracing the lines of his palm. "and now?"

"now i understand why he had to go." he turned his hand to capture yours. "i just wish i hadn't waited so long to follow his example."

the evening air was cool against your skin, the setting sun painting the trees in gold and amber. in that moment, despite everything, a fragile hope bloomed in your chest.

"if we do this," you said slowly, "there's no going back. we'll have to disappear afterward—change our names, leave the country maybe."

regulus nodded. "i know."

"your mother will disown you."

"probably."

"we might die anyway."

his smile was sad but genuine. "at least it would be on our terms."

you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "no more solo heroics, reg. we fight together or not at all. promise me."

"i promise," he whispered, sealing the vow with a kiss that tasted of new beginnings.

memories swam through your consciousness like shards of broken glass—jagged, cutting, but unmistakably real. your bodies tangled desperately in his bed at hogwarts, silencing charms cast so thickly the very air seemed to suffocate around you. his mouth hot against your skin, leaving marks that would linger for days. whispered promises exchanged in the darkness, reckless and dangerous and impossibly sweet. your fingers intertwined with his at his father's funeral, that subtle pressure the only thing keeping you both anchored while walburga black's theatrical grief echoed through the mausoleum. stolen moments in forgotten corners of the library, knees pressed together beneath ancient tables, the pretense of accidental contact abandoned long ago.

and now this—your first real breaking point. bitter winter had seized hogwarts in an unforgiving grip, the castle corridors as frigid and unforgiving as the growing chasm between you and regulus over the past weeks.

you tracked him to an abandoned classroom on the fifth floor after he'd deliberately avoided you for nine agonizing days. you slammed the heavy oak door with such violence that dust rained from the ceiling, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap in the empty room.

"what the actual fuck is wrong with you?" you demanded, voice raw with barely contained rage, each word scraping your throat like sandpaper.

regulus didn't even look up from his book, his shoulders tensing imperceptibly beneath his immaculate robes. "nothing that concerns you anymore. get out."

"bullshit," you snarled, storming toward him, blood roaring in your ears. "you've been avoiding me for over a week. you switched patrol schedules without telling me. you're sitting with rosier and his death eater groupies at every fucking meal. what happened to 'nothing will change between us, y/n'? was that just another convenient lie?"

he stood abruptly, the chair screeching against stone, his movement so violent the book tumbled forgotten to the floor. "maybe i'm finally tired of pretending."

"pretending what, exactly?" your voice dropped dangerously.

"that whatever this is—" he gestured sharply between you, disgust evident in every line of his body, "—isn't a fucking liability. avery saw us in hogsmeade last weekend. he's asking questions. making comments."

"so fucking what?" you challenged, closing the distance between you until you were close enough to see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes. "afraid daddy's little spy will tell the family their precious heir is banging me?"

something dark and dangerous flashed across his face. "you know that's not what this is about."

"do i?" your laugh was caustic enough to burn. "because from where i'm standing, it looks exactly like you're ashamed of me. the second anyone whispers, you bolt like a fucking coward."

"i'm trying to protect you, you idiot!" he shouted, composure finally shattering.

"protect me? fucking protect me?" you screamed back, shoving him hard enough that he stumbled back against the desk. "don't insult my intelligence with that bullshit! you're protecting yourself. your reputation. your precious fucking legacy."

regulus straightened, fury transforming his aristocratic features into something almost unrecognizable. "you think i give a single solitary fuck about any of that?"

"yes! i absolutely fucking do!" you shoved him again, harder this time, both hands connecting with his chest with enough force to make him wince. "ever since sirius walked out, you've been desperate to be the perfect black son. the perfect slytherin prince. the perfect little death eater in training. it's fucking pathetic to watch."

his hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, fingers curling brutally around your wrist. "don't you dare talk about things you don't understand," he hissed, voice dropping to something lethal and quiet.

"i understand perfectly," you spat, wrenching your arm free with enough force to leave marks. "your mother's got her claws so deep in you that you can't even think for yourself anymore. you're nothing but her puppet."

"and you're living in a fucking fantasy world," he snarled, backing you against the wall, his face inches from yours. "you think we have actual choices? that we can just walk away from our families? from who we are? from what's expected of us? look what happened to sirius—disowned, cut off, living off potter's charity like a stray dog."

"at least he's free!" you screamed, throat burning with the force of it. "at least he's not regurgitating vile pureblood supremacy bullshit to impress his fucking death eater friends!"

regulus's eyes widened momentarily before narrowing to dangerous slits, his pupils blown wide with rage. "is that what you think this is? that i'm playing some kind of game? that i don't believe any of it?"

"the regulus i knew wouldn't," you said, voice dropping to something hollow and cold.

"then you never knew me at all," he replied, each word precise and cutting. "i believe in preserving our world. our traditions. our bloodlines. our magic. from people who would destroy everything that makes us who we are."

you stared at him, genuine revulsion twisting your features. "listen to yourself. you sound exactly like your fucking mother."

"don't talk about my mother," he growled, the muscle in his jaw working furiously as he crowded you further against the wall.

"why the hell not?" you challenged, refusing to back down even as your heart hammered painfully against your ribs. "afraid i'll tell you the truth? that she's a hateful, cruel, manipulative bitch who—"

his fist slammed into the wall beside your head with enough force to crack the ancient stone, making you flinch despite your determination not to show fear. "shut your fucking mouth."

"or what?" you taunted, adrenaline making you reckless. "going to hex me, black? show me what you've been learning from your new friends? what dark curses has bellatrix been teaching you?"

"you have no idea what i'm capable of," he threatened, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, somehow more terrifying than his shouting.

"i know exactly what you're capable of," you countered, trembling with fury. "cowardice. conformity. following orders like a good little soldier while pretending you have no choice."

something dangerous shifted behind his eyes. "i'm not my fucking brother."

"no," you agreed, delivering the final blow with deliberate cruelty. "you're not half the man he is. and you never will be."

the words hung suspended between you, a line crossed that could never be uncrossed. for a heartbeat, pure hatred flashed across his perfect features—then his mouth crashed against yours with bruising force.

the kiss wasn't passion—it was warfare. all teeth and anger and punishment, his hands roughly tangling in your hair as he backed you brutally against the wall. you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, viciously satisfied when he hissed in pain against your mouth. his response was to grab both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head with enough force to leave marks.

"is this what you wanted?" he growled against your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw with bruising intensity. "to push me until i lost control?"

you laughed against his lips, the sound hollow and mocking. "fuck you, regulus."

"that seems to be the idea," he shot back, his free hand moving to your tie, yanking it loose with such violence that buttons scattered across the stone floor.

you wrenched your hands free from his grip, shoving him back only to grab his expensive robes and drag him closer again. your nails dug into his scalp as you kissed him, pouring every ounce of rage and frustration and heartbreak of the past weeks into it until you tasted blood and weren't sure whose it was.

he lifted you against the wall with a strength that surprised you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as his teeth found the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder, biting hard enough to mark you as his. you retaliated by dragging your nails down his back, feeling the fabric tear under your fingers.

"i fucking hate you," you gasped as his mouth moved lower, not meaning it but needing to say it anyway.

his hand slid roughly under your skirt, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh hard enough to leave perfect crescent-shaped bruises. "no, you don't," he countered, voice raw with something that wasn't quite anger anymore. "you hate that you still want me anyway."

you pulled back just enough to look him directly in the eyes, your breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "you're destroying everything we could have been."

"and you're asking for things i can never give," he countered, eyes dark with desire and fury and something that might have been despair. "things that would get us both killed."

"then give me this," you demanded, pulling him back to you with desperate hands. "make me forget for one fucking minute why i'm so goddamn angry with you."

he didn't need to be told twice. his mouth reclaimed yours with renewed desperation, one hand braced against the wall beside your head while the other explored with possessive intent. you worked frantically at his belt buckle, movements clumsy and urgent with anger-fueled desire.

a silencing charm went up with a sharp flick of his wand—wordless magic that reminded you how powerful he truly was beneath the carefully controlled exterior. your school robes hit the floor moments later, his following quickly after.

there was nothing gentle about what followed—nails leaving scarlet trails across sweat-slicked skin, teeth marking territory neither of you could openly claim, anger transforming into something else entirely without losing its jagged edge. every touch was a challenge, every kiss a battle neither of you was willing to concede, every movement a declaration of ownership that would leave marks for days after.

when it was over, you both slid to the cold stone floor, backs against the wall, breathing ragged and uneven in the sudden silence. your uniform was ruined beyond magical repair, his perfect hair a wild mess from your punishing fingers. purple bruises were already blooming across your collarbone, matched by deep scratches down his pale back.

"this doesn't fix a goddamn thing," you said finally, voice raw and unfamiliar to your own ears.

he glanced sideways at you, something unreadable flickering in the stormy depths of his eyes. "i know."

but you both knew you'd end up here again—fighting, breaking, fucking and coming together in the most destructive way possible. it was easier than facing the truth neither of you could escape: that you were standing on the side of a war that was coming whether you were ready or not, and neither of you knew how to build a bridge across that impossible divide to the side you were meant to be on.

the cave was exactly as kreacher had described—dark, foreboding, reeking of old magic that clung to your skin like oil. the sea crashed violently against jagged rock faces, spray hitting your cheeks like tears as you stood at the entrance, breath caught in your throat.

regulus stood beside you, his face marble-pale in the moonlight. without speaking, he drew a silver knife from his robes and sliced his palm open, barely flinching as blood welled up black in the darkness.

"blood sacrifice," he murmured, pressing his wounded hand against the rock. "he always did have a flair for the theatrical."

the stone dissolved beneath his touch, revealing a passage that led deeper into the cliff. you caught regulus as he swayed slightly, the blood loss and the magnitude of what you were attempting finally hitting him.

"we could still turn back," you whispered, though you knew neither of you would. there was something final about stepping into that darkness, like crossing a threshold you could never return from.

regulus's eyes found yours, that familiar constellation of gray and silver that you'd mapped a thousand times. "no," he said softly. "we finish this."

he reached for your hand, fingers interlacing with yours. his palm was slick with blood that now stained your skin too—a fitting metaphor for everything you'd shared.

the passageway opened to reveal an underground lake so vast the opposite shore was lost in shadow. the water was unnaturally still, a black mirror reflecting nothing. suspended in the center was a small island, a faint greenish glow emanating from its surface.

"don't touch the water," regulus warned, repeating kreacher's instructions as he searched along the edge until he found an invisible chain.

the boat that emerged from the depths was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. you squeezed in together, your body pressed against his in a way that would once have made your heart race for entirely different reasons. now, all you felt was dread, thick and choking.

"i'm scared," you admitted as the boat moved silently toward the island. below the surface, pale shapes drifted like ghosts—faces frozen in silent screams, hands reaching upward.

regulus's arm tightened around you. "i know. me too."

"what if we fail?"

"then at least we tried." his voice was steady, but you felt the rapid flutter of his pulse where your head rested against his neck. "at least we chose something different than what was chosen for us."

the boat bumped gently against the island. at its center stood a basin atop a pedestal, filled with a luminous green potion. within its depths, you could just make out the golden gleam of the locket.

regulus approached first, circling the basin with cautious steps. you followed, drawing from your pocket the duplicate you'd spent weeks creating—an exact replica, indistinguishable from the original except for the soul fragment it didn't contain. inside was the note regulus had written, his final act of defiance.

"i'll drink it," he said, conjuring a crystal cup.

you grabbed his wrist. "no. we agreed—i'll make you drink it, no matter what happens."

his eyes met yours, a silent argument passing between you. "y/n—"

"you know what kreacher said. someone has to force the drinker to continue. if you start, you'll never finish." your fingers tightened around his wrist. "i need to be the one who stays clear-headed."

"and if i try to fight you?" he challenged. "if i hurt you?"

you smiled grimly. "i've been dueling you since we were children, reg. i know all your weaknesses."

he didn't smile back. instead, he pulled you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tasted of salt and fear and fierce devotion. "i love you," he whispered against your mouth. "remember that, no matter what i say when the poison takes hold."

your throat constricted painfully. "i know."

the first cup went down easily. regulus grimaced at the taste but nodded for you to continue. by the third cup, his hands were trembling. by the fifth, he was on his knees.

"stop," he gasped, pushing weakly at your hand as you brought the sixth cup to his lips. "please, i can't—"

"you have to," you said, your voice breaking as you forced the liquid down his throat. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, but you have to keep drinking."

by the eighth cup, he was screaming, begging you to stop, his body convulsing with pain. tears streamed down your face as you continued, cup after cup of poison pouring between his lips.

"it burns," he sobbed after the tenth cup, curling into himself on the cold stone. "make it stop, please make it stop."

"just a little more," you whispered, your hands shaking so badly you nearly spilled the eleventh cup. "please, reg, just a little more."

the twelfth cup brought hallucinations. regulus stared in horror at something you couldn't see, scrambling backward until he nearly fell off the edge of the island.

"no, not her, please not her," he begged, reaching out toward nothing. "take me instead!"

"who?" you asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to know what horrific visions the poison was conjuring.

his eyes found yours, but you weren't sure he recognized you anymore. "y/n," he whimpered. "they're torturing her. please, stop hurting her!"

your heart shattered as you realized he was watching you being tortured, some vision of what might happen if you were caught. with trembling hands, you forced the thirteenth cup between his lips.

the fourteenth cup brought silence—a terrible, unnatural stillness as regulus collapsed onto his back, eyes open but unseeing, chest barely moving with shallow breaths. for one terrible moment, you thought he was dead.

"reg?" you dropped to your knees beside him, hands hovering over his body, afraid to touch him. "regulus?"

no response.

the last cup glittered mockingly in the basin. with shaking hands, you collected it and turned back to regulus. his lips were blue now, his skin ashen. when you lifted his head onto your lap, it lolled lifelessly.

"last one," you whispered, tilting the cup against his unresponsive mouth. the potion dribbled down his chin, and you frantically wiped it back up, making sure every drop passed his lips. "please stay with me. please."

as the basin emptied, you reached inside and grabbed the locket, quickly replacing it with the fake. the horcrux felt unnaturally heavy, throbbing with malevolent energy against your palm. you shoved it deep into your pocket, your attention immediately returning to regulus.

his breathing had grown so shallow it was almost imperceptible. his pulse, when you pressed trembling fingers to his neck, was erratic and weak.

"water," he rasped suddenly, the word barely audible. "so thirsty."

you remembered kreacher's warning about the lake—how touching the water would wake the inferi. but regulus looked seconds from death, his lips cracked and bleeding.

"aguamenti," you whispered, pointing your wand at the cup. nothing happened. you tried again, more desperately. still nothing. some magic in the cave was preventing the spell from working.

regulus's hand weakly clutched at your robes. "water," he pleaded again, his voice a dry rattle.

panic rose in your throat as you looked from his dying face to the still black lake surrounding you. there was water everywhere, just out of reach, just beyond safety.

"i'm going to get you out of here," you promised, attempting to lift him. his body was deadweight in your arms, and you staggered under it. "just stay with me, reg."

you half-dragged, half-carried him toward the boat, his feet trailing limply behind. each labored breath he took sounded like it might be his last, his chest barely rising.

"stay with me," you begged, lowering him into the boat with trembling arms. "don't you dare leave me here alone."

his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and clouded with pain. "so thirsty," he whispered again.

the boat began its silent journey back across the lake. regulus's breathing grew more labored with each passing second, his skin taking on a bluish tinge. terror clawed at your throat as you realized he wouldn't make it to shore without water.

in desperation, you conjured a small cup from thin air and, with trembling hands, reached over the edge of the boat toward the dark water.

regulus's hand shot out with surprising strength, grabbing your wrist. "no," he rasped. "inferi."

"you'll die," you choked out, tears blurring your vision.

his fingers weakened around your wrist. "better me than both of us."

"no," you growled, pulling your hand back. "we live together or die together, remember? that was the promise."

you pointed your wand at the water, preparing to cast aguamenti once more in hopes that away from the island, the spell might work—

the surface of the lake exploded.

pale, bloated hands erupted from the water, grabbing at the sides of the boat. sightless eyes and gaping mouths emerged as the inferi pulled themselves up, waterlogged bodies hauling toward you with unnatural strength.

you raised your wand, remembering kreacher's terrified whispers. "incendio!" you screamed.

flames burst from your wand, but the inferi kept coming, untroubled by ordinary fire. more and more broke the surface, hands reaching for regulus's limp form, for your ankles, for the edges of the boat that was now taking on water.

panic surged through you, clarifying your thoughts. this wasn't ordinary darkness, so ordinary fire wouldn't suffice.

"fiendfyre!" you shouted, your voice echoing off the cavern walls.

cursed flames exploded from your wand—serpents and chimeras and dragons made of fire, roaring as they engulfed the inferi. the heat was tremendous, scorching your face even as it kept the undead at bay. you'd never cast the spell before, had only read about it in the darkest books in your family's library, and you could feel it fighting your control, hungry to consume everything.

the boat lurched as more inferi attacked from below. water sloshed over the sides, soaking your robes, regulus's unmoving body. his eyes were closed now, his breathing imperceptible.

"no, no, no," you sobbed, trying to maintain the fiendfyre while checking his pulse. nothing. "reg, please!"

with a desperate cry, you directed the cursed fire in a circle around the boat, creating a barrier the inferi couldn't penetrate. the flames reflected off the black water, bathing regulus's deathly pale face in orange light.

you pressed your ear to his chest. silence. nothing.

"don't you dare," you whispered fiercely, starting compressions on his chest. "don't you dare leave me."

between compressions, you breathed into his mouth, tasting the poison still on his lips. around you, the fiendfyre roared, consuming inferi that still tried to reach you. the heat was suffocating, but you didn't stop.

one minute passed. two. regulus remained still beneath your desperate ministrations.

"please," you begged, your voice breaking. "i love you. please come back."

you brought your hands down on his chest one final time, a sob tearing from your throat—

and regulus gasped, water and potion spewing from his mouth as he convulsed beneath you. you turned him onto his side, supporting his head as he retched weakly, his body trembling violently.

"that's it," you encouraged through tears, "breathe. just breathe."

the boat bumped against the shore of the cave. with strength you didn't know you possessed, you hauled regulus out, dragging him toward the entrance while maintaining the fire shield behind you. the inferi followed to the edge of the water but could go no further.

the moment you crossed the threshold of the cave, you let the fiendfyre die, collapsing beside regulus on the rocky shore. the horcrux in your pocket pulsed like a malignant heart.

regulus's breathing was shallow but steady, his pulse weak but present. his eyes fluttered open, finding yours in the moonlight.

"you saved me," he whispered, voice wrecked from screaming and nearly dying.

you pressed your forehead to his, tears falling onto his face. "always."

three days later, regulus could finally stand without assistance. the cave had taken something from him—a vitality that had always been present even in his darkest moments. his face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than ever, eyes haunted by whatever visions the poison had shown him.

"we should contact sirius," you said as you changed the bandages on his hand where he'd cut it for the blood sacrifice. the wound refused to heal properly, as if tainted by dark magic. "the horcrux needs to be destroyed."

regulus nodded absently, staring out the window of the safe house. "he won't believe it's really me. i'll need to tell him something only i would know."

you finished wrapping his hand and sat beside him on the narrow bed. "what will you tell him?"

a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "about the time i caught him sneaking out to meet that muggle girl from the village. he thought our parents never knew, but i covered for him. told them the sounds they heard were me practicing dueling in my room."

you raised an eyebrow. "you never told me that story."

"some secrets aren't mine to tell." his good hand found yours, fingers interlacing. "even from you."

the statement hung between you, loaded with unspoken meaning. you knew regulus still kept parts of himself locked away—what he'd seen in those poison-induced visions, the full extent of what he'd done as a death eater, the deepest fears that woke him screaming in the night.

"i've been thinking," he said finally. "about what comes next."

your heart stuttered. "and?"

"we can't run." his eyes met yours, steady and sure despite the exhaustion etched into his features. "not yet. there's more to be done."

you'd expected this, had seen the determination building in him as his strength returned. still, fear coiled in your stomach. "we barely survived stealing one horcrux."

"i know." he squeezed your hand. "but we know things now—about him, about how he operates. information the order could use."

"you want to become spies," you said flatly.

regulus didn't flinch from the accusation. "i want to fix what i helped break."

you stood, pulling your hand from his, and paced the small room. "we've already taken a stand. we stole his horcrux. isn't that enough?"

"would it be enough for you?" he challenged. "if our positions were reversed, would you be content with one act of rebellion before disappearing?"

the answer stuck in your throat because you both knew the truth. neither of you were built to run, not really. you'd been raised as warriors—the wrong side, perhaps, but warriors nonetheless.

"we'd have to go back," you said, the realization washing over you like ice water. "pretend nothing's happened. face him."

regulus nodded grimly. "it would be dangerous. if he suspects, even for a moment..."

"he'd kill us. but not quickly." you wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold despite the summer heat. "we'd beg for death long before he granted it."

"i won't ask this of you," regulus said softly. "this is my choice. you can still leave, find somewhere safe—"

"don't," you cut him off. "don't you dare suggest we separate now."

he stood, wincing at the effort, and crossed to where you stood. his hands, one bandaged and one bare, came to rest on your shoulders. "i'm trying to protect you."

"and i'm trying to make you understand that i don't want protection if it means watching you walk into death alone." your voice broke on the last word.

his forehead came to rest against yours, a gesture that had become as natural as breathing between you. "we might both die."

"everyone dies," you whispered. "but not everyone gets to choose what they die for."

regulus's arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest where his heart beat steadily, a miracle after how close you'd come to losing him. "we contact sirius first," he said. "get the horcrux somewhere safe. then we return—bereaved cousins who got lost after a raid gone wrong."

you nodded against his chest. "they'll be suspicious."

"let them," he said with a hint of the old black arrogance. "they've always underestimated both of us."

that night, regulus wrote the letter to his brother—carefully worded, with just enough personal details to prove his identity but vague enough that if intercepted, it wouldn't immediately condemn you both. you added your own note, explaining who you were, why sirius should trust what his estranged brother was telling him.

"do you think he'll help?" you asked as regulus sealed the envelope.

"sirius has his faults," he replied, "but he's never lacked courage. and he loves a good rebellion."

you sent the letter with a nondescript owl, then began preparing for what would be the performance of your lives. the horcrux remained hidden in a magically sealed box beneath the floorboards, waiting for sirius's response.

regulus came to bed late that night, sliding under the covers beside you. you turned to face him in the darkness, tracing the sharp lines of his face with gentle fingers.

"scared?" you asked.

"terrified," he admitted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. "but certain."

you moved closer, resting your head on his chest where you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart. "we should practice our story. where we've been, what happened during the raid."

"tomorrow," he murmured, fingers threading through your hair. "tonight, just... be here with me."

you understood what he wasn't saying—that these moments of peace might be your last, that tomorrow began a dangerous game with your lives as the stakes. so you pressed closer, memorizing the feel of him, safe and whole beside you.

"i keep thinking about what you said in the cave," regulus whispered after a long silence. "about living together or dying together."

you tensed slightly. "i meant it."

"i know." his arms tightened around you. "that's what scares me the most. not dying, but the thought of taking you with me."

"it's not your choice to make," you reminded him gently.

he was quiet for so long you thought he might have fallen asleep. then: "in the cave, when the poison... there were visions."

you waited, letting him find the words at his own pace.

"i saw him winning," regulus continued, voice barely audible. "the world under his rule. no resistance left. and you—" his voice broke. "you were still alive, but not... not really. he kept you as an example of what happens to traitors. you begged me to kill you."

your breath caught in your throat. "it wasn't real."

"it felt real." his hand found yours in the darkness, clutching like a lifeline. "i couldn't save you. i tried, but i couldn't reach you."

you propped yourself up on one elbow, finding his eyes in the dim light. "it was the poison talking. using your fears against you."

"my greatest fear," he corrected. "losing you. failing you."

"you won't," you said with more confidence than you felt. "we're smarter than him. than all of them."

his smile was sad in the moonlight. "intelligence isn't always enough in war."

"then we'll be lucky too." you leaned down, pressing your lips to his. "now sleep. we have work to do tomorrow."

as regulus's breathing evened out beside you, sleep eluding you. the weight of what you were about to attempt pressed down like a physical thing. spying on the dark lord himself, walking back into the snake pit you'd so narrowly escaped—it was madness.

but the alternative—running, hiding, leaving others to fight while you sought safety—felt like a different kind of death. so you closed your eyes and planned, mentally preparing for the performance of your life, and hoped that somewhere in england, sirius black was reading his brother's letter and believing.

sirius's response came three days later, delivered by a different owl than the one you'd sent—a precaution you appreciated. the note was brief, unsigned, and written in a code you and regulus had created as children:

number twelve, grimmauld place. midnight. come alone. bring proof.

you stared at the address in disbelief. "he's using your childhood home as a safe house? is he insane?"

regulus's lips quirked into a humorless smile. "it's actually brilliant. the last place anyone would look for order members is a black family residence. and the protective enchantments are ancient—stronger than anything they could cast themselves."

regulus burned the note after reading it, watching the ashes float away on the breeze. "he always was dramatic."

"are you sure you should go alone?" you asked, anxiety churning in your stomach. "what if it's a trap?"

he shook his head. "it's not. only sirius would know to use this particular code."

"still," you insisted, "i should come with you."

"someone needs to stay with this," regulus countered, gesturing to the box containing the horcrux. "if something happens to me, you're the only other person who knows what it is, what it means."

you wanted to argue further, but the logic was sound. reluctantly, you nodded. "be careful. your brother might shoot first and ask questions later."

that night, you helped regulus prepare. he still looked too thin, too haunted to convincingly return to the death eaters, but you had time to build his strength back before facing the dark lord. this meeting was just the first step.

"if i'm not back by dawn," regulus said as he prepared to disapparate, "assume the worst. take the horcrux and run. don't try to find me."

you gripped the front of his robes. "don't say that."

"y/n," he said firmly, "promise me. promise you'll run if i don't return."

the request felt like swallowing glass, but you nodded. "i promise."

he kissed you then, deep and desperate, like a drowning man taking a final breath. "i love you," he whispered against your lips. "whatever happens, remember that."

then he was gone, leaving you alone with a piece of the dark lord's soul and hours to wait, each minute stretching like years.

you paced. you practiced dueling stances, defensive spells, anything to keep your mind occupied. you made tea you didn't drink and reorganized supplies you didn't need. and you watched the sky, counting stars to mark the passage of time.

one hour passed. two. three.

just as despair began to set in, a crack of apparition split the night. you spun, wand raised—

regulus staggered through the door, face pale but eyes bright with something you hadn't seen in years. hope.

"sirius?" you asked.

"he believed me." regulus sank onto the sofa, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. "we talked for hours. he's taking the horcrux to dumbledore."

relief flooded you, making your knees weak. you sat beside him, taking his hand. "and then?"

"then we go back," he said simply. "we play our parts. we gather information. and we wait."

"for what?"

regulus looked at you, determination hardening his features despite his exhaustion. "for the moment we can help end him. once and for all."

you leaned against him, head on his shoulder, the weight of what lay ahead settling over you both like a shroud. there would be no running, no peaceful cottage in france. instead, you would walk willingly back into darkness, clinging to each other and the hope that someday, somehow, light would prevail.

three months passed like a fever dream.

you both returned to your respective homes, spinning tales of capture and narrow escape. the dark lord welcomed you back with suspicion that slowly eased as you proved your continued loyalty through raids and meetings. you became his perfect soldiers again—regulus the quiet, thoughtful strategist; you the unflinching executor of commands.

and all the while, you gathered information, passed it through elaborate channels to sirius, who funneled it to the order. small victories accumulated—intercepted attacks, saved lives, thwarted plans. tiny fractures in the dark lord's seemingly impenetrable armor.

you and regulus barely spoke in public, maintaining the appearance of mere acquaintances with shared history. but in shadows, in brief stolen moments, you held each other with the desperation of people who knew every touch might be the last.

"he suspects bellatrix," regulus whispered one night, lips against your ear in a darkened alcove at malfoy manor, where death eaters had gathered to celebrate a victory you had secretly helped minimize. "he's been testing her loyalty."

"good," you breathed back. "the farther his suspicion stays from us, the better."

regulus's hands tightened on your waist. "something big is coming. he's planning something for samhain. i haven't been able to learn what."

"i'll try to get it from rosier," you promised. "he talks when he drinks."

the clock struck midnight, your signal to separate before anyone noticed your absence. regulus pressed a quick, hard kiss to your lips before melting into the shadows, leaving you alone with the phantom pressure of his touch and the ever-present fear that each parting might be final.

two weeks later, your worst fears began to materialize.

it started with small things—sideways glances from other death eaters, conversations that stopped when you entered rooms, being excluded from certain meetings. then came the subtle tests—requests for information you shouldn't have had, invitations to express opinions on topics designed to reveal sympathy for the other side.

"he knows," you told regulus during a rushed meeting in knockturn alley, both of you disguised with complex glamour charms. "or at least, he suspects."

regulus's face, altered though it was, couldn't hide his concern. "we need to run. now, before it's too late."

"we can't," you argued. "the samhain plan—we still don't know what it is. we can't leave until we warn the order."

"y/n," he grasped your shoulders, "listen to me. i've seen what he does to traitors. we've both seen it. if he catches us—"

"two more days," you pleaded. "rosier invited me to his estate tomorrow night. he'll be drinking, celebrating. i can get the information then."

regulus looked torn, fear warring with determination on his face. finally, he nodded. "two days. then we disappear, whether we have the information or not."

you sealed the agreement with a kiss, ignoring the dread pooling in your stomach. "two days," you echoed.

the next night found you at rosier's manor, dressed in formal robes, a practiced smile fixed on your face as you circulated among death eaters who might or might not suspect you of treachery. rosier, as predicted, was deep in his cups by midnight, holding court in a corner of the ballroom.

you approached him carefully, glass of untouched firewhiskey in hand. "quite the celebration," you remarked. "one might think we've already won the war."

rosier laughed, the sound harsh and grating. "closer than you think, yaxley. after samhain, the tide turns permanently."

"oh?" you raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest while your heart hammered. "another raid?"

"better." he leaned in, breath hot with alcohol. "we're going after the bones."

your blood ran cold. "bones? the family?"

he snickered. "the prophecy bones, you idiot. the ones that tie the ministry's magic together. he's found them—buried beneath the department of mysteries. we destroy those, and their whole network of protective enchantments falls."

horror flooded you. the ministry's defenses, while not impenetrable, were the last major barrier preventing the dark lord from seizing control of wizarding britain entirely. without them, thousands would die.

"brilliant," you managed, forcing admiration into your voice. "when?"

"samhain night," rosier slurred. "the veil between worlds will be thinnest. makes the old magic weaker, easier to—"

a hand clamped onto your shoulder, and you turned to find lucius malfoy, his gray eyes cold and assessing.

"yaxley," he said smoothly. "a word, if you please."

your instincts screamed danger, but refusing would only confirm whatever suspicions he harbored. with a practiced smile, you excused yourself from rosier and followed malfoy into a side room.

he closed the door behind you, and your stomach dropped at the soft click of a locking charm.

"interesting conversation you were having," malfoy remarked, circling you slowly. "curious about our plans, are you?"

you maintained your composure with effort. "just making conversation. rosier enjoys an audience."

"indeed." malfoy stopped directly in front of you. "particularly when he's been instructed to provide misinformation to suspected traitors."

ice formed in your veins. "i don't know what you're—"

the slap came without warning, snapping your head to the side. you tasted blood but didn't reach up to touch your stinging cheek. showing weakness now would be fatal.

"save your lies," malfoy hissed. "the dark lord knows all. he's known for weeks. you and the black boy—passing information, betraying your blood."

"you're mistaken," you said evenly, mind racing for an escape. your wand was in your sleeve, but malfoy's was already in his hand.

his smile was terrifying in its certainty. "am i? then you won't mind waiting here while i fetch regulus black. he arrived a few minutes ago, responding to an urgent summons—from you."

horror washed over you. "what have you done?"

"nothing yet," malfoy replied. "the dark lord wishes to handle you both personally. poetic, don't you think? lovers dying together."

you moved faster than thought, your wand sliding into your palm as you cast a nonverbal bombarda at the floor between you. the explosion threw malfoy backward, giving you precious seconds to blast the door open and run.

the ballroom erupted into chaos as you burst through, death eaters turning in surprise. you didn't stop, racing for the exit, needing to find regulus before—

"looking for someone?"

bellatrix's voice froze you mid-step. you turned slowly to find her standing at the center of the room, wand pressed to regulus's throat. he was on his knees, face bloody, eyes finding yours with a mixture of despair and desperate love.

"i'm sorry," he mouthed silently.

"how touching," bellatrix crooned, noticing the exchange. "my little cousin and his blood-traitor whore, reunited one last time."

death eaters formed a circle around you, wands raised. there was no escape—not for both of you. perhaps not for either of you.

your eyes locked with regulus's, a lifetime of unspoken words passing between you in seconds. you saw the decision form in his eyes a moment before he acted.

"y/n, run!" he shouted, driving his elbow backward into bellatrix's stomach.

she doubled over with a shriek of rage as regulus lunged for her wand. chaos erupted—spells flying, voices shouting. you fought your way toward him, desperate to reach him before—

the green light of the killing curse illuminated the room.

time seemed to slow as you watched regulus fall, his body crumpling to the marble floor like a marionette with cut strings. his eyes, still open, still looking at you, empty of the life and love that had defined them.

someone was screaming. distantly, you realized it was you.

rage unlike anything you'd ever known surged through you, fueling magic that burst from your wand without conscious thought. death eaters fell around you as you fought your way to regulus's body, gathering him in your arms, your tears falling onto his still face.

"i'm sorry," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. "i'm so sorry."

spells impacted around you, but you barely felt them. nothing mattered now—not the war, not surviving, not anything but the hollow absence where your heart had been.

but as your fingers brushed regulus's wrist, you felt something impossible—a pulse. Faint, barely there, but present.

hope flared, desperate and wild. a plan formed in seconds—you needed to get him out, needed to make them believe you were both dead.

reaching into your pocket, you withdrew the vial you always carried—draught of living death, intended as a last resort if you were ever captured. with shaking hands, you pressed it to regulus's lips, tilting it so the potion slid down his throat.

"stay with me," you whispered. "please stay."

curses flew closer as death eaters regrouped. you had seconds, no more. casting the strongest shield charm you could manage, you prepared to disapparate, regulus's limp body clutched to your chest.

bellatrix's face appeared through the smoke, twisted with hatred. "you can't escape him," she snarled. "he'll find you anywhere you go."

the crushing darkness of apparition enveloped you. the last thing you saw was bellatrix's wand raising, a curse on her lips—

impact. pain beyond imagining tore through your body as you landed hard on cold, wet ground. splinched—badly—but you'd made it. you were outside the wards of the safe house sirius had mentioned.

regulus lay motionless beside you, heartbeat now imperceptible under the effects of the potion. blood—your blood—pooled beneath you both, black in the moonlight.

as consciousness slipped away, you thought you heard footsteps approaching, a voice you vaguely recognized shouting for help. but it might have been a dream—one last mercy before the end.

whether either of you would open your eyes again remained to be seen.

[daylighteclipsed]

While I’m talking, Cloud almost killing Tifa in Gongaga is not just a ‘would that be fucked up or what’ moment or even because Tifa has the true memories/proof to counter Sephiroth’s lies (though, that is part of it). It’s also because killing Tifa is the antithesis of who Cloud is. It’s the antithesis of the little boy who put his life on the line to save her and then dedicated his life to becoming strong enough to protect her. The antithesis of his promise to be there for her and the feelings behind it. “Cloud” and “Tifa’s killer” cannot coexist. “Cloud,” the boy defined by a desire to protect Tifa, cannot survive this. That’s why Sephiroth is trying so hard to get Cloud to kill Tifa. Sephiroth could kill her himself and that would still be majorly bad for Cloud’s true identity as he’d still lose his only tether to reality and the symbol of his conscience. But it wouldn’t be as effective as having Cloud do the honors. Sephiroth needs Cloud to kill the light in his own heart. He needs Cloud to kill his self. And there is no more definitive way than this.

[attractthecrows]

solavellan this solavellan that. my favorite way to interpret dalish heroes is as mirrors.

you're Mahariel. your life is over because of a mirror.

You are the mirror of Garahel. Tamlen is the blighted mirror of you. You, the hero, are a reflection of what has been and should never have been. The blood spilled and blackened over a millennium in the name of corrupted once-gods.

you're Merrill. your life is forever altered because of a mirror. you are a reflection of the pride and the folly of your Keeper, of what a Dalish mage should be, and should have been all along.

you are Lavellan. you are the Inquisitor, the lynchpin of fate, both a reflection and avenue of change - like an eluvian. you are the reflection of Mahariel. you are the reflection of your clan. you are the reflection of Ameridan. you are a reflection of Corypheus, caught in a cycle older than either of you. you are a reflection of the elvhen heart and soul. you are, unknowingly, the reflection of Fen'harel, and you will drag the world kicking and screaming into it's new fate and future.

you are, more than anything else, a mirror.

[circle-around-again]

Not enough about Clark’s daddy issues — one of which was deeply cynical about the nature of humanity, who would try to kill Clark and turn him into a living God, and the other who thought the same thing but implied that Clark deserved it

[joelsgoldrush]

“you can use my skin to bury secrets in” | 6.8k

old man!logan x f!reader

SUMMARY: Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his brain. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?” OR Logan had always known your generosity would get him in trouble. WARNINGS/TAGS: mdni smut 18+ cursing. drinking. pining. mentions of alcohol. dirty talk. age gap (reader's in her late 20s). logan’s POV. angst/self-deprecation (he just needs a little loving). religious imagery. feelings. petnames. chauffeur!logan. oral sex (m receiving, tiny bit of f receiving). sort of dom!logan. doggy style. unprotected p in v. creampie. A/N: i could say i'm sorry for this, but i'm not. love love love this old man (#needthat). heavily inspired by the song "i know" by fiona apple. @lubdubology my partner in crime who keeps putting up with me, tysm!!! hope you all enjoy it <3

The line between being a good and bad person is thin. So thin, in fact, that Logan finds himself stepping back and forth across it constantly.

Rescuing a kitten from a tree? Good.

Punching a guy at a bar because he didn’t feel like being acknowledged? Bad.

Saving countless lives from mass destruction? Good—heroic, even.

But killing others to do it? Bad—condemnable, scum of the earth.

Where does that leave him? Which side has laid claim to his soul? He’s long accepted he’ll never see the pearly gates.

When the day comes that his body can no longer take it, and he only grows wearier, he’s pretty sure there’s a special place in hell with his name on it, etched in some grave awaiting to be filled.

Maybe Satan’s already counting down the days until he shows up at his door, who knows?

Yet, the more time passes by, the less afraid he is of what lies beneath the surface. He’s learned to coexist with the darkness, with the kind of pain and loneliness that would crush most men.

He doesn’t know how, but he survives it—the agony, the memories, the solitude that hits him from time to time.

And still, he doesn't lose himself entirely. He’s tempted, of course, to linger in the past—it’s always easier to drown there.

If he could go back, he knows he wouldn’t be alone in choosing that path. Some days, it feels like the only option.

But there’s no you in his past.

Logan inhales sharply when your tongue teases his slit, lapping at the precum pooling there. You hum at the taste, your hand resting on his bare thigh, fingers pressing into his skin. Your other hand lazily strokes the length of him, working the inches your mouth can’t take.

It’s clear you’re enjoying this. He can tell from the way your lashes flutter each time he thrusts a little deeper into your slick warmth. A win-win situation.

Letting a girl like you do this to him? That’s bad. Very bad. Red flags all around.

He meets you when he least expects it.

It’s a night like any other. He’s been driving for God knows how long. His joints ache from being in the same position for hours, and a part of his left knee he didn’t even know could hurt begins to throb.

It takes everything in him not to call it quits for the night, not to turn around and head home like a coward.

When exactly his life fell into this monotonous cycle, he’s not entirely sure, but it happened somewhere along the way. Now, it’s all the same: taking care of Charles during the day, catching an hour or two of sleep, then gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, driving through endless stretches of road, resisting any attempts at small talk from the passengers he chauffeurs around.

They all try—every single one of them. They think if they can crack his harsh and bitter exterior, he’ll open up, reveal something, anything to make their eyes go wide.

But why? Why do they insist on breaking through his shell? What do they hope to discover?

No one really cares what’s going on in his mind. They just want to feel good about themselves—like they’ve been kind, amiable, empaths intending to fill some empty and obscure corner of their own lives.

Logan refuses to be the person who grants them that satisfaction.

You slip into the backseat of his limo, closing the door with a soft click. The night clings to you, the scent of the bar still lingering on your clothes. The music is loud enough for him to hear from outside, and he sees the people lined up at the door, willing to cause a fight if it means securing a good time.

There's a slight frown tugging at your features, your lips pulled downward, though your voice is still polite when you blurt out your address.

Five minutes into the drive and you haven’t said a word. Internally, he’s savoring the silence, so happy he could jump on one foot.

This kind of peace is rare. He’d grown unaccustomed to it. The tension in his shoulders eases as the city lights blur past.

But, all good things come to an end, because—

“How’s your night going?” you ask, fiddling with the seatbelt to have something between your fingers. Logan glances at you through the mirror, his eyes catching yours just for a moment, long enough to see the faint, apologetic smile you offer him. He allows himself a heartbeat more to take you in before focusing back on the road.

You click your tongue, a soft sound of disapproval ringing in his ears. “Well, thank you.”

He lets out a quiet huff, grinding his teeth together. “I’d prefer if we stayed like we were before,” he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly. His attention flickers between the passing cars and the occasional glimpses of you that startle him every time he searches for the mirror. Cars. You. Cars. You. You. You. “Y’know, not talking.”

“But that’s no fun at all,” you retort, sliding more to your left, nearly positioning yourself in the middle of the backseat. It gives him a better view of you—whether intentional or not, he can’t say.

The lipstick on your lips is still flawless. A sparkly necklace glints just above the neckline of your dress, and matching earrings dangle from your ears. Wrapped in a leather jacket, you look effortlessly alluring.

This entire sequence is enough to confirm that by no means is he going to heaven. Straight to hell, he thinks, allowing his gaze to trace over each detail of your frame. Straight to hell.

You don’t give up. “Your aura is off.”

That prompts a crooked smirk from him, a shake of his head as he mumbles under his breath: “M’sorry, my what’s off?”

“Your aura,” you clarify, motioning toward him with a light jingle from the many bracelets adorning your wrist. “It’s the energy that surrounds you.”

Logan snorts, amused for a brief second. “Well, you weren’t exactly a beacon of life when you got in either.”

You chuckle softly, leaning back against the seat and looking out the window. “I’m much better now.” A pause before you continue, your tone shifting, losing strength. “My date stood me up. Last-minute cancellation.”

It’s not anger, nor is it disappointment, that laces your words. You seem more resigned than anything else. He’d have expected you to sound at least a bit more conflicted.

“I should’ve seen it coming. He’d been asking to move it forward for a while.”

Does he look like the type of driver who doubles as a therapist? He wishes he could understand why you're telling him all this.

“That sucks,” he still responds, because even though he hasn’t gone out with a woman in what feels like centuries, he understands that sensation all too well. “First time meeting him?”

Listen up, everyone—he’s genuinely engaging in conversation with another soul. This doesn’t happen often.

He hears you hum, eyes still trained on the outside world. You sigh, crossing your arms over your torso. “Would you mind rolling your window up? I’m kind of freezing here.”

“I’d mind that very much,” he says, his voice carrying its usual gruff edge. He fights the urge to grin, but then you unbuckle your seatbelt, leaning in closer to him. Your body is wedged between his seat and the passenger’s, and he perceives your stare boring into his side profile. “Put your seatbelt back on.” 

“You’re fucking with me.” Your finger taps his shoulder once, twice. “First, I get all dolled up for an idiot who bails on me, and now you have the nerve to make fun of me? Give me a break.”

Your eyes stay on him, a smile plastered on your face, anticipating any possible answer.

Crack, crack, crack—you intend to break through his shell, watching him from the front row, waiting for the moment it gives way.

Before you can say more, he cuts you off. “Seatbelt.”

It’s a command, an instruction, and you comply without hesitation.

Warmth pools and stirs low in his gut as he notes how quickly you obey him. 

Would you still look at him like that if you knew the blood he’s scrubbed off his hands? The flesh that his claws have shredded? The names of the lives he’s taken?

Would your warm gaze turn cold, filled with dread instead of curiosity?

Maybe this is hell. Are you the Devil in disguise, tempting him to cross a line he won’t be able to come back from?

A few minutes later, he pulls up to your building. A really nice one, he notes. You announce you live on the sixth floor. He doesn’t need to know that, does he? Why would you tell him that? Why give that piece of information to a complete stranger?

You linger in the backseat, as though you’re expecting him to turn and look at you. And he does, though not for the reason you might expect. “You got everything?”

Eager and full of life, you nod, clutching your purse to your chest. You avert your gaze to read his ID tag, the one that contains his personal details. “James?”

“Glad you can read,” he utters, pulling out a small bottle of liquor from under the seat. He drains it all in one go, savoring the fleeting burn as it slides down his throat, which is enough to keep him going. “C’mon, kid. I already charged you.”

“You drink while you drive?”

“Keeps me entertained,” he says dryly. It’s the only thing he knows how to do. Raising the empty bottle in your direction, he arches a brow. “Goodnight, darlin’. Leave me a good review on your way out.”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

For a couple of days, you don’t bother him again. Bother—notice the implication of the verb in question.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t think of you after that drive. Each time his phone buzzes, a small, restless part of him hopes it’s you, asking for his services, wanting him to be the one you seek out.

And it happens. The best things seem to occur when the moon hangs high and bright.

You: Hi.

He stares at the message, recognition washing over him. He knows it’s you; he can see the other texts you exchanged that night he took you home.

You: Are you working tonight?

You’ve got to be kidding him.

Logan: Why are you texting me?

He types the words with frustration, his thumb hovering over the screen longer than usual. 

You: Why are you answering me?

Oh, you’re smart. 

Logan: Take my advice. Talk to a guy your own age.

You: Damn. Already jumping to conclusions. I was just going to ask you if you wanted to have a drink with me.

Logan: I’m busy.

You: Well, what time do you get off?

Logan: I work all night.

You: Can’t even make a quick stop? I swear it won’t take you more than twenty minutes.

An impulse to throw his phone out the window surges within him, but he manages to restrain himself.

Then, as if on cue, the device vibrates again—of course, it’s you.

You: The drinks are on me. Let me know if you change your mind.

Do you think he’s going to let you pay for him? Absolutely not. 

What surprises him more than the message is how easily he remembers your address. It appears to be ingrained in his mind.

He cancels his next trip, scheduled for ten minutes from now, his new destination being your building.

Once he pulls up, he does what feels most natural: he honks. Multiple times. Maybe he’s lucky and you’ll tell him to fuck off.

But you don’t. You’re laughing as you make your way over to the limo, sliding into the backseat in the same way you did a week ago. Your plan had succeeded—you had him exactly where you wanted.

Far from hiding it, you make it evident, obvious. Your heartbeat thrums in the air, and Logan can hear it loud and clear, like the bass in one of those funky songs he likes.

There’s no room for mistakes. He won’t deny it. Even if the feeling is mutual, he can’t shake the idea that he’s doing something wrong.

In his eyes, you’re the forbidden fruit—irresistible, the ultimate temptation known to humankind, camouflaged in the fur of a pretty woman.

You, his paradise on earth, could only lead to one thing: a longing for a chance with you, which he should never be granted in the first place.

He’s diving headfirst into disgrace, and the more he realizes it, the worse it feels. If he were to be scolded like a child, maybe he’d feel relieved, but he’s no kid. He’s a grown-ass man who should be able to resist.

Yet, self-restraint is like sand slipping through his fingers—never lasting long enough.

“You came.” Astonishment. Uncertainty. Amusement. Blinking your eyes at him, you sit very upright, and you don't even bother fastening your seatbelt. “Honestly? I thought you were going to block me.”

I can’t, he thinks. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m not that strong.

“What happened this time? Another failed date?” he inquires, still not starting the car. A look of perplexity appears on your features, puzzled about why he’s not moving. “Ain’t you forgetting something?” He tugs on his own seatbelt for emphasis, the fabric snapping back into place against his coat.

Once again, you follow his lead. “I don’t need to get stood up to want to see you,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance—or so he tells himself. It takes him all his willpower not to collapse right then and there. “Besides, I’m not bad company. I’ve been told I can be pretty funny.” 

“I see…” he trails off, catching your gaze through the rearview mirror, not shocked in the slightest to find you waiting for him to look back. “Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you should. You invited me.”

How easy it is to make your chest rumble with laughter, the genuine sound bubbling up, pure and unrestrained. He feels like some amateur comedian who has just realized his real passion is to cause this type of response in others.

Except, it’s not just anyone’s laughter he insists on provoking—it’s yours, and yours alone.

An unsettling sensation envelops him the second you retrieve your hand, not before squeezing his shoulder in a friendly manner. “There’s a bar I go to with my friends sometimes,” you suggest after a beat, shoving your phone in the pocket of your jacket. “We could try that one.”

The moment he steps inside, regret washes over him. Why is everyone here under forty? He feels ancient, like fucking Fred Flintstone.

A fossil out of place, meant to dwell in the shadows, not in a scene like this.

When he freezes in the middle of the bar, your fingers intertwine with his, tugging him along, and he follows after you like a lost puppy. The only thing he’s missing is the leash.

You’re met with his quirked eyebrows as you peer into his eyes over your shoulder, a toothy grin threatening to shake the floor beneath his feet. “You know, people usually sit down before they start getting shit-faced.”

“I’m not getting drunk tonight.” Logan exhales a deep breath, trying to hide his discomfort, his eyes scanning the room. “And neither are you,” he practically yells in your ear trying to make himself heard above the pounding music and incessant chatter. He wonders if you even hear him at all.

The two of you eventually settle at the counter, drinking in silence. Logan half-expects one of your comments to pierce through the quiet, but you delight in proving him wrong.

Instead, your head sways gently to the rhythm of the song playing in the background, and you take a trial sip of your beer.

He’s acutely aware of the stares from the rest of the patrons. He can pretend to be oblivious, but the weight of several pairs of eyes burning holes into the back of his neck doesn’t go unnoticed.

Being watched has never been his favorite pastime, and somehow, it feels even more uncomfortable with you by his side.

He knows what those looks imply, can nearly taste the hidden implications behind each fleeting glance.

What’s a girl like you doing with a man like him? A question that makes no sense.

Does he have money? A well-endowed reputation? Did he recently inherit any properties?

Are you truly that desperate for human contact?

Is your bed so cold that you decide to go for the first guy who can string ten words together?

Logan doubts whether this whole experiment is part of the community service you must be doing. Maybe he should look up your name online to see if any criminal records come to the surface.

Now that he takes a moment to ponder it, you certainly fit the mold of the criminal type. The kind who gets what she wants when she wants it, leaving a trail of intrigue on her wake.

His fingers circle the glass so tightly he fears it might shatter into a million shards. You notice his tension, nudging his arm with yours, aiming to meet his eyes.

When you do (because, as he said, criminals have their own ways), you smile, and he internalizes that gesture as something familiar, something he feels he’s grown used to. Something rankled in his memory.

It’s as if he’s known you for a lifetime.

“Thank you for coming,” you say softly, and he may be going down the path of hallucinations,  but your attention remains a little too long on his lips. Then, just as quickly, it flickers back to the rest of his face, and you lean back to drink from your beer once more.

Straight to hell, he thinks, tasting the remnants of whiskey on his tongue, for ever daring to believe himself worthy of even a moment of your precious time.

You’re probably the first person to have his full, undivided attention. And that’s… well, that’s saying something.

Most days, you’re pretty talkative, a steady stream of conversation, your words pouring out in an endless flow.

You tell him about your family, your career, that pet of yours that died when you were six years old. You mention a friend you no longer speak to, and the events that led to the downfall of your friendship.

There’s also that dish from your all-time favorite restaurant, the one you buy at least once a week because it never fails to comfort you.

Nonstop, you talk and talk, and Logan doesn’t mind one bit. Soon, he finds himself becoming an active listener—asking follow-up questions, chuckling at your jokes, even when they’re not funny at all.

He sincerely cares about what you have to say.

This whole situation with you is beyond his comprehension. Before he realizes it, you start wanting to spend more time with him.

Sometimes, you ride along in the passenger seat while he drives aimlessly through the city.

Sometimes, you invite him over, cook a meal, and he always takes the leftovers with him, as if a part of you goes with him when he leaves.

Sometimes, you come over to his place, and the roles reverse—you’re the one with the mic, asking the questions, fully aware that you’re treading on holy ground. 

Logan’s got a sign on his forehead that reads ‘Stop: do not enter.’ It’s rough around the edges, hardened by the years, all capital letters in stark blank ink. But in the end, you just take the sign and set it aside.

He never goes into too much detail. Not because he doesn’t trust you—it’s just that there’s too much to unpack, and you don’t need to know all of it. You’ll be better off not carrying the garbage he does.

Yet, you’ve got him by the throat, encouraging him to cough up disjoined pieces of his life, bits of his day, his thoughts, his feelings. It sounds stupid to him, but you make him feel alive. 

You never judge him, never flinch when he brings up stories from his past. As he sits at your table one afternoon, you look at his hands, his claws fully extended, and you don’t shy away. You rub the pad of your thumb across the rough skin of his knuckles, right where the adamantium tears through his flesh.

You don’t care that he’s a mutant, that he’s killed people. You don’t try to deny who he is or what he’s done. Oddly enough, you just wish to be by his side, staring off into the void with him. 

“But why?” he asks, partly flattered, partly frustrated. This could be compared to learning a new sport from scratch—he can’t figure you out, can’t understand why you haven’t run the other way yet.

He likes your company, though he’s always bracing himself for the inevitable day you find a better hobby and leave.

Your reasoning defies logic, and he’s afraid that at any moment, you’ll grasp the gravity of your choices.

Almost as if you could feel the turmoil brewing in his mind, you simply say: “You’re nice to be around.”

Nice. Nice. Nice. He’d cackle if he were alone. That word reverberates through him. When was the last time someone called him nice?

Bad-tempered, sure.

A pain in the ass? Definitely.

But nice? Not a term people employed to describe him.

It’s a quality reserved for you, with your endless charisma and kind heart, but not for a man of his kind.

He’s nothing more than a chauffeur, a driver, someone who does and says what’s necessary to survive. Does that make him nice? 

When he tells you he’s probably going to hell, you don’t try to make him feel better. Anyone else in your position might try to soothe him, to offer some hollow reassurance.

Your intention isn’t to change him, for him to pretend to be something he’s not. “Then I’ll meet you there,” you mutter, your shiny eyes searing into his. Under the table, your hand finds his, tender fingers grazing over his knuckles, and for once, he doesn’t pull away.

Could it be that an afterlife catching fire doesn’t sound so bad after all?

As much as he likes to admit how easily you can shift his mood, today is not one of those days.

He’s had a nightmare—nothing new, but this one had been… different. The empty bottle on the nightstand hadn’t been of any help; it never does when they visit him in his sleep.

The ghosts of those who used to be his friends, his family, tiptoe around his dreams in the form of shadows.

Blood. Screams. Shouts of his name. He can’t save them all. Walking through the wreckage, he dodges the bodies of those he couldn’t protect, the knot in his throat tightening with every step, not allowing him to breathe.

Wherever he turns, there’s death, destruction. Sadness. Did he save them all?

It’s always the same routine. He wakes up, screaming, chest aching from the effort. His lungs burn, and he has to remind himself that the limbs attached to him are his own and not the remnants of an immobile corpse.

Sweat clings to his skin, pooling at his temples and nape. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, rubbing at the soreness in his neck.

His phone rings somewhere in the distance, pulling him from his dizzy state. He scrambles to his feet, accepting the call just before it hits voicemail.

It's you. Despite it being late, he swears he feels the gentle kiss of the sun over his brow. Your sweet voice chases away the lingering shadows of his dreams, replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with something real—a reason to get up, to start moving.

He holds onto every second of the brief call, replaying those thirty seconds in his head as he steps into the shower. When the cold water shocks his system, it pulls him fully back to consciousness. He has to get ready.

Even though you insist on getting a taxi, he refuses. He doesn’t mind the drive. His gas tank does, his wallet maybe, but Logan? He just doesn’t.

At the end of the day, he’s protective by nature, and who knows what kind of men are roaming the streets at night?

God forbid they’re anything like him—eager to prompt a smile from you, trying too hard to impress you. He arrives at the conclusion that he’d rather lose fuel and money if it means orbiting around you for longer.

You make him feel better, and tonight, he needs it more than ever. He needs you.

(Now he’s driving. He honks five times when he pulls up to your building. You get on the limo, giggling as you say: “My neighbors must hate you.” He grins. You kiss him on the cheek. Subtle. Not the first time. Still, it doesn’t get old. He feels the faint residue of lip gloss on his skin. He doesn’t wipe it off.)

Not in the mood to cook, you declare as you step into his place. The mouth-watering aroma of the Chinese food you bought fills the air, but when he reaches for the bags, you insist that he sit and relax.

Sure, he can take a seat. But to expect him to relax with you around, playing this intricate game? That’s simply impossible. You’re asking for too much. He’s a player at heart, drawn to the thrill of the chase, and he will play along.

What seems inconceivable is the expectation that he can act as if nothing is happening between these four walls.

His attempts to focus on you are futile, as his mind betrays him tonight. All he hears spilling from your lips is pure and plain gibberish. Your very presence is no longer enough to anchor him.

Already immune to your charm, Logan eats his noodles, occasionally nodding when your voice rises at the end of a sentence, indicating a question.

But he nearly chokes on his drink the moment he registers your serious expression, having never witnessed you like this before.

“Are you even here?” you ask, shoving your food aside with a swift motion of your wrist.

What should he answer? What is it that you want to hear? Of course! I’m here, listening to you. It’s a delightful night. Should I start by telling you about my most recent nightmare? Quite the entertainment!

There’s a shake of his head as he lowers his gaze, escaping your concerned expression. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” You tug your chair forward, claiming a piece of his personal space. You know he doesn’t mind. “Want to talk about it? Did something happen?”

“My brain is just… off today.”

“Many thoughts at the same time.” Not a question. Have you completely figured him out?

“Yeah.”

He remains still, dragging his plastic fork across the now-cold steamed veggies, which have lost their appeal.

How amusing—your knees bump against his, drawing his attention. “Can I help you?” It’s new, the breathy tone you’re using, a whisper of agitation weaving through your calm demeanor. 

“Can you erase my memory?” he shoots back, attempting to smirk through the wave of memories that flash behind his eyelids. When he looks into your eyes, the siren in his head blares.

Your pupils are dilated, blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweaty palms that you wipe on your jeans. Tongue darting out to lick your lips. Your heartbeat accelerates, drumming wildly like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings.

He hasn’t been with a woman in ages, but he knows how they react when they see something they like—or, in this case, someone.

“Logan.” His name rolls off your tongue once more, tinged with an unmistakable need. The thought of checking his temperature dances through his mind, but the heaviness in his limbs roots him in place. He feels feverish. “I want to help you.”

Oh, no. No, no, no, no—

“What—what are you on, sweetheart?” Get up. Find your keys. Drive her home. “You don’t even know what you’re sayin’.”

Saliva floods his mouth as you rise to your feet, looking down at him from above. Gracefully angelic, and yet— “I know what I’m asking for,” you continue, your voice descending to a low murmur that scratches pleasantly against some dark and remote corner of his head. Then you lower yourself onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his waist. You repeat your question: “Can I help you?”

He’s no longer in control of his actions. His right hand crawls up your knee, palming the fabric of your pants. It’s numbing: a lapful of you, your rich smell, your quickened pulse.

Tempting. So fucking tempted to take you right now, just like this, without the need for words. Your bodies can communicate in a language of their own, one that transcends spoken phrases. 

I want you, he lets you know through the way he gropes your breasts over your shirt, squeezing them together. He’s always been good with his hands. But what the hell am I supposed to do with a sweet thing like you?

His patience teeters on the edge of a precipice. “Tell me what you want.”

“I asked you first.”

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t know the answer?” He thrusts into the air, grinding against your clothed core, and you close your eyes. He’s rock hard beneath you, the bulge in his jeans shockingly obscene, bordering on grotesque. “We both know what I want, but I’m no telepath, baby. Need you to speak up.”

Twisting the locks of hair at his nape, you press your lips to his neck. “I want to make you forget, to focus on this moment. I want you to live in the present, Logan.” A bite on his earlobe sends shivers down his spine, and he grips your hips with a primal growl. “I can do whatever you want. Just tell me. Tell me, and I’ll do it, please.”

Please? He’s spiraling. Please? That’s it—he’s doing it. He’ll grant you your plea, which aligns perfectly with his own desires.

Once his back meets the mattress in his room, you get to work. With delicate precision, you pull down his pants, sliding his boxers off until only his thick thighs and the crown of short curls adorning his cock remain in sight. Your fingers tremble slightly before you wrap them loosely around his length, and it springs to life in your grasp.

Your gaze pierces into his, mirroring the intensity of his own. But something holds you back, prompting you to reach for his hand.

At that moment, it all clicks into place. Logan urges your head down onto him, and he’s welcomed by the slick warmth you provide.

Indeed, he’s very much alive.

“That’s it. That’s—fuck. There you go.” 

His fingers dig into the mattress, clutching the cotton sheets, stopping himself from thrusting into your mouth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—God, he does—but tonight, he’s on his best behavior.

He wipes the trail of drool from your chin, smearing it gently across your cheek, his thumb lingering as he watches your nostrils flare with a strained, muffled gasp.

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he tastes the wetness on it the same way you’re sucking him: greedily, without any trace of mercy.

This proves I’m going to hell, he thinks, enraptured by the sight of his cock disappearing between your parted lips. Straight to hell.

You draw him back to the present, nuzzling your face against his thigh, your humid breath teasing his thick shaft, pulling him from a deep reverie. Your glossy eyes roam, exploring until they find his, and you gift him an authentic smile. Wrecked and blissed out, it’s as if the lights are on, but no one’s truly home.

He would’ve never guessed how much you reveled in sucking cock, radiating enthusiasm with each of your movements.

“Am I doing it okay?” you wonder aloud, hovering over the tip, swirling your tongue around the velvety head. He’s no fool, and neither are you; deep down, you know you’re doing more than just okay. Actually, you’re giving him the best blowjob of his long, long life.

Each panting, airy praise he huffs fuels your eagerness, making you even more receptive to his desires as the words slip past his lips.

“Fuckin’ amazing, honey. Got me so hard, y’see?” His tone is heavily charged with carnality, gripping himself and smacking the tip against your mouth, the wet sound echoing like music to his ears.

He pulses against your tongue, and you seize the opportunity to trace the thin veins scattered along his length. Gulping, with his gaze fixed on you, Logan notices how you’re still wearing your clothes, wiggling your hips against the mattress, rubbing your thighs together to get something in return. “Are you wet?”

Humming against him, you suck in shaky breath. 

“Words.”

“I’m—I’m wet,” you rasp, voice hoarse. You try to guide him into your mouth and fail miserably, because his grip only tightens, stroking himself instead. “Logan,” you keen, stretching your neck in a silent plea, “don’t be mean.”

“Not mean. Just enjoyin’ myself,” he replies, pulling the foreskin back to expose the head, arching his eyebrows. His fingers curl around your chin, drawing your face nearer to his girth, fascinated by how your eyes flutter shut the more you surrender to the pleasure. “C’mon. Be polite.”

Blame him for it—he believes he’ll never get tired of this game.

“Please.” You whisper, returning to your begging while tenderly rolling his balls, staring at him through your lashes. And then you say it again: “Please.”

Your gaze burns a hole through his crumpled heart. He lets you have it, eager to give whatever you may ask him for. You dive back into it, engulfing his length and bobbing your head up and down with fervor. Hushed whines escape your lips, savoring another bead of his precum.

Logan almost loses it as you hollow your cheeks, instinctively cradling the back of your head. “Easy, baby. M’not going anywhere. Take your time.”

Whenever he feels himself approaching that long-awaited release, he forces his mind to conjure thoughts that will stall his impending orgasm.

The water stains from flooding on the walls.

The supermarket list.

The rising price of gas.

The—

“Fuck. Slow down,” he groans, utterly captivated by the way you point your tongue to draw imaginary patterns along his cock, seemingly memorizing every detail. “Don’t go too hard on me, remember?”

You mumble something under your breath, and at first, he can’t quite make it out. “What is it?”

“I said I want you to fuck me.”

Under no circumstances is he surviving this night.

“Really, doll?” Logan seeks the reassurance he desperately needs, fearing that this is all a dream from which he’ll awaken the moment he properly touches you. “You sure you want this old man to fuck you?”

You’re a rambling mess, murmuring Yes, Logan, please, until he maneuvers you to lie on his chest, his glistening cock sliding against your clothes, leaving a trail of dark spots. A whimper dies on your tongue as you brush your lips together, your hot breath enveloping him. “Give me a kiss at least.”

Tilting your head up, he connects his mouth to yours, growling as he detects the dull, sour tang of what must be him. He sucks your bottom lip, hardly aware of what his hands are doing until he shifts your positions, pinning you down.

Logan tugs at your clothes, peeling them away with urgency, his fingers dancing over your nipples until you’re grinding against his thigh, quivering beneath him. With a nip at your damp skin, his eyes flutter open as he studies your expression, casting you a glance that seeks your permission.

A ripple of desire courses through him when you dutifully turn over beneath him, pressing your face further into the pillow. He runs his knuckles along the curve of your ass, his throat going dry as you follow after his touch, arching your body in response.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he licks a long, slow stripe up your wet folds, keeping his tongue flat against your clit for a brief moment. Your arms give out and you stumble forward, stuttering as you mewl his name, fully consumed by the feeling.

So he does it again, and again, and again, flicking the sensitive bud, even though you’re already beyond soaked. It’s a pleasure he indulges in simply because he can.

Straight to hell, he thinks, coating his length with your arousal, teasing your entrance while pushing in only the tip. That motion alone is enough to make him draw a trembling breath before he continues, gradually feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

Straight to hell, the voice in his head utters as he buries himself to the hilt deep within your body, his heavy balls resting against your ass.

Like an intruder in your territory, he’s free to do as he pleases, and you let him have his way with you.

If only this moment could stretch into infinity—he longs for time to relent and never draw to a close. 

What will happen after? Will you spend the night? Does he—

“L-Logan,” you mumble, having adjusted to his size. You rock back into him, impaling yourself even more on his cock. “Please, move.”

The pace he establishes is brutal. Your warm, inner walls exquisitely massage him, and the earth as he knows it stops spinning. Fire pools low in his abdomen, his hands holding you by the flesh of your hips to keep you anchored, each thrust driving you closer to the headboard with an intoxicating urgency. 

“You wanted it from the very start, didn’t you?” He doesn’t know if a response will ever come, but these kinds of thoughts are impossible to contain. He’s just a simple man, powerless against the allure of a tight cunt. “Just got in my car and knew it would end like this?”

You roll your eyes at him, silent as you exit the vehicle, closing the door behind you. While fumbling for your keys, four words escape your mouth. Casual yet devastating, they ruin him: “I’ll see you around.” 

His next thrust punches a whine out of your lungs. Even as you clench around him, stuffed and filled to the brim, you beg for him to fuck you harder. He would’ve laughed at you were he able to catch his breath.

With a more deliberate rhythm, he rolls his hips, jackhammering your most sensitive spot, pulling you closer as he wraps an arm around you. When his fingers find your clit, drawing slippery circles, a cry escapes you, and your body merges with the mattress under you.

Your release takes him by surprise, urging him to continue as you reach back, encouraging him to chase his own climax. He knows all too well the struggle of bringing you to this point without succumbing to his pleasure too soon. Your nails graze along his thigh, leaving delicate marks in their wake, and somehow, the passion and bliss he’s been nurturing ignites into a fiery crescendo.

Shortly after, he goes completely rigid inside you, pressing his forehead against your back as he bites down on your shoulder to muffle his groans. His hand squeezes your breast tightly, riding out his high, blood buzzing in his ears, continuing to spill into you. You spam around him, milking him until the last drop of his seed, his release painting your insides with his warmth.

Logan tucks you under his chin as his vision returns to clarity. You nose his jaw, your fingers softly tracing the contours of his beard. He pulls you closer into his chest, gliding his hands up and down your back.

Half a minute of dreadful silence, then: “Can I stay?”

Oh, yes—pillow talk. He’s not great at this either. Despite that, his eyes soften, snapping to your face.

Logan pauses for a moment. “Sure,” he retorts, dragging his fingers along your shoulder blades. He’s a one-word kind of guy. Just perfect.

Tell her you like her. Tell her you don’t want this to be a casual fling. Tell her it’s more than just sex for you.

Or maybe don’t. Get ahold of yourself, will you?

“Logan?” you ask, resting your palm against his heart.

“What is it?”

“I know.”

You do?

Try as he might, he can’t deny it. He might care about you more than he ever realized.

dividers by: @/cafekitsune thank you!!! <3

[dcxdpdabbles]

Dani/Ellie as a member of YJ or Teen Titans.

The team is helping the JL with an all hands on deck apocalypse on earth. They are losing badly. She looks around herself, at the destruction all around her, squares her shoulders and says 'looks like it's time for the nuclear option... DADDY!!!!'

I didn't know if you've seen the post where a scary Danny got summoned instead of Klarion and everyone (heroes and villains) was getting ready to team up because of how scared/intimidated they were. That's the Danny I'm picturing answering his daughter's call for help. Maybe with an equally scary Fright Knight sword already drawn at his back.

The team was struggling with keeping the villains at bay. This was supposed to be a coordinated attack with the Justice Leauge, moving simultaneously on the other world.

Earlier yesterday, the Light had organized for reality to split apart, forming two worlds. One contains children, and the other includes adults, causing the opposite age groups to vanish before the eyes of horrified humans.

To the adults, their kids were taken in a flash worldwide. To children, their parents went missing in the same flash. It was chaotic, and if it had not been for Captain Marvel, they would have never figured out what was happening.

Dani was a little peeved that she was on the child's side, but despite being a princess of the Infinite Realms, her body technically did not form until four years ago. For all intentions and purposes, she is sixteen. So she stayed with Young Justice, following the kid's command and feeling alive.

She may request to be placed on the Team when this is all over. She sends an energy blast towards Klarion, watching the little Lord dodge with a laugh. He sends back a wave of magic that would nearly knock her out of the air if not for her gritting her teeth and digging in her heels within her ectoplasm.

She always hated dealing with the stupid Lord of Choas. They gave her Dad nothing but trouble whenever he called a court. Everything Danny suggested was a challenge on the grounds of attempting to "control" their disorder.

Honestly, Dani preferred dealing with them than the Lord of Order. They were a bunch of self-righteous uprights who didn't care about who was hurt in the process of their justice. At least the Lord of Choas admitted they were monsters.

Oddly enough, she was grateful Klarion wasn't treating her like the princess she was. It made work so much easier when he allowed her to attack him and vice versa.

"Echo!" Robin runs towards her, waving a hand. "Maneuver seven!"

She nods, abandoning her stance to shift her flight path into a large arch. Her hands clasp into a tight cup as she speeds back up into the air. Robin doesn't miss a beat, launching himself at her just in time to press his foot on her clasp hands, using them and her upward rise to launch himself clear across the field to land a mighty kick on Teekl.

It lets out a howl that quickly gathers the attention of the angered Lord of Choas. Seeing her chance, Dani fires more energy blasts, quickly forcing the witch boy into a defensive position.

She pinned him for a few seconds while Kid Flash raced toward the marking on the ground. Dani grunts to shift the ectoplasm in the air into a long beam, firing it straight at Klarion's shield.

A few cracks are forming around the dark red dome, and she is just about to break through when Teekl comes out of nowhere. A roar is the only warning she had before the blasted cat slams into her, claws digging into Dani's side, and she can only scream as the pair fall.

"No!" Kid screams somewhere behind her, but Dani can't turn since she is holding the claws of the large cat away from her and pressing into the ground to stop it from tearing her face off with its fangs. Its sneering face looms over her, snapping at the air, while her arms tremble with the force of holding the large beast at bare.

Getting her wits about her, Dani uses a ghostly wail to get the cat off her. Teekl is flung through the ai,r landing in a heap by Klarion's side.

The witch boy gasps, "Teekl!"

Dani heaves herself to her side, legs turn, and oozes a mix of red and green blood. Teekl had managed to claw at them during the fall, which meant she couldn't stand, let alone fight, for a good while.

Panting through the pain, Dani presses her hands to leg, attempting to put pressure on it. Her vision goes in and out as white-hot fire races up her legs and body. The Team struggles with an outraged Klarion just a few feet away from her.

Dani wishes, not for the first time, that she was a perfect clone of Dani. If she was, she would have all of his powers, including super healing and duplication. Instead, she sits like a heap, an utter liability to the team, as Klarion dances circles around them.

It pains her to do it, but Dani starts to drag herself away from the battle, realizing she needs to put space between herself and the danger. If the Witch Boy or his stupid cat realizes they can use her as a hostage, Dani will never live it down.

She is just about to drag herself to the tree line when she notices Zatanna raise her hand and speak in rapid-fire magic. A nearby bush drops its illusion to show a very familiar helmet. Dani's eyes widened in alarm, and she took it into her hands and slid it right on.

"Zatanna! Wait!"" She hears herself scream, but it's too late. The girl's body has become a vessel for Nabu, the champion of the Lord of Orders. She really hates those guys.

Zatanna rises into the sky, now dressed as Dr. Fate, flickering in and out of sight as the split realities mess with Nabu's anchor.

Klarion taunts him for it, seeing this as a chance to take down the ancient Dr.Fate, but Dani has other plans. Raising her hand, with every last ounce of strength she has, Dani aims one last good ecto-beam towards the crystal in the center of the spell runes.

It shatters the crystal in a thousand pieces, sending a shock wave of magic across the field. Klarion throws a fit, like the immature brat he is, before he calls back his stupid cat, and the two vanish into a portal. If Dani was feeling better, she would have chased after him.

Captain Marvel beams back into their reality, informing them the adult magic casters were all defeated by the Justice League. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief when Dr. Fate and Zatara med the two worlds back together

Superboy rushes over and leaves Dani in his arms, mindful of her wounds. She offers him a soft thank you, which earns her a grunt in acknowledgment. Not one for words, that Conner Kent.

She thinks about the Conner Kent of another universe, this one younger and more arrogant, running around in leather jackets and piercings but a Young Justice member all the same. One day, she should introduce the two. If the fabric of realities didn't fall apart upon their meeting.

Dani is snapped out of her thoughts when the pair get close enough for her to make out what Zatara is begging the Order Champion. Her mouth falls open as Dr. Fate refuses to leave Zatanna's body.

"Kent would never allow-"

"I have sent Kent Nelson's soul to the afterlife." Dr. Fate cuts off Kid Flash with what sounds like a coldhearted taunt to Dani. The way he uses Zatanna's voice makes her skin crawl.

"Take me," Zatara offers desperation in his voice. "My body is at its peak, my magic stronger than my daughters. Use my-"

"No!" Dani shouts, flailing in Conner's arms. Her ectoplasm boils in her veins when she points an accusing finger at the flowing Dr. Fate. "Nah-uh. This is against the law, and you know that, Nabu!"

"You know not what you speak of,child-" The ass tries, but Dani won't hear any of it.

"Long-term overshadowing of any living being is against Infinite Realms law." She sneers, facial features slightly less round and more uncanny with her anger. Around her, the Team is staring wide eyes.

Oh, right, this version of the Team has never seen her proper Phantom form. They only know Echo- named after being the copy of the great hero Phantom- who looked awful like her human form, just color flipped.

Her Halfa form was much more appealing than her entire ghostly appearance.

Dr.Fate crosses their arms. "Against a mortal will. This child willingly gave her body to me in exchange for aid in combat. I broke no law."

"Oh yeah! We'll see what the King has to say about that!" She screams, and finally, Nabu seems slightly worried, but it vanishes quickly as he jolts Zatanna's chin at him. Using her friend like some sort of meat suit.

The nerve.

"The King has better things to do than heed the call of an unimportant child." Nabu hisses, and yeah, she's going to make him pay for that.

"It looks like it's time for the nuclear option, just remember Nabu, the Lord of Order's Champion, you brought this upon yourself." Reaching out with a hand shaped entirely of ectoplasm, Dani launches a blast at Nabu.

The Team screams, Kid Flash's voice rising about the others. "No! Zatanna feels ever hit you land!"

"Echo, stand down!" Batman commands, but Dani doesn't pay them any mind as her attack lands against Dr. Fate's cross shield. She smirked, willing her glowing hand to rip a piece of the shield and fling it back towards her.

Conner nearly drops her as Dani slams the pieces into her leg, allowing them to cover up Teekl's magic. Wobbling her lips and letting the water fill her eyes, Dani lets out a whine and then a scream.

"Daddy, help!"

At once, the field is overflowing with death magic. Every living being in the area- including the animals in the forest- is brought to their knees as a fear unlike anything they have ever experienced digs its way into their very souls.

Conner falls to his knees dropping Dani in the process but she doesn't mind. She is too busy enjoying the way Dr. Fate's entire body has gone rigid as one glowing green eye snaps behind him. Zatanna small figure is no bigger then the pupil of the glowing eye, her body bath in the glow of it's green light and even the moon pales in comparison to the might of it's shine.

The eye quickly gainst a smile, stretched across a row of sharp teeth, then a second eye, a nose, and slowly Danny, King of the Infinite Rleams, forms in front of everyone's eyes.

The sweet smell of terror fills the air as Dani breathes it in.

Danny stares at the overshawed girl, eyes locked on Nabu who is resting just behind the layer of her skin, and glares. "You have brought harm upon my heir."

Nabu is too terrified to move, so Dani puts on a bigger show, letting tears roll down her face as she calls up, "He stole my friend too! He overshadowed her and won't give her back!"

Danny's face clouds with rage. "You have taken my heir's love. Release her."

Woah, hey now, no need to out Dani like that. Blushing, Dani ducks her head as Nabu quickly allows Zatanna to take off the helmet. Danny's large hand reaches towards the helmet, ripping out the spirit of Nabu, who wails in horror as the King drags him towards a portal. "You shall face trial for these actions."

"No! Mercy, your majestic, it was for the purpose of order!" The ghost cries, but his pleas fall on deaf ears as skeleton ghosts burst out of the portal, dragging the kicking and screaming ghost through. The portal slams closed with a loud crack, Nabu's screams echoing across the field.

Danny turns his large head towards the cowering group of mortals before the pointy-dark features of death melt away into a warm human face. It's a whiplash of change as the air shifts to comfort and personified sunshine when the King smiles. "Dani, I just wanted to let you know how proud I am you joined a hero team. Visit home a little more often and bring your friends."

"I will, Dad. Thanks." She beams back as Danny's large finger presses into her side, and his healing magic overflows her body. He does the same to all of her teammates and Justice League co-workers.

They are too petrified to move or thank him for the healing, but neither is Phantom Mind.

Danny nods, winks, and then vanishes like he was never there. Slowly, sound returns to the world- the leaves rustle in the wind, and animals begin to chirp.

"Well," Dani starts, climbing out of Conners's arms and dusting her outfit. "Who wants victory fudge?"

She gains a lot of round-eye looks, and when no one answers, she sighs, "I guess we can do victory pizza instead. But I demand one kind of sweet, or I'm going home to my father to complain."

[professorcalculusstanaccount]

An AU where Tintin is a crime lord, inspired by @jerseyhobby 's post here!

Detective Rastapopoulus is one of the most brilliant minds in his department. His talent has been long overlooked due to his status as an immigrant, but when a new teenage menace starts to stir up the streets, Rastapopoulus's knack for digging into the murky depths of the criminal underworld is called upon.

His target is only known by his alias, Tintin. At just seventeen he already has a few bank heists, smuggling operations and a chain of illegal clubs under his belt. He operates like a phantom, making himself hardly known. Those who have had business with him never recall him raising his voice, as he simply does not need to. Manners go a long way, and manners are an effective mask for the brutality required to maintain such an operation.

Few are confirmed to know him personally. He has his beloved dog, Snowy, who has a taste for expensive jewelry, and his right hand man, a pickpocket-turned jewel thief he met in Shanghai. Together they are unstoppable, nothing is outside their reach - and when the Karaboudjan, a large shipping vessel goes missing, along with its crew and captain, Rastapopoulus just knows they are involved. If only he can keep his temper and ego in check, he might just be able to finally put an end to Tintin's reign of chaos, and perhaps earn the recognition he so desperately craves.

I think an AU where Tintin uses his abilities for crime would be an interesting way to see how he's impacted people he's met, so for this take I have only inverted Tintin and Rastapopoulos - Haddock is still an honest man, but his vulnerability leaves him open to being manipulated. He becomes Tintin's equivalent to Allan Thompson, only this time motivated by fear for his life rather than money. Alcohol, threats and his rock-bottom self esteem keep him in line.

Calculus is scammed by Tintin for his inventions, leaving him feeling deeply betrayed as he is someone with strong morals. He vows revenge, his tunnel vision leading him down incredibly destructive paths. He was initially targeted by Tintin because he just seemed naive and easy to exploit, but Tintin severly underestimates him, despite Chang's warnings. Not only does Tintin have the law on his tail, but a mad scientist with nothing left to lose, who has access to devastating explosives.

Chang simply wants somewhere he belongs. Canonically he's stolen from cops before, so there's no doubt that if Tintin dragged him into crime he would follow along - but he may start to doubt if their bond is built more on what he can do for him rather than his value as a person.

Rastapopoulos this time gets to use his cunning to catch a slippery crime lord, but he still has the same shortcomings as his canon counterpart. He sorely craves attention and praise. He has a terrible short temper. He craves power and influence. He starts to use increasingly questionable methods for his investigation, as his higher ups breathe down his neck for being incapable of catching a couple of queer teenage hoodlums.

Tintin himself isn't motivated by money or power, he's looking for thrills and control over his life. Canonically he's rather emotionally shut off, and he's no different here. He doesn't let himself get too attached to anyone else. Unlike canon Rastapopoulos, I can imagine a crime lord Tintin pouring money and resources into communities in need, and opening up spaces for marginalised groups like bars for queer people. He still wants to do good deep down, but just doesn't quite believe he is a good person.

[notquitecanon]

Familiarity & Whiskey // Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Simon and Johnny get in a fight, which is how Simon crosses your path. Thinking your an easy mark for quick comfort and a quick fuck, he's not aware you're in the UK to meet your estranged father. Your circles running tighter with his than he thinks...

(Unedited)

Poor Simon can't catch a fucking break. Let this man nut and smoke a cigarette.

CW: feminine descriptions and pronouns used, alcohol consumption, making out, heavy petting, allusions to oral (male receiving), Simon's lowkey highkey manipulative, absent father!John Price, don't think too hard about age gaps i gave up

Request by: @i-live-in-spite

NSFW 18+ MDNI

"Go to hell, Riley. ‘S where ye fuckin’ belong." 

That had been Johnny’s direct words.

 Which was the first and only time Johnny had addressed by just his last name. Usually it was some irritating nickname, his callsign, or his rank delivered with the Scotsman’s usual bright eyes and mirth that somehow made it less annoying to Simon. And when it was his real name, in serious times, it was his first name, with a sincere look and genuine inflection. Never just ‘Riley’. 

But Johnny had spit his last name like it was a curse. Something that tasted bitter in his mouth, something poisonous. 

Hell, maybe it fucking was. And it had him craving something volatile- destructive. Alcohol, sex, a pack of cigarettes… and if he couldn’t get one of those to self-medicate this poisonous streak, he’d settle for bloodying his fists before the end of the night. 

A shit mission with a shit conclusion. A shit day. Fuck, a shit year.  Culminating in a clash between Lieutenant and Sergeant, Simon’s icy seething clashing Johnny’s explosive rage about a bad call made worse by Simon’s version of coping- cold indifference and colder jokes.  Actions had consequences, isn’t that what Simon always told his sergeant? Maybe that’s why Simon was stewing in the shitty pub close to base crawling with recruits after Gaz and Price had forcibly split up the confrontation right as it was about to get physical. 

Price had all but shoved him off base while Gaz took Soap somewhere to cool off- probably the gym or some equally shitty pub on opposite ends of the city. So there he was, sulking in a corner, nursing the only bourbon this bar offered, stewing over whether or not he needed to apologize.  

The thought of apologizing burned worse than the bottom shelf bourbon he was sipping. He was Ghost. The Ghost. He didn’t apologize. This was one of those times he would’ve actually appreciated Price’s usually unwarranted ’sage’ advice- but he was tied up, still on base and pissed off because he was trying to wrap up mission reports and now was cleaning up Simon’s mess. 

—

"Excuse me? Would it be ok if I sat here? I’m waiting for someone but the guys at the bar won’t leave me alone." You were biting your lip a little, trying your best not to look too awkward as you asked the tall, dark, and you assumed handsome but you couldn’t tell around the mask he was wearing. You felt nervous, but not to be talking to you, you were nervous for a laundry list of other reasons. Including and limited to meeting your father for the first time since you were barely three years old. 

When the pub had been suggested to you, you’d thought the closeness to his base was an advantage- casual, easy, public, nearby- what you hadn’t accounted for was the herds of young soldiers that would also be there.  Trying to buy yourself a drink to calm your nerves while you waited had resulted in four heinous pick up lines, three cocktail napkins with phone numbers scrawled on them, two vulgar gestures, and one marriage proposal. Like the 12 days of Christmas song, but from hell. The only place that wasn’t buzzing with sloshed young soldiers was a dark corner with an absolute behemoth of a masked man, two empties and a half drank tumbler of whiskey.  Despite (or perhaps because of) the nerves, jet lag, and shot of tequila you’d just took because of said nerves, you considered yourself something of a strategist. 

After you asked, narrowed amber eyes flicked up to you appraisingly, pinning you to your spot. Even slightly slouched over his drink, he was huge. Not just tall, but built like a brick house. He wasn’t wearing an actual military uniform, but everything about him just read military. He stared at you for a second, then a minutes, stretching into two. To your credit, you kept your chin high and your eyes level on his. Right as you started to say, "Never mind, sorry to bother-" 

" ’s fine." His voice was deep and kind of gravelly, low enough that his quiet tone was almost lost to the barroom chatter. His accent wasn’t one you’d heard before, a bit sharper and choppier than the accent John had on the phone. He scooted further into the booth, dragging his drink with him. As you turned back and slid into the corner booth, he scrutinized you again, like you were supposed to be familiar to him, "I know you?" 

"Doubt it." You smiled, a tight lipped but warm thing. You knew you didn’t know him considering this was the first time you’d set foot in this country. Not to mention you’d undoubtedly remember a character like this. So instead, you offered him your name and an outstretched hand. He nodded, neither returning the exchange or shaking your hand, just grunting to show he heard you. 

Still, he scanned you again. Simon was sure he’d never met you, but there was something about you that was eerily familiar. It was the feeling of someone’s name being on the tip of his tongue but slipping between thoughts before he could place it, or a song that as soon as he tried to think about it the melody slipped away. It wasn’t your physical features, as pretty of a bird as you were. That little smile, the way you carried yourself, the saunter in your walk, how your shoulder were held, the set of your jaw, you were young in the face but seemed older, the casual confidence so rare for someone your age… These were all things so familiar to him, but he couldn’t connect it to it’s match. Maybe it was the bourbon. 

"Y’not from ‘round here." He stated, and it wasn’t a question. Simon knew it as a fact. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why someone not from here would patronize a piss-poor pub like this, especially a bird like you- pretty and warm and put together. He rose an eyebrow that shifted the brow of his mask, "What brings you?" 

Blunt and to the point. Definitely military.  You leaned back against the booth, your finger tracing the glass rim of the wine glass you’d set down in front of you. White wine from a shit hole like this was one of the many clues that you didn’t belong here. 

"Meeting someone important." You answered vaguely with another one of those warm but tight smiles. Seriously, where did he know that from? "He’s late." 

"A date?" He pressed further with eyes that were somehow intense and disinterested at the same time. You couldn’t decide if his bluntness was a military quirk or social dysfunction, or possibly both. Of course he couldn’t know that this was the furthest thing from a date you could be doing tonight, which made you laugh, loudly and suddenly. The noise took Simon off guard, but not for it’s spontaneity or for how bright and beautiful it was , but because it tugged at that feeling a familiarity, bordering on nostalgia. 

"Oh, god no." You rushed, shaking your head and forming an X over your chest for good measure, still laughing a bit as you took a sip of wine. Still, you weren’t sure how you were supposed to describe John. "Not a date. I’m just meeting…. someone important." 

Simon doesn't know why this pleased him. Something about you being available and talking to him as opposed to the damnably flashy and obnoxious grunts wearing their dress uniforms to the pub on a fuckin’ Tuesday… Simon’s mouth quirked into a subtle smirk as he lifted his mask enough to take a sip of his bourbon, not missing how your too-familiar eyes followed the movement, intrigued and keen, “Who then?" 

"Nope, I’ve already answered, like, three questions. Your turn?" There was that casual confidence again as you turned the question on him with that little grin, legs cross under the table as your nails clicked against the sticky wood table, "What brings you here?" 

Simon’s expression under the mask soured again, eyes fixing on the lipstick stain on your wine glass. Pretty color… He wondered how it’d look smeared along his mouth. Or his cock. He shook that thought out of his head, bringing his eyes back to yours. Maybe it was the bourbon that loosened his tongue, or maybe those eyes of yours, “Got in a fight with a mate o’ mine. It was… suggested that we give each other some space.” 

‘Suggested' was nice was of saying Price manhandled him all the way to the guard station at the gate. Like a scolded dog being put outside. 

“So you’ve put yourself in the corner? Are you in timeout?” You quirked an eyebrow in another frustratingly familiar gesture, something that made him chuckle instead of bristle as you gestured to the dark corner he’d been lurking in. 

“Something like that.” He nodded, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

“What was the fight about?” You asked casually, taking another sip of your wine. Normally so private, Simon would’ve bitten a stranger’s head off for such a personal question. But coming from you, between his desire to keep your attention on him and the ever present nagging sense of familiarity, he just sighed. 

“Hard week pushed some buttons. We’ve both got tempers. Mine’s worse.” He explanation was simple, both from characteristic standoffishness and the fact the mission that had provoked this fight had taken place in a country the British Military was not supposed to be. Another deep sigh like the confession took something wrenching from him, “He puts up with me usually, but I… said somethings’ I shouldn’t’ve.”

You nodded sagely, taking in the rather vague information with eyes settled on the far wall as if you were doing mental math, quiet deductions. He recognized this look from somewhere, this was the look of someone looking for answers and solutions. Your fingers tapped against the table again before your eyes slid back to him, “So you were both assholes to each other, but you were worse?” 

“Yeah. That’s the gist of it.” Simon scoffed as you boiled down his already barebones explanation even further. You nodded again, looking at him quizzically. 

“Have you thought about just apologizing?” You rose an eyebrow at him, your head cocking a little to the side. The most obvious answer in the world that for some reason he couldn’t wrap his hand around. He opened his mouth to protest, but you were quicker, voice chiding in way he’d heard before- but from where?, “No, let me guess, it’s not that simple, you can’t just apologize.” 

For a moment you dropped your voice a little lower and attmepted a half imitation of his Mancunian accent which would’ve been offensive if it wasn’t exactly what he was about to say. You huffed a quiet lap before returning to your normal tone with a roll of your eyes, “Believe me, yes, it is that simple, and, yes, you can just apologize. And if you truly think it’s not something an apology would fix, let him get one good hit in and get it out of your systems. Problem solved.” 

“Get it out of our systems?” Simon asked a little incredulously, despite the sampling of a sharp wit and the occasional hard glint to your eyes, he hadn’t expected someone as soft looking as you to jump to punching as a serious form of conflict resolution. Hell, you sounded more like his Captain Price than some random pretty thing in a pub, “that’s terrible advice.” 

“You telling me you would’ve seriously taken my apologize and talk it out advice?” Your eyebrows raised again as you leaned forward on your elbows onto the table- another frustratingly familiar look that would’ve distracted him if your now exposed cleavage didn’t distract him further. He swallowed as he stared, feeling the growing need to get something out of his system, and his fight with Johnny was becoming less and less forefront in his mind. 

“Not a chance.” He shook his head, sniper eyes locking in on the drop of wine that escaped your glass and slid between your breasts, quickly disappearing between skin and under your shirt. He could find it with his tongue, bet your skin made the wine sweeter… 

“Yeah,” You laughed again, setting down the empty glass, finding this intriguing masked character to be a wonderful distraction from the anxiety of this upcoming meeting. And if John was running late, you’d take advantage of the distraction, “Figured as much.” 

___

An hour and another glass of wine later, you’d continued to scoot closer to the masked man in the booth with you. He was first to initiate contact, throwing an arm over your shoulders in the pretense of keeping you close enough to hear over the rowdy group cheering on a rugby game, it was you who had leaned into his side. His hand had found your thigh first, but your nails were tracing little shapes and words against his forearm. 

“Who was it you were meetin' 'ere, sweetheart?” Simon asked again, his mask still rolled over his nose again as he took another sip of his bourbon, lips grazing your earring as his breath fanned over your neck. He wondered how you would react if his teeth tugged one of the pretty little earrings you’d picked out. You were distracted noticing how his accent minced certain letters in syllables in a delectable way, “Only a fool’d keep you waitin’ this long.” 

Two glasses of wine and jet lag had done away with your need for vague answers as you leaned into him, shivering as the smell of bourbon, cigarettes, and gunpowder started to overpower your perfume. You swallowed, eyes meeting his with a bit of nervousness he hadn’t been able to pick up on you until just now, “I’m meeting my father. We’ve been estranged most of my life. And he’s an hour and forty five late now.” 

“Shit.” Simon muttered under his breath, not thinking you could’ve said anything that could really surprise him. Meeting your estranged father and yet you’d spent the last two hours coaching and comforting him through a fight with his friend. That level of self sacrifice should’ve clued him into your parentage almost immediately, but he was busy staring at how your wide eyes were staring up at him through your lashes, teeth toying with the seam of your lips that your tongue kept darting out to wet. 

“I’m a little nervous.” You admitted, the nail that was tracing shapes on his forearm dropped down to his massive thigh to brace yourself. If you leaned any closer, you’d be all but in his lap- which wouldn’t be the worse thing, both of you mentally decided. You took a deep breath, sipping some of the water you’d ordered midway through your third glass of wine,  "A lot nervous, actually.” 

One thing about Simon, was that as a sniper, he was opportunistic. When he saw a shot, he took it. And you just lined him up to test his theory on how long it’d take to convince you to slip into the pub bathrooms with him. 

His arm around your shoulder adjusted so he could gently brush some hair behind your ear, thumb purposely grazing your cheekbone before he tilted your face up to meet his, “Well, you know the best way to get over your nerves?” 

The sudden closeness stunned any witty retort to silence as you hummed for him to continue, swallowing thickly in a way that brought those keenly sharp eyes to watch the bob of your throat. He chuckled lowly to himself, so sweet and perfect, he was about to absolutely ruin you. But he wasn’t evil, he’d put you back together again… 

“Gotta… work... it outta your system. Just like you said, sweetheart.”  His other hand was kneading into your thigh through the pretty satin of your skirt, such a good girl, with a skirt below your knees, and he looked forward to shredding those tights underneath with nothing but his teeth and bare hands. But… he wondered if he could make you cum through them before he ruined them, and with the way you tensed and then melted at his touch, he was betting the answer was a firm yes. “Gonna let me help you like you’ve been helping me?”

You thought he sure had a funny way of equating this heavy petting to the teasing and mild comfort you’d offered about his fight with this ‘Soap’ guy, but you nodded anyway. All the pent-up anxiety made it an eager motion as he chuckled, leaning forward and catching your mouth, so possessive and borderline aggressive at your compliance. He was a bit of a bully, using his bulk and his weight so you would bend underneath him like he was testing how hard he had to press for you to break, and when you whined at the feeling of him biting your lip, he only swallowed your sounds and laughed into your mouth. 

Lips smearing your pretty makeup, one hand tangling your hair into his finger and the other fisting your skirt so it started hiking up your legs, and one of his boots nudging your ankles out of their polite cross so he could start prying your thighs apart.  God, you were making out (bordering on hooking up) with a nameless, masked man with anger issues while you waited to meet your estranged father for basically the first time… What had your life come to? 

Actually, the absent father bit explained the masked stranger bit if you thought about it for more than three seconds. 

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ve gotta be taking the absolute piss, Simon.” A sudden and angry voice, familiar to both of you sounded from the front of your secluded little booth. You jumped back away from your paramour. Simon, apparently was his name, while he only turned in frustrated confusion at his captain interrupted him blowing off steam, just as he’d been instructed when Price all but kicked him off base for the night. 

Your eyes went wide in absolute mortification, like you’d melt under the table and just die there. Standing there, watching you sloppily make out with someone he apparently knew, was your father. John Price. Who hadn’t seen you since you were three years old and compulsively carried around a Kermit the frog stuffie everywhere you went… He looked older compared to your hazy memories of him and the singular picture your mother hadn’t burned, and the interesting facial hair only made him look older. You suspected he was capable of looking warm and kind, your mother always said you got his soft eyes and smile, but right now he looked pissed.

“Price?” Simon questioned, yanking his mask back over his mouth to hide the smears of his lipstick, wondering if this temper had something to do with the mission or with his fight with the sergeant and if so, why it was urgent enough to interrupt him right now. He’d noted how you went rigid underneath him, batting his hand out of the balmy soft canyon between your spread thighs before they clamped shut again. Shit, that door was rapidly closing...

You spoke at the same time as Simon, your voice somewhere between hesitant questioning and caught teenager, “Dad?” 

“Dad?” Simon immediately parroted, his respect for his Captain superseding the whiskey and lust as he peeled himself off of you quickly doing mental math Olympics to figure out genetics and age gaps, “Bloody Hell, John-“ 

You shrieked, as Simon didn’t get a chance to justify himself or even ask, how was I supposed to know the bird I was trying to fuck was your kid you’ve never told anyone about? Because your father’s face went red instantly, jumping across the booth and landing a scarily hard punch across Simon’s face, spilling wine and whiskey all over you in the process. 

So it was going to be a bloody knuckles kind of night, after all. 

____

Sorry I kinda changed up your request a little bit, I started writing and it kinda got away from me. I'm a slave to the little worm in my brain.

[fanged-fanfics]

Could I request Burning Spice Cookie with a Beast! Mother Nature!reader, mainly based around nature, who’s very calm and collected, but also larger than him? They can also grow plants for funsies hehe (Hope ur having a good day!!)

☆ Burning Sage — Burning Spice Cookie x Beast!GN Reader HCs ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Burning Spice was known for many things, his cruelty and impulsive nature being the most memorable. He was the Beast of Destruction after all, scorching ground was his name brand

ᯓᡣ𐭩 When he met you, it felt like a blanket being thrown over a flame. He could've easily ignited, and burned everything smothering him. But you made it all feel... different. It wasn't a suffocating block in his path, rather the opposite

ᯓᡣ𐭩 It was this exact feeling that made Burning Spice feel against you at first. It was pretty funny actually, watching the Beast act like every act of kindness you gave was some declaration against his nature

ᯓᡣ𐭩 At some point, though he can't pinpoint how, he managed to end up sitting to talk with you. Something about your much calmer nature was inviting, and he suddenly felt self conscious among all this fragile flora

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You showed him the nature of what was around him, the way you could make plants grow and see them flourish. Burning Spice seemed utterly bored by the idea, until you'd shown him the other side of nature

ᯓᡣ𐭩 It's neither initially good or bad, but you introduced to him the dark side of it. Carnivorous plants, vines that snare, thorns and all kinds of poison barbs. But just because they weren't as pretty, didn't mean said plants didn't need love too

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Burning Spice gave a scoff as his impulse reaction, noting that telling a story with a bunch of petals seemed pretty useless to him. You cupped his hands in yours, putting some soil in his palms. You grew a flower from the dirt, and Burning Spice watched it grow in his hold

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Maybe it didn't make sense now, but he'd understand with time that there could be peace in the mundane. Maybe he just needed to make comfort with what he had. Burning Spice grumbled, but reluctantly met your eyes as his gaze softened. He sat next to you, looking over the flytraps surrounding him. This wasn't so bad, he supposed.. but he wouldn't mention that, not yet

[bella-goths-wife]

What is the nicest thing the Bowers gang has done to ballerina reader?

The nicest things yandere bowers gang have done for ballerina reader

Warnings: physical abuse, mental abuse, verbal abuse, manipulation, violence, sexual abuse, mental illness (unspecified), stick and poke tattooing, pregnancy mentions, self harm, eating disorders

I do not In any way intend to glamourise or romanticise any of the themes mentioned. I write about them purely for entertainment and educational purposes. Please do not see these actions as normalised and seek to replicate the actions or relationships

Henry:

Henry does care about you, in his own sick and twisted way

But he does care about you and in his own way he does love you

He lets it show in the rarest of ways, and only on special occasions

And while he’s an abusive and selfish bastard, he’s also observant to a T

He notices small things about you that he’d never repeat to anyone that he noticed

He notices what your favourite flavour of something is or what your favourite song is when he looks in your eyes and notices them dilate

He may be the one who knows you the most because of how insnared he is in your life

And he will always notice when something is wrong with you, except from the usual reasons

You’re spending longer hours at the ballet studio, even when he warns you and punished you multiple times for it

But you even offered for them to come with you to the ballet studio and watch you if that’s they needed to do

You allowed them into your sanctuary, something you had fought against so vehemently before

You claimed that you had to keep going, that you had to be perfect

Henry assumed that you’d just gone into one of your moods, so he humoured you and spent time in the ballet studio with you instead of forcing you home

He watched as you forced yourself through dances, he watched you sweat and pant and work through your part so aggressively that you were coming off as more of a mad queen then a graceful swan

He watched in curiosity as your feet bled, your legs twisted, your back contorted and your bones creaked like an old cellar door

Blood leaked out of your ballet shoes and caused droplets to gather on the floor beneath you as you pirouetted through the pain

Henry decided it was time to call it quits when he called to you but you ignored him, something you never did as you continue to dance even after he turned off the music

Henry called again and again before walking towards you and grabbing your arms firmly but you fought back desperately, surprising Henry with the wild look in your eyes

Your usually dead eyes and crushed spirit were alive but not in a way that signified life but in a way that showed forced reincarnation

Henry shook you and demanded you to stop but you just screamed and cried that you couldn’t

You hysterically ranted that you had to be perfect, you had to be better than everyone, you had to be the best

You cried over how a girl who had recently moved to Derry had outshined you in your classes, it didn’t matter in your head that she was years older than you, you had always been the best and you can’t be replaced

Ballet was the only thing you had control over, the only thing you held power in by being the best there is, the only escape from the torment of the bowers gang and their cruel antics

And someone had taken over your sanctuary

Henry, confused on how to comfort you, just held you until you had cried yourself into exhaustion

He took you to your home and cared for the wounds on your body as you laid there half asleep, just like you had done for him so many times

He left you to sleep as he thought about what to do next

He couldn’t have you continuing on this path, you’d self destruct before he’d even have a chance for his plans of marrying you and popping out kids

He couldn’t have a mad woman for a wife, he needed his pretty little ballerina back to dance when he turned the music box key

He stalked the girl you had talked about for a few days before finding a good opportunity

He decided it was time to call the other boys, knowing he’d need their help

He ambushed her dressed in a black Halloween mask before tying her to a tree

He grabbed a sledgehammer from belch’s care and brought it down harshly on the girls ankles and knees, ensuring she’d never dance again

He left the girl tied up and he and the bowers gang decided that whatever happens to the girl happens, none of them would lose sleep over it

That night he crawled into your bed with your asleep figure, moving your head to lay on his chest as he caressed your face with a gentleness that was foreign to him

He decided he wouldn’t tell you when he noticed how your spirit had improved since the girl had stopped dancing, knowing the information would only make you believe in silly notions of guilt

And he didn’t want you to get the wrong idea, he did it for himself and not for you

That’s what he told himself anyway

Vic criss:

Vic had punished you pretty badly one time, he had given you burns up your thigh that had sent you to the doctor for pain killers

This small ‘hiccup’ has made it so you couldn’t dance for two weeks, a prospect that made you sob in the hospital bed and refuse to eat for two days

And that’s when vic noticed that he had unfairly punished, he assumed you had snuck out alone but Patrick later revealed that he had taken you out for the night

That realisation had filled vic with an unfamiliar sense of guilt and remorse as he looked at your sunken in features and the bandages around your thigh

He volunteered to be the one to take care of you after the doctor visit, knowing being on the pain medication would leave you out of it most of the time

He helped you bathe, forced you to eat and drink, helped you change bandages and entertained you with a unique gentleness you hadn’t felt in a while

But even that didn’t stop the constant worried looks you’d give him, wouldn’t stop the fear that you held for him

He wasn’t used to being the most feared, that spot usually reserved for Henry or Patrick, he was used to being one of the ‘better’ ones who you’d reach to to avoid spending time with the ‘worse’ ones

He begged your drugged up state for forgiveness and the state had made you honest as you spewed venom about him never feeling the pain he inflicted on you

That gave victor an idea

He sat you down in your medicated state down beside him one day and showed you his tools

He had confided in you that he had a fear of needles ever since he was a child, but that he wanted to repay you for the pain he caused

He wanted you to stick and poke a tattoo of your choosing onto his shoulder, and he would sit still, endure the pain and never tell the others who had done it to ensure you never received a punishment

Your drugged up mind didn’t even hesitate at a chance to hurt your abuser, picking up the tools you needed

Five long hours victor sat still as a statue and endured his fear and pain while you worked on his shoulder before you finally finished

You had passed out pretty much instantly as you laid back on the couch and victor didn’t have time to look at his newest tattoo before shoving his shirt on and helping you to bed

Part of him even secretly hoped it would become infected so he could show you how much pain he’d endure for your forgiveness

Once you were in bed, victor removed his shirt and readied himself for whatever was on his body forever

He expected something crude or something humiliation but to his surprise he found when he lifted his shirt, a small swan

A darkened thought entered his mind at the sight of it

You had marked him just like he’d marked you

The dark part of Victor liked that

Patrick hockstetter:

Patrick loved your body

Well, loved is a loose term when it comes to a psychopath

A more suitable description would be that your body sexually satisfied Patrick greatly

You had the perfect figure in Patrick’s eyes

And when that figure started changing, it upset Patrick greatly

One of the workers at the ballet studio had made a few crude comments on your figure, and that had sent you into a frenzy

It was a pattern you had followed since you were small, someone makes a comment and your do anything in your power to make it untrue

Someone claims your too big, you’ll do anything to show them your not

Your methods however were extreme to a worrying extent

You wouldn’t eat for days and when you did youd throw it all up or use laxatives to make sure you couldn’t gain anything from it

It had caused extreme changes to your body, your once healthy figure had become malnourished

A change that Patrick did not like, finding you much less attractive

As I’ve stated multiple times, Patrick’s obsession is rooted to his sexual attraction to you and it angers him greatly when someone changes you

You were his plaything and if you weren’t pretty anymore, well that just looks bad for him

He sat with you every mealtime for weeks and forced the food down your throat but he recognised he could only do so much, the minute he stopped youd go back to your destructive ways

So Patrick decided that he’d get rid of the root of the problem

Disposing of a body was easy to him and the others by now, digging a shallow grave in the junkyard for the nameless worker of the ballet studio who had insulted you

Without the insults present you eventually started to eat properly again with ‘encouragement’ from the boys and slowly you gained your figure back

This pleased Patrick greatly and he made sure to make you repay him for his act of kindness, despite never telling you what you were repaying him for

Even Patrick’s acts of kindness revolved because of his selfish desires

What did you expect?

Belch Huggins:

Belch had always been the sweetest to you, always treating you gently unless commanded otherwise

That’s why you had felt comfortable enough to confide in him that you had done something very bad

You had hurt someone, very badly

A girl from your school who had harassed you daily whenever the boys weren’t around you

She had followed you on your trek down to the lake, calling you all sorts of names and pushing you around

As if you didn’t face enough abuse in your life, she added to it with her cruelty and something snapped in you

She had gotten in your face, eerily similar to how Henry had many times

When she had gone to grab you, it brought back memories of Henry’s abuse and fear filled your body

In an act of fight or flight, you had given her a firm push

She had fallen down the hill and hit her head on a rock, laying unconscious as you stared in horror

You had called belch in a frenzy, rambling on about what you had done and how much trouble it would get you in, there’s no one who would let a criminal be a ballerina

Belch drove to you immediately and held you once he saw you, listening to your explanation of what happened

He checked the girls pulse and found out she was still alive, and in that moment he made a decision

He couldn’t have you going away, his little ballerina who had such high hopes for her future wouldn’t survive in a juvenile facility, they’d eat you alive without a second thought

Him on the other hand? He was built to survive with his large build and strength, and who would the police believe is more likely to have committed a crime

A pretty little ballerina with no previous record, or the big brute with many accusations and charged on his record?

He commanded you to go home and gave you a final kiss on the forehead before sending you off

He ran to the pay phone and called for an ambulance who took the girl off to hospital, and when the police questioned him on who did it he admitted false guilt to spare you the blame

The girl had a slight concussion and her memory of the crime was distorted, so she couldn’t deny his presence which was enough for him to be arrested

His father found him a good lawyer with his copious amount of money and the lawyer managed to get belch away with only three month of juvie and six months probation

He went down for your crimes and he did it happily

When the other boys asked him why he did it, he simply told them that the girl had pushed him too far and shot you a look

He came out of juvie just fine and fit into his routine quite happily when he saw you at his side again

He never told anyone about what really happened, not even the others

He knew they would blame you for his temporary imprisonment but why should they? You were his goddess, why shouldn’t he make sure no one could besmirch your name and defend your honour

He kept your secret happily as he held you close to him in your bed

What’s one more secret between him and his goddess?

Thoughts? :)

[dawngyu]

THE ARCHIVE

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

warnings: reader discretion is advised. neuro-science fiction au, set in the year 2125, romance, angst, psychological drama, character!death, depression!, anxiety!, stages of grief, flashbacks, self-destructive!reader, self!harm, accidents, everything written is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything.

wc: 13k — playlist.

notes: inspired by parts of ariana’s we can’t be friends music video aka eternal sunshine of the spotless mind... concept is there, but the plot itself will take a different path. oh, and buckle up.

a big thank you to my beta reader.

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer?

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. He always wakes you up like this—unhurried, endlessly affectionate. And no matter how much you loathe early mornings, he somehow makes them worth waking up for.

Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck.

"It's too early for your silly jokes, Soobin," you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. His warmth is familiar, comforting. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

"Okay," you whisper back, not quite awake but not quite asleep either.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

He exhales a quiet laugh, shifting beside you, and when you finally lift your head, his face is already turned toward you, bathed in the gentle glow of morning. His dimples appear with a smile—one he always saves for you, like tiny craters in the universe of his face. You reach out, pressing a finger into the tiny hollow of his cheek, and his grin only widens.

How does he never grow tired of looking at you like this?

"Come on, let’s eat, yeah?" he coaxes, pinching your cheeks.

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you.

"I love you," you whisper.

His fingers brush your cheek, his smile turning impossibly fonder.

"I love you more."

He somehow managed to pull you out of bed, though not without a few sleepy complaints. You lazily threw your hair into a ponytail—an attempt at looking somewhat awake. The moment he caught sight of it, though, laughter spilled from his lips, his dimples deepening with amusement.

“What is this?” he teased, reaching out to play with the loose strands. "A masterpiece of chaos?"

"It's ugly, isn't it?" You pouted, lips jutting out just enough to make his teasing falter. Panic flashed across his face before he quickly cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he pressed frantic kisses all over.

“No. You’re beautiful,” he murmured between each kiss. “Always beautiful.”

You let him win that small battle, if only because the warmth of his touch made surrendering easy.

It's always easy with him.

"Put some butter and milk in it," Soobin says, watching you whisk eggs in a bowl. He’s perched at the kitchen table, chin resting in his hand, his gaze fixed on you as you move around the kitchen. The pancakes on the stove have just started to sizzle.

"You like them better that way," he adds.

"Oh, right!" You laugh, hurrying to grab the missing ingredients from the fridge. You mix them in just the way he likes, and when the pancakes are golden and ready, you set the plates down in front of both of you, fetching the utensils.

"Thank you, love," he hums, cutting into his pancake as you take your first bite. A satisfied groan leaves your lips as the warmth of the food soothes your hunger.

"Nothing beats pancakes for breakfast," you sigh. "You and your obsession with them."

He chuckles, watching you with amusement, his elbow propped on the table and his chin resting in his palm. "Good job, chef."

You roll your eyes, dramatically bowing. "You're welcome."

He grins before his expression softens. "You have plans later, right? Be careful out there, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

Before he can finish, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the moment.

"I’ll get it," you say, pushing your chair back.

He nods at you with a smile, watching as you disappear toward the door.

You step toward the door of your apartment, fingers curling around the handle before pulling it open.

"Wonyoung, good morning!" you greet with a soft smile, but the way her eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—doesn’t go unnoticed. She hides it quickly, clearing her throat as she shifts the bags in her hands.

"Morning," she says, stepping inside, her gaze immediately scanning you.

Her gaze sweeps over you, taking in the messy hair, the oversized shirt that’s swallowed you whole—the same one she saw you wearing last time. The deep shadows under your eyes, the pale exhaustion etched into your skin.

"Are you okay?" she asks, careful, cautious.

"Yeah, I am," you answer without hesitation, as if saying it fast enough will make it true. You turn to grab the house slippers meant for her, but your fingers hesitate when you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door.

He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold.

Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us."

Silence.

Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words.

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

The bags slip from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as she strides toward you. Before you can react, her arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight. The force of it makes you stumble slightly, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is desperate, as if she’s holding onto something fragile, something already breaking.

You feel her take a deep, shaking breath before she whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Y/N… Soobin’s been gone for two years now."

Panic grips you as your breath catches in your throat. Your head snaps toward the table—the very spot where you left him—only to find it empty—a plate of untouched food, sitting there like a ghost.

Everyone in the world fears something—even those who swear they don’t. And at the core of it all, there’s death. It is inevitable and final. It’s like spending years studying, only to fail every job interview. Like working yourself to the bone for months, only to walk away empty-handed. Like pouring your heart into a meal, only to take a bite and realise it tastes terrible.

But for you, fear isn’t just about endings. It isn’t just about pain. What haunts you more than death itself is the thought of being forgotten—or worse, forgetting.

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe.

For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone.

"Y/N."

You look up from the table, your fingers stiff against the wood. Your mom's eyes are swollen, glassy with unshed tears, rimmed red from exhaustion. She looks at you with so much pity it makes your stomach churn. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I am, Mom."

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "I said we should go back to Dr. Park for another check-up. And maybe… maybe we should finally consider what she’s been recommending—"

"No." Your voice is firm, cutting through the air. "It’s just a waste of money—"

"That’s why I’m working two jobs, dear." Her voice shakes as she reaches for your hands. You flinch, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is warm, trembling.

"You’ve been hallucinating again." She swallows hard. "I thought time would make it better. I really did." Her breath hitches. "But it’s been two years now. Your dad... he’s sick. He can't even get up on the bed, and—"

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am."

"Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son."

You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her.

"It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you."

The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts.

"But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?"

The chair screeches against the floor as you stand abruptly. Your mother flinches at the sound. You turn to leave, but her voice stops you just before you step away.

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?"

You bite your lip as you step out of your parents' house. Wonyoung had dropped you off earlier, she didn’t trust leaving you alone. No one does anymore. Everywhere you go, people watch you with that same look—pity, like you’re a glass figure they’re waiting to see shatter.

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

Your chest tightens as tears prick the corners of your eyes, blurring the edges of the world. A hiccup escapes, sharp and unexpected, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as if that might keep everything else from spilling out. You fumble with the car door, your fingers trembling against the handle. It’s only been three months since you managed to get behind the wheel again, but even now, the familiarity of it feels like a fragile lifeline—something that says I’m still here. I’m still trying.

Two years. Two years since his funeral. Two years since you last stepped into your office. Two years of nights that felt endless, of mornings that felt pointless. Two years of watching the people around you crumble under the weight of your grief, their hearts breaking because yours refuses to heal.

And for two years, the doctors have been whispering the same thing, their voices clinical, detached.

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

Your knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as you pull out of the driveway, heart pounding harder than the engine. Every turn, every streetlight, every crack in the pavement feels like it carries his shadow. But there’s only one place where it feels bearable—one place where you can almost convince yourself he’s still there.

Choi Yeonjun’s eyes swept across your face, taking in the tear-streaked cheeks, the vacant gaze, the way you trembled just standing there. He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and pushed the door open a little wider. You walked past him, your steps sure, like you were following an invisible thread pulling you toward the one place you needed.

"Do you need anything?" You shook your head. Because what you need isn't here anymore.

And then you slipped inside. His room.

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real.

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob.

This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend.

Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone.

But pretending could only take you so far.

You never found the strength to open the door again. You curled into yourself, gripping the blanket like it could hold you together. And when sleep finally came, it was with his name spilling from your lips.

A name that no longer had a future.

The knocking pulled you from the depths of sleep, insistent. You groaned, the sound barely more than a rasp, your throat raw from last night’s tears. Your eyelids felt swollen, heavy, reluctant to open. "Yeah?"

"It's afternoon," Yeonjun said through the door. His tone was careful, but you could hear the quiet concern woven between the words. "You’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours."

Shit.

You knew that wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about you had been normal for a long time. Some nights, sleep was a stranger you couldn’t reach no matter how exhausted you were. Other days, it swallowed you whole, dragging you under until the hours blurred into nothingness. Staying in bed felt easier.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, "I'll come out in a minute."

Yeonjun hesitated. You knew he wanted to say something—to tell you that you didn’t have to apologize, that he understood, that he wasn’t judging you. But in the end, he just sighed. "Okay."

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

With a heavy heart, you forced yourself to move, peeling the blanket away like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every part of you ached—not just physically, but in a way that settled deep into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of you that you barely recognized. Hollow eyes, a face drawn thin by grief, lips pressed into something that was neither a frown nor a smile—just existence. Surviving.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face, letting the chill bite into your skin. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as you sucked in a breath.

And then you saw them. On the shelf behind you; Soobin’s shelf.

Your hairbands.

The sight of them made you waver. Because it was proof, wasn’t it? Proof that once, you had a place here. That once, he was here to tease you about leaving them everywhere, to slip them onto his own wrist absentmindedly, to hand them back to you with a laugh.

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

Soobin's voice was soft and teasing as he pressed lazy kisses along your cheek, your temple, anywhere he could reach. You tried to ignore him, focused on brushing your teeth, but he never made it easy. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over your stomach. He always did that—always found some excuse to touch you.

"So," he murmured, grinning against your jaw as he pressed your cheeks to his. "I bought a whole stack of them."

You paused, raising an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. "A whole stack?"

"Mhm." His fingers tightened slightly, possessive. "So now you have one less excuse to leave—and one more reason to come back."

Your hairbands. Like you, were waiting for someone who was never coming back. You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it. Then you heard knocking again. "Yeonjun. I said I’ll be out in a minute."

A pause. Then, softer this time—

"It’s been an hour since you last said that. Are you okay?"

You exhale, the breath shaky, uneven. Time has slipped through your fingers again, and you hadn’t even noticed. But that’s nothing new.

It happens more often than not.

You sit with a book in your lap, determined to do what they say might help—immerse yourself in another world, let fiction be a temporary escape. But you blink, and somehow hours have passed, and you’re still stuck on the same page, the words forgotten.

You eat lunch, fork moving mechanically between your plate and your mouth, only to glance outside and realize the sky has darkened, the day gone without your permission.

You tell yourself you’ll go out, that today, you’ll meet Wonyoung like you promised. You put on your shoes, even grab your coat. But then the door never opens. And before you know it, she’s the one standing there, knocking, asking why you didn’t come—why you never showed up.

You know it’s getting worse. And the worst part? You don’t know how to stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

Because it means moving on.

Moving on has always felt like erasing him. Like accepting a world where Soobin is nothing more than a memory—left behind.

And the thought that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday—everyone, even you, will stop mourning him?

That terrifies you more than anything.

You eat slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last. Yeonjun had made you bacon and eggs—simple, warm, something that should’ve felt like comfort. But the food is cold now, left waiting for you just like he was. He eats in silence, but you feel it—his eyes keep flickering toward your wrist, checking. He doesn’t say anything.

It yanks you straight back to those first few months after Soobin’s death.

"Y/N?" Yeonjun’s face is sharp with concern as he pushes open the door. He had knocked—once, twice—but you hadn’t answered. That alone was enough to send his heart into a spiral.

"I brought you some food—" His words cut off the moment his eyes land on you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward, your body eerily still. But then he sees it—your wrist, the red staining your fingers, spilling onto the white sheets like ink bleeding through paper.

His breath catches. And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“What are you doing?!” He shouts—not out of anger, not at you—but because he’s terrified.

It scares him. God, it scares him. What would his best friend say?

"I—I don’t know," you sob, voice wrecked. Your body trembles under his hold, and the words spill out between uneven breaths. You just saw it and you couldn't stop yourself. "I don’t know what to do anymore."

Yeonjun clenches his jaw, his own tears burning behind his eyes. "You must not do this," He’s trying to be strong for you, but his hands betray him, quivering as they hold onto you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away completely. Because you might. Because you want to. "Please, Y/N. Please."

You were so beautiful in Soobin’s love, and now it clings to you like a disease.

"I know it’s hard," he chokes out, pulling you into his arms. "Fuck, I know. But think of his face." He pleads. "Whenever you see your wrist, whenever you look at your skin—think of him. Do you ever want to hurt him?"

"Jjunie." Yeonjun's eyes lift to meet yours. "You don’t have to keep looking at my wrists anymore,"

A breath leaves him, slow and measured, as if he’s been waiting to hear that. He tries for a smile, small. "It worked like a miracle, didn’t it?"

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "He always is." The smile that flickers across your lips feels foreign, like something borrowed from a version of yourself that no longer exists.

"My dad…" you hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. "I—I need to go back to work."

Yeonjun watches you carefully, as if afraid you’ll change your mind. He nods. "It’s only about time, Y/N."

Silence stretches between you before he speaks again, voice careful, "Are you considering the treatment?"

You don’t answer.

Yeonjun didn’t kick you out. He never would.

In the afternoon, the two of you sat on the couch—long enough to fit three, but only occupied by two. And yet, without thinking, without speaking, you both left a space between you. A space for him.

Infinity War played on the screen, a movie you’d both seen more times than you could count. It was muscle memory at this point—the dialogue, the fight scenes, the inevitable heartbreak.

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby."

Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily."

You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser."

Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick.

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

"It's time for you to move on," Yeonjun says, his voice steady but careful. "You tried going back to work, but you can’t. You should be out there, living your life."

A fresh wave of grief crashes over you. "It feels like I'm betraying him, Jun." Your voice breaks, and before you know it, you're fully sobbing, the weight of it pressing down on your chest like it might crush you.

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes.

"But if you're worried about him—about who will take care of his… grave," Yeonjun hesitates as if the word itself could break you. "I promise, I’ll do that. His family will, too. He won’t be forgotten, Y/N. Ever." You hate it. Hate that he’s making sense. Hate that every word he says feels like it's prying you away from Soobin, piece by piece.

"Your father, your mother, your siblings... they need you back," he presses on, his voice gentler now. "And you… you need to go on with your life. That treatment, it’s the only thing that can help you now."

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go."

Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone."

And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living."

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand.

Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you.

Even if he has a family of his own one day. Even if his hair turns grey, and his legs grow too weak to stand. Even then, he will still go. And he’ll pass that promise down to his children, to his grandchildren, so that Soobin’s name is never forgotten.

But if he lets you waste away like this, there will be no future to carry on. And the guilt would eat him alive because Yeonjun knows—more than anyone—what Soobin would have wanted.

It’s cruel, cruel that he had to pull the names of your family into this, had to remind you of the people who are still waiting for you to come home. But it’s the truth. And if you can’t find the strength to fight for yourself, then at least let them be the reason you try.

You step out of the car, your breath hitching as your eyes sweep over the familiar neighbourhood—the one you used to visit so often, the one that once felt like a second home. Now, after two years, it feels like stepping into a past life.

"Y/N!"

You barely have time to react before Soobin’s older sister is pulling you into her arms, her laugh warm, her embrace familiar. It nearly unravels you.

"I missed you," she murmurs.

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I missed you too, unnie."

And then your eyes land on the small boy in her arms—the baby who was just two the last time you saw him. Now four, grown but still soft with childhood. His wobbly cheeks, the way his dimples deepen when he shifts shyly under your gaze—

It’s too much.

"Hi," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he replies, eyes wide, cheeks flushing as he clings closer to his mother.

You look away. Because he looks too much like him. Because for a second, your mind plays cruel tricks, and you almost convince yourself that if you just turn your head, Soobin will be right there, smiling at you like he used to.

But he's not. He never will be.

"Come inside," his sister says gently, as if she understands the storm inside you. "Mom knows you’re here." And you nod, forcing your feet to move, even as your heart screams for you to turn back.

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too.

In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you.

Except for his sister.

She leads you inside, her expression unreadable as she gestures toward the dining table.

And there she is. The woman you once called mother.

"Mother," you bow, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

She doesn’t even turn to look at you. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" Her voice is clipped, distant. "And why are you here?"

You swallow, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. "Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you."

Finally, she rises from her chair, her gaze locking onto yours. And it is nothing like before. It is cold. Empty. Unforgiving.

“Get out, Y/N,” she says, her voice devoid of warmth. “Don’t come here anymore.” Your chest tightens. You don’t even realize your hands have started shaking.

"Mom, don't be like this," Soobin's sister cuts in, her voice soft but firm.

And for just a moment—a brief, moment—you see it. The way her lips press together. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes, for just a second, glisten as though they, too, are on the verge of breaking. She blinks the tears away before they can fall, turning away from you, like it’s the only way she can keep standing. She walks away without any second glance.

“I’m sorry,” Soobin’s sister whispers.

You force yourself to smile, though it trembles on your lips. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just… I just really need to talk to her.”

You spent the hour with Soobin’s sister, unraveling everything you had kept inside. Every dark thought, every ounce of guilt, every desperate attempt to hold onto him. And she listened. She held your hand, pulled you into her arms.

But time moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

You check the clock, exhaling. “I’m going to try talking to her again. I have plans after this, too.” She doesn’t stop you. But the way she squeezes your hand before letting go, it’s as if she knows how much this is going to hurt.

As you walk through the house, memories seep into every corner. His presence is everywhere. The framed pictures lined the walls, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It’s overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, forcing you to press a hand to your chest just to steady yourself.

You don’t belong here anymore. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

The kitchen light is on. The soft rhythm of a knife against the cutting board fills the silence.

She’s there.

Soobin’s mother stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with practised precision. You swallow, stepping forward, trying to find your voice. She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

"Mom, I missed you." Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and for a moment, her hands still. The steady chopping ceases, but she doesn’t turn. She keeps her back to you, her shoulders rising and falling with each controlled breath. "I came here because… I wanted to let you know that I think it’s time. I’m going to get the treatment."

Your own arms wrap around yourself, as if bracing against the cold creeping into your bones. "It will alter my memory. There’s big a chance I’ll forget you, too."

The words shatter something inside you. "But I wanted to say it—just one last time. Thank you. For everything. For giving birth to Soobin. For raising him into someone who could love me so deeply, who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I belonged here. Thank you for accepting me, for loving me. And I love you. I always will. I just… I just hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do."

At your last words, she turns. And for the first time in a year, you see it—the grief she’s buried, the pain she’s carried alone. Her eyes, red and wet, spill over as she closes the space between you, pulling you into her arms.

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be.

Her hands run soothingly over your back, her voice breaking. "My daughter… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through this."

She clutches you tighter. "I thought… if I pushed you away, if I kept my distance, maybe you’d find a way to stand on your own. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe it would force you to move forward. Maybe it would break whatever was keeping you trapped in the past. It felt like it was my fault you couldn’t move on. Our fault. That the love my son left behind has been anchoring you instead of lifting you. And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going."

You shake your head against her shoulder, your grip on her tightening. "I understand. I do. I just—" Your breath hitches. "I’m scared. I’m scared to forget him."

She exhales shakily, her lips pressing against your hair. "Forgetting… it’s easier than suffering for the rest of your life." Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing the tears away even as her own continue to fall.

"You won’t lose him. Not really. Whatever Soobin left in this world, it’s you." Your breath shudders as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I want you to live, sweetheart. To build a life that he would be proud of. A new one, filled with love, with hope. And maybe, one day, we’ll meet again—whether you remember me or not. And even then, I will love you. Always. Just like he did."

It was a hard goodbye—one that clung to your skin like the scent of home you’d never return to. Their arms around you had been warm, their voices soft, their smiles trembling. And as you drove away, watching Soobin’s family grow smaller in the rearview mirror, you forced yourself to smile, to wave back.

But the moment they faded from sight, the mask crumbled.

Your hands tightened around the wheel as your breath hitched, but it was useless. You pulled over, burying your face in your palms, sobs wracking your body.

You knew you would never see them again.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you wiped your tears with shaking fingers, swallowing against the grief clawing at your throat. You couldn’t fall apart now. Not yet.

Because there was still one more goodbye to say.One more person waiting for you. One who had left but never truly rested. Because for two years, you hadn’t found the courage to let go.

To free him.

You don’t know how you managed to bring yourself here. Your legs felt heavy the whole way, like they knew what your heart refused to accept—that every step forward was another step closer to goodbye.

The grave is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Someone else had been here. Someone else still comes. And for a moment, a tiny splinter of relief wedges itself into your grief. He’s being cared for, even without you.

You stand there, your throat tightening, your lips parting—then closing again. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside you, tangled between the memories and the pain. What do you even say? How do you speak when just looking at his name carved into stone is enough to make your chest cave in? How do you even start? What do you say to someone who can’t answer back?

And then your eyes fall to the base of the headstone. White roses. Fresh. Untouched.

Your breath stumbles.

White roses—his favourite. The same ones he gave you that night, trembling fingers offering a bouquet, his eyes filled with so much hope. Now, they sit beside his grave, a brutal echo of the past.

And you wonder—when did forever become something so short?

You swallow hard. "Hey," you whisper. Just one word, and already, you feel yourself crying. "Are you somewhere nice?"

"I really… I really hope you are," your voice trembles, your vision blurring. "God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me."

The confession spills out before you can stop it, "You left me here alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Because you were my world, and our plans—" Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "No. No, Soobin. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

Your knees buckle, and you let them. You fold into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as the sobs finally come, wrenching their way out of you. "I’m weak," you choke out. "I’ve been nothing but weak without you."

Time slips away. You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling, letting everything have its way with you. At some point, people come and go, visiting the graves nearby. They stay for a while, whispering prayers, placing flowers, saying their goodbyes. And then, one by one, they leave.

But you don’t.

Because you know—this is the last time you’ll ever be here.

What does it truly mean to forget?

Is it letting go of the bad memories, even if it means losing the lessons they left behind? Erasing the trauma, even if it forged the strength that kept you standing? Wiping away the heartbreak, even if it unmade the love that once felt endless? If forgetting means unravelling the version of yourself shaped by every moment... then is it really freedom? Or is it just another kind of loss?

And if you don’t forget—who carries the weight of those memories with you? The nights spent in quiet conversation, the laughter that once echoed in familiar streets, the warmth of his hand in yours. Does one painful ending justify the erasure of everything that came before?

It doesn’t. Because memories do not vanish. They are not erased like ink wiped clean from a page.

The streets still remember the way you walked together. The wind still hums with the echoes of his voice. The people who once saw your love still hold its remnants, even in passing glances. And perhaps, this is the only way to keep it beautiful. Your memories, deserve to be left as they are. You should not taint it any further.

"I decided to do it," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the wind. "I’m finally doing it, love. It took me so long, but… I will."

"I don't want you to think that I'll forget you. Because you're my life." A shaky breath escapes your lips, your fingers tracing the edge of cold stone as if it were his hand, warm and real, just one last time. "But you don’t have to worry about me anymore," you murmur. "You can rest now."

Your eyes lift, meeting the name carved into eternity—Choi Soobin. A tear slips down your cheek, catching on your lips as you whisper, broken and raw—

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

Sorry that it took this long. Sorry that you held on when you should have let go. Sorry that no matter how much time passes, some wounds never really heal.

Your wounds will never heal.

The overhead lights burn against your swollen eyes. You blink, but it only makes the sting worse. You thought they would’ve dried by now. That at some point, your body would just refuse to keep grieving.

Do people have a limit? Is there a point where you simply run out? Or does the body just keep producing sorrow, as long as there’s pain to feed it? Has anyone in history ever cried so much that their body just… gave up?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, if you stay like this long enough, you’ll be the first. Because this is all you know how to do now.

Cry. Cry for him. Cry for yourself.

Cry because it’s the only thing that makes the weight in your chest feel even a little less suffocating. Because if you stop, even for a moment, you’re terrified you’ll realise just how empty the world is without him in it.

You're not strong enough.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?" Your mother’s hand is warm as she pats your back, enough for you to let out a breath you were holding.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You can wait for me in the waiting area." Your eyes flicker toward the entrance as another person steps in. She carries a box, full of things and when your gaze meets hers, you swear you see your own reflection staring back.

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

"I’m a big girl, you know," you murmur, forcing the words out as if saying them makes them true.

Your mother gives you a small smile before kissing your cheek. "I’ll be here," she says softly. "After all of this, I’ll be here to pick you up."

Something tightens in your chest. Such simple words, so ordinary, yet they make your throat close up. One less worry, a hundred more to carry.

But she’ll be here after.

No matter what happens behind those doors, no matter how much of you is left when it’s over—your mother will be here, waiting on the other side.

And that should be enough, right?

You take a step. Then another. Three steps before something in you falters, pulling you back. You turn around, and your mother, standing right where you left her. Her eyes meet yours, and one of them glistens now, like she’s holding something back. She’s trying to be strong for you.

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him.

You promised.

And if you don’t do it today… you might never do it at all.

“Honey, we can always come back.” Your mother’s voice is soft. She’s in front of you now, hands warm on your shoulders. “We can reschedule, and—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes. If you look at her, if you see the way she’s looking at you, you might shatter right here, in front of her. So you turn away. The door is just a few steps ahead. White. Sterile. All you have to do is cross it. You can do it. You have to do it. Because—

You promised him.

"Miss Y/N?" The sound of your name barely registers. You don’t even remember sitting down. One moment, you were outside and now—now you’re here. In this cold, sterile waiting room, surrounded by people clutching their own silent burdens. Boxes. Everyone has one. Resting on their laps. Some are dressed in stiff work clothes, like they came straight from their jobs. Others wear the softness of home... sweatshirts, slippers, a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ever fix.

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter who you were before this moment.

You’re all here for the same reason.

"You need to sign the waiver. Please read each clause carefully dear. The nurse will call you once it's your turn." The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. The relentless ticking of the clock thumps in your ears, a fierce reminder of the gravity of what you’re about to do. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will.

You sigh, biting your lip so hard you taste a bit of blood. Your stare drifts ahead, settling on a woman a few seats away. Her eyes are red, swollen. She isn’t crying anymore, but she looks like she hasn’t stopped in days.

You follow her stare, down to the box in her lap. It’s small. Too small. A bib, baby rattles, tiny clothes meant for someone who never even saw their first birthday. Your throat tightens. You force yourself to look away. Swallowing hard, you check your own papers. Your box sits beside you, shut tight. Your mother had suggested covering it with a cloth—to make it easier, to keep you from looking at it. And it worked. Because if you had to see what was inside…

You don’t know if you’d still be here.

Your hands tremble as you stare down at the waiver, the words blurring in and out of focus. You read the clauses again. And again. And again. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

You shakily checked what you knew... he'd want for you. You need to think this is what he would've wanted.

“Y/N?” The nurse’s voice is gentle, but it still makes you flinch. She stands in the doorway, dressed in white, looking at you. You wipe away a tear, but another one slips free before you can stop it. “You can come inside now.”

“Okay,” Your legs barely carry you as you stand. Your trembling hands clutch the box, holding it so tightly.

Inside, the room is cold, sterile. Three people wait—one dressed in blue, one who looks like the doctor, and the nurse who fetched you. The chair in the middle looms, surrounded by wires, screens filled with numbers and statistics you don’t understand. But the moment your eyes land on the headrest, on the equipment waiting there—your stomach drops. Your body moves before you can think. A step back, then another, until a hand gently stops you.

The nurse reaches for your box. Your fingers twitch as they slip away from it, “Let’s get you on the chair,” she says softly. You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You started crying again. Not with sound, not with sobs... just endless, silent tears slipping down your face, one after the other.

No one tells you to stop crying. No one even reacts. You wonder how many people they’ve seen like this.

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

Her hands are warm against your shaking ones, steadying you just enough to guide you down into the chair. You let her. You don’t have the strength to resist. The doctor moves quickly, securing straps around you—across your wrists, your chest. Another band wraps around your finger, likely for your heartbeat. It’s already racing. You don’t need a machine to tell you that. The person in blue starts placing wires against your temple, the cold press of metal settling on the right side of your head. It sends a shiver through you, but you don’t move.

You barely breathe.

“Okay, so now—” The doctor’s voice is calm, clinical. “As you’ve read, you’ll need to recall the moments tied to the things you brought. We asked you to choose items that hold the strongest memories because only then can they be altered. These machines will help bring them to the surface. You don’t have to force it—we’ll go slow, one step at a time.” A pause. “Are you ready?”

Your throat closes. Your hands curl into weak fists against the armrests. All you can do is nod.

The man in blue moves quietly. You barely notice him at first, lost in the weight pressing down on your chest—until he reaches for your box. The cloth is lifted. Your breath catches.

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs.

You swallow back another sob, hiccupping through shallow, gasping breaths. It's ridiculous, isn’t it? That at your weakest, you're placing your trust in strangers. That you can't even find the strength to speak. But this isn’t for you.

For him. For your family.

For him.

Your nails dig into the synthetic material on the armrest. You close your eyes, surrendering to their instructions, to the machines humming around you. A sharp beep echoes in the room, signalling the process to begin. A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face.

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

"Let's take a 30-minute break, and then we'll go over the discussion again, okay?" Your ten-year-old eyes lock onto your homeroom teacher, a sigh slipping past your lips. Math has never been kind to you. Numbers blur together, equations twist into impossible knots in your head. If you had it your way, subjects like this wouldn’t even exist. You’d much rather read—preferably a hundred books. Or better yet, a hundred manga.

You reach for your bag, already deciding that a "break" means exactly that. No memorizing. No thinking about numbers. Your brain deserves rest. With a small pout, you pull out your current manga, flipping through the worn pages with practiced ease.

Your friends prefer watching anime, gathering around their phones or talking about the latest episodes. But your mom—she's strict about screen time. Too much of it, she says, will rot your brain. So, you stick to reading. At first, it was just a substitute, a way to keep up with your friends. But over time, it grew on you.

You're barely on the second page when a shadow falls over your desk.

"Uh, Y/N? Do you have, uh… an extra pen?"

You glance up, mildly irritated at the interruption, only to be met with the tallest boy in your class—Choi Soobin. A transfer student. You’ve only been classmates for a few months, and until now, you’ve barely spoken.

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

His eyes dart to your open pencil case, where at least five pens sit in plain sight. "But… you have so many," he points out, looking almost betrayed. "Please? I swear I’ll give it back!"

You sigh, flipping another page of your manga, already regretting this conversation. "Fine."

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

"Not that one—" Your head snaps up. "That’s off-limits, it’s my favourit—"

"Wait, is that Inuyasha?!" His voice practically jumps an octave, eyes wide with excitement as he plops down in the seat beside you without a second thought. "I love this series! I read them all the time!"

Your annoyance falters, replaced by something close to surprise. You glance at him, then at your manga, then back at him. "It’s my favourite," you say, flipping the page. "I have all the volumes."

His eyes widen. "Whoa. Lend me some?"

You raise a brow. "And what do I get in return?"

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. "I’ll think about it."

He nods eagerly, leaning in a little. "Okay, but—serious question. Kikyo or Kagome?"

"Kagome," you answer without hesitation. "I pity her." At that, he studies your face.

"But Kikyo…" he murmurs, gaze dropping for a second. "I pity her more." His voice is softer now, "Because she doesn’t get to be with Inuyasha anymore. And I think… that’s sad."

For ten whole minutes, the two of you went back and forth—voices overlapping, hands flying in exasperation—until your classmates abandoned all pretence of studying just to watch. Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy.

And then, finally, Soobin sighed, slumping in defeat. "But at the end of the day," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "Kikyo is Kagome, right?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "That’s not how it works." You roll your eyes, turning back to your manga. "Loser,"

And then—he laughs. Not just a chuckle. A real laugh, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up until they almost disappear, deep crinkles forming at the corners. His dimples dig so deep it’s like someone pressed a pencil into a soft dough, and his cheeks, full and round, look annoyingly pinchable. You catch yourself staring, warmth crawls up your neck, spreading to your ears.

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen.

THE POLAROID CAMERA

Your feet dangle lazily in the air as you scribble in your notebook, your laptop propped open in front of you. You scroll through pages, searching for answers, when a notification pops up.

Meet me at the playground?

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But I’m doing homework…

I’ll let you copy mine.

Your lips twitch. Okay. Be there in 10 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in your chest as you throw on a hoodie and a pair of shorts, not even bothering to check if they match. You bound down the stairs, brushing past your mom just as she calls after you. "Be careful—!"

"I’m meeting Binnie, Mom!" you shout over your shoulder. Her resolve crumbles instantly. She sighs, but there’s a small smile in her voice as she mutters, “Be home before dark!”

The walk to the playground is short. When you arrive, you spot Soobin awkwardly lingering by the swings, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"Soobin!" His head snaps up, and the moment he sees you, a grin spreads across his face.

It’s been three years since you first met, three years of him becoming your best friend. Everyone at school knows it. High school doesn’t feel as scary because he’s always there—hovering, teasing, sticking by your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People assume you’re together, which is ridiculous. He’s your best friend. Sure, he goes everywhere with you, sure, you’ve fallen asleep on the same couch during sleepovers, sure, his family adores you, and your mom—well, sometimes it feels like she likes him more than she likes you. But again, he's your best friend.

You slow your pace, tilting your head playfully. "What’s up? Finally giving in and letting me copy your homework?" You wiggle your eyebrows, smirking as you catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks—something that happens more and more these days.

But instead of rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic remark, he just exhales. "Happy birthday," he says. "Happy 13th birthday."

Before you can react, he holds out a neatly wrapped box. Confused, you take it, fingers fumbling with the ribbon before you lift the lid. Inside, is a brand-new Polaroid camera. The exact one you’ve been rambling about for weeks. You gape at him. "No way."

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever."

Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest. You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides. "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you."

If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red.

THE TEDDY BEAR

“Stop staring.” You nudge his foot under the table, twirling the lollipop in your mouth—the strawberry ones. You used to hate the flavour, the fruit too, but it was impossible to keep up when it’s his favourite. “Am I ugly or something?”

Soobin hasn’t stopped looking at you since you showed up at his house. Not the kind of stare that lingers, but the kind that keeps sneaking glances every five minutes, like he can’t help it.

You cut your hair. The long strands that used to reach your back now barely brush your shoulders. Because I’m turning 18 tomorrow, you told him earlier. And of course, he laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, chuckling. You’re sprawled out on his bed now, while he’s still at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

You freeze. Hands dropping from your face, you stare at him. “Why?” you ask, voice laced with suspicion. “Seriously? I’ve spent the midnight of my birthday with you for almost… five years now?”

“Four years.” — “What?”

“It’s four, not five.” He pushes up his reading glasses—the ones that somehow make him look even more handsome. Not that you’d ever admit it. He leans back in his chair, casual as ever. “Stay over, okay? Let’s play League.”

You scoff. “So you can bully me the whole time? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

You grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it effortlessly, smirking. “That’s worse!”

You stayed. One pout from him, and you caved. You acted annoyed, but in truth, you just didn’t want him to know how easily he could sway you. You will do anything to hide the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger, whether he knew it or not.

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you.

Your birthdays used to be simple, just another day with family, another year passing by. But ever since Soobin came along, they became something special. Something that felt irreplaceable. And the thought of him not being there, of waking up to a birthday where he wasn’t the first person you saw, made your throat tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you didn’t want to explain it. Maybe you were scared to.

"Let's go out to the balcony," he says, shutting off his computer with a final click. You glance at the clock—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes till you turn eighteen.

"Why?"

"Just because." He nudges you forward, hands settling on your shoulders, his touch impossibly light. No matter how much taller or broader he’s gotten over the years, he never holds you too tightly. It’s always careful. And that’s why your heart stutters in your chest every time.

You step outside, the night air crisp against your skin. The trees sway below, dark silhouettes against the dim glow of the streetlights. You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at him. "So… are we spending my birthday just standing here?" you tease. "Shouldn't we be doing something? Eating ice cream, maybe?"

He smiles, "We’ll do that after," he says, already stepping back inside. "Wait here."

You're confused as he leaves you outside. Through the thin curtain, you see his shadow moving; shuffling, hesitating. "Soobin, don’t tell me you got me a cake or something," you call out, teasing. He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes you smirk. "So you did get me a cake."

"Sh—no. Yes. Ugh, I hate you," he groans, but when he steps out, there it is, a cake in his hands, eighteen candles flickering in the night breeze. He clears his throat, awkwardly starting, "Happy birthday to you…" His voice is unsure, barely above a murmur, but it’s enough. You smile, and as cheesy as it sounds, your heart clenches in your chest. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you.

Please let forever be like this.

You blow out the candles, and when you open your eyes, he’s grinning. "I baked this, by the way."

"Wow, looks amazing," you breathe, taking the cake from him. The effort, the slightly uneven letters of your name written on top—it makes your throat tighten. You don’t say anything, just sit down beside him, forks in hand, digging straight into the cake. The wind picks up slightly, ruffling your hair, but neither of you cares. You talk, laugh, and steal bites from each other’s sides, like time doesn’t exist.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue softer than usual. His gaze lingers, watching as you hug the big white teddy bear he got you. Your fingers clutch the plush fur, cheeks pressed against it, lips curled into a quiet, content smile.

His chest tightens.

"Eight years... For eight years, I, I've been," He falters, blinking, momentarily losing himself in the way your eyes widen at him. God. You’re beautiful.

"Hmm?"

He exhales sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. His heartbeat stumbles over itself, but before he can think, before he can think of the script he rehearsed over and over, before he can convince himself to hold back—

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours. "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's almost midnight,"

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. "I love looking at you,"

"We're seriously keeping up with the tradition?" you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"Happy 25th birthday, baby," he murmurs. Then, softer—like he’s letting the words settle between you before he dares breathe again, "I love you." His voice pulls you from the edges of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open, you find him already watching you.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than love? More sacred than being loved?

"Thank you," you reply, smiling. He sits up beside you, and you chuckle softly as he fumbles for something on the floor beside the bed. "What did you get me this time?"

But then your breath stumbles. White roses. A small black box in his hands. Your heart clenches. "Soobin,"

"I’ve been thinking about how I should do this," he starts, chuckling nervously, though his fingers tighten around the box as if anchoring himself. "I thought about renting a place, throwing a party, taking you to some fancy dinner, or even an overseas trip." His gaze finds yours, earnest. "But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever."

His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?"

“Fuck.” The word rips from your throat as reality slams into you. The room is chaos—voices rising, bodies moving, the cold bite of metal and plastic pressing against your skin. The doctor’s hands fly across his keyboard, adjusting something you don’t understand, while the nurse grips your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You’re crying.

You don’t remember when it started, but the tears won’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps as your hands scramble to your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the thin chain around your neck. The ring is warm against your skin, pressed into your palm, solid and real. His ring. The one he slid onto your finger with shaking hands.

“Please,” your voice cracks, “please—just let me keep this.”

The nurse exchanges a glance with the doctor. Their hesitation is suffocating. “We need to take it,” someone says—calm, detached. Like this is just another part of the process. Like it doesn’t matter. “It goes with the rest of your belongings.”

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this."

The nurse looks at you with something that almost feels like pity. A softness in her eyes that only makes your chest ache more. “You’re almost done, honey,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, coaxing. “A little more. You can do this. Just close your eyes. You just have to close your eyes.” Your hands won’t stop shaking. The tremors run up your arms, through your ribs, settling somewhere deep in your throat. You feel the prick of a needle, the slow push of something cold into your veins. It soothes the sharp edges, dulls the panic—but not enough. Not enough to stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. “Close your eyes,” she whispers again.

You do.

Your hands are in his. The car hums beneath you, the city lights flashing by in a blur, but all you can focus on is him. He drives with one hand, the other wrapped around yours, bringing it to his lips every time you hit a red light. Soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles, “How many babies would you want?”

You nearly choke on your drink, coughing as you turn to him. “What?”

He laughs, eyes flicking toward you for just a second before focusing back on the road. “I mean… I’d love as many as we can have. But of course, it’s your body, baby. You get to tell me.”

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—”

His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything.

In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate.

Then—stillness.

A ringing in your ears. The distant sound of voices, footsteps pounding against the pavement. Shadows moving outside the wreck. Someone is calling, you think it's for an ambulance. Your chest heaves as you groan, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. Pain radiates from everywhere, your head throbbing as you press trembling fingers against your scalp. Everything hurts.

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

You look to your right and he’s already looking at your face. Pale, dazed, blinking too slowly. "Y/N, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse, weak, but when you nod, he exhales a shaky, "Thank fuck."

His grip tightens around your hand. You can barely feel it, your body is numb, adrenaline rushing through your veins. But you squeeze back. Hold on. You breathe. It’s going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.

Then your eyes drop. And your stomach lurches. "Soobin?"

A jagged piece of debris—large, sharp, too deep—juts from his stomach, trailing up his chest. Blood blooms around it, staining his shirt, spilling over his hands where he grips it like he’s not sure whether to pull or hold on.

Your world tilts again. This is just a dream. "Soobin, what—what—how the—"

There’s so much blood. Too much. Your hands press against the wound trembling, trying to keep it from spilling out, but it’s everywhere—warm and sticky between your fingers, staining your skin, pooling beneath him. You’re sobbing, whispering frantic words that don’t make sense, but you can’t even hear yourself. The panic is eating your face, roaring in your ears as you struggle to breathe. “How should I—”

Then his fingers find your face.

His touch is weak but certain, cradling your cheeks, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but stronger than it should be. “Look at me.” His grip tightens, thumbs brushing your tears away. “Baby, shhh, look at me.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “Soobin—”

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

You’re unravelling. He’s bleeding out beneath you, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. “Help! Please, someone help us!” you scream, voice cracking. There are people—so many people—but no one can touch him.

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

The last memory crashes over you, pulling you under. Your chest feels heavy, unbearably so, but then… slowly… it gives. The weight that has kept you drowning eases, just enough for you to take a breath. The sound of machines hums beside you. A final tear slips down your cheek.

It feels like the end.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, just to see him one last time—the Soobin you knew like the back of your hand. And then, you see his face. That soft, lopsided grin that always made your heart stumble. His voice is a whisper, just a breath against your skin.

“I’m proud of you.” Your lip trembles. “You’ll be okay.”

"Congratulations, it's successful."

The doctor shakes your hand, his grip firm, reassuring. You smile, nodding along. The nurse beside him looks at you with warmth, and before she can react, you throw your arms around her. She lets out a small gasp before melting into the hug.

You feel light. Weightless.

They tell you the treatment worked. They tell you your mother is waiting outside. You nod again, absorbing their words, but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.

You push the thought away as you step outside. The air feels fresh against your skin, and then you see her. Your mother. She looks thinner than you remember, her cheeks a little sunken, her eyes holding something you can’t quite place. Had she lost weight?

"Hi, Mom," you say, smiling. She looks at you—really looks at you—and her lips part. She smiles back.

"Oh, honey," she breathes, pulling you into her arms.

You giggle, warmth spreading through your chest. "What’s wrong?"

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, shaking her head. "Let’s go home, okay?" You nod, letting her guide you toward the entrance. Everything feels new, yet oddly familiar, like a dream you barely remember but somehow miss.

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name.

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful."

"Yeah, I'll go home after class, Mom," you say, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjust your bag. "Plus, I'm nineteen. An adult now. I can take care of myself."

Your mom chuckles on the other end, the kind of laugh that says she doesn’t quite believe you but won’t argue. "Alright, alright. Just don’t stay out too late."

"I won’t." She sighs, but you can hear the smile in her voice as she bids you goodbye.

The campus is buzzing with energy, students milling about for the event. It’s a collaboration between three schools—art students showcasing their work, others just here to admire. Beside you, Wonyoung loops her arm through yours, eyes scanning the crowd. "Girl, I’m getting us drinks," she announces. "Wait for me here."

You roll your eyes with a laugh. "Okay, okay. Don’t take forever." She winks before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of it all.

Your eyes drift over the canvases, taking in the strokes of colour, the textures, the stories woven into the art. And then, you stop. Something about this one halts you mid-step. Oh. It’s a painting of—

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway.

He’s cute.

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

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[txttletale]

Anything good out of Roborosewater lately?

let's do this by theme: first off, the pointlessly self-destructive cards. i adore the roborosewater cards that are just pure negatives, they poke at something really interesting about game design. really cool hoiw path of ication has a bizarro world version of a designed-for-commander mechanic, where it deals you more damage the more players are in the game.

then another of my favourite themes, redudancy. these i think poke at some fundamental preconceptions we have abot language and communication, right -- rules text that just states the tautological suggests a strange and wonderful mindset where basic logical syllogisms must be backed up by game rule fiat.

then there's a couple that it takes more magic understanding to really find funny: i like how the muscle provides an incredibly strong bonus but makes it impossible to capitalize on it, and the sheer comical awfulness of an ability that lets you pay 11 mana for a 25% chance to deal 4 damage, combined with the ridiculous density of activated abilities, makes hypnotic decree a gift that keeps on giving

next up is 'cards that do nothing' -- i really like these cards, because it's like, you look at this and think 'this is literally pointless, this doesn't do anything useful', and then you think, well, it's a game, are any actions 'useful?' and it makes you confront very directly how games construct and define themselves in ways that are illumating. anyway if yo uwant to pay a bunch fo mana to exile your hand or check if your opponent has acard in their deck now you can with these bangers:

finally here's a comparatively recent 'you lose the game' card -- ilove it when roborosewater puts these out because the neural net has aboslutely no way of evaluating what makes 'you lose the game' a suitable downside on the cards it's on and so will just slap it hilariously on a card that isn't even good to begin with

[z4rph1m]

Platonic Yan!Batfam X dazai! GNreader X Yandere DC

Forgotten child

Pro. Ch.1 (you are here) Ch.2

No longer human….

The name of your ability to nullify any type of meta power or other ability within your radius.

Something that your mother made you aware of before she went along with the clouds.

Mori did once told you that she also had an ability, the Setting Sun

An ability that allow the user to give out the sense of despair and hopelessness to their target….

Upon hearing about it you started to wonder if your mother once use it against you

Months had gone by yet the manor felt emptier than ever.

A lingering presence of a child who was life greatest failure or was it life that failed the child?

The presence wasn’t a blissful innocence and joy but instead a lingering sense of sadness and self-destruction of the child.

The place where the presence is almost as if the child is there has to be their bedroom.

A place where the child find solace and comfort,

A place where Alfred mostly goes to whenever he has the chance.

As much as he wants to denies it

Your path of darkness had already started the moment you were born.

Born not out of love but instead a result of a stringless and loveless action during intimacy.

Alfred knew that there was no hope in saving you from the dark pit of despair and sadness but maybe, just maybe if you were surrounded by care and love instead of indifference and neglect, you would’ve turn out differently.

Alfred raised you with all the care and love he could give yet it still doesn’t stop you from being self-destructive and suicidal.

He knows about your struggles with fitting in with your peers.

Your struggles to overcome your self-destructive tendencies.

Especially with how often he helped with bandaging yourself again and again.

He secretly keep pictures of you throughout the years you’ve stayed in the mansion.

Especially when he took you to a fun fair, away from Gotham.

But that still doesn’t give you the light of hope.

He prayed that one day you’re surrounded by the love that you needed and want.

But he hopes you won’t hate him for what he’s about to do

Bruce know whenever his children comes in and out of the manor, yet he couldn’t help but felt as if someone is missing.

He thought that one of them is probably playing some type of prank on him until Alfred came knocking on the door before entering.

“Master Bruce? I’ve come with your tea prepared and old news to bring”

“Old news? Then do tell” putting down all of his paperwork’s, tapping the pen down on the table

“You’re second child had move out a few months back, it’s a sudden but they didn’t bring anything with them.”

Bruce stare at Alfred in confusion. Jason move out, since when did he move in in the first place?

Alfred gave Bruce a knowing look, as if he can read his mind before opening his mouth to speak.

“It is not master Jason, he is your third child. I suggest to take another guess”

Bruce kept a confused look and thinking on who exactly move out from the manor.

It’s definitely not Dick or Jason, nor is it Tim since he’s currently in his room, or is Damian who’s too young to even move out.

Or coul- no, it couldn’t be….

The bitter truth struck to him like a pile of sadness and despair came hugging his very body.

His first biological child.

The one who join after Dick.

His precious child.

[N] Wayne

Does he even remember how you look like? Actually scratch that, did he even have time or actually look at you throughout your life in the manor?

To add the salt to the wound, Alfred once again speak up.

“I had inform you of their departure but you were quick to dismissed it. I decided that it be best for you to be inform of it the second time”

A sense of dread continue to hug Bruce’s body like a blanket, as if a sadness and the guilt of a child had been passed on to another.

Did he ever had a proper conversation to you, or even attend any events at school with you?

God he hopes not.

He doesn’t even remember how your voice sounds like or even what’s you’re likings to simple things like food or even hobby.

“Alfred, how old are they now exactly?”

It’s embarrassing for a parent to even ask that simple question about their child.

“They’ve just turn 22 a month ago, from what I know, they’re currently living in a apartment”

God how many birthdays did he missed.

He didn’t even gave you a simple card and a cake, actually have you ever even had a birthday cake?

Or even any celebrations?

“Alfred, if you may, lead me to their room”

He wants to know what type of person you are, or at least an idea of it.

What a pitiful excuse of a father isn’t it?

You blankly stare at the dead bodies of the people who tried to kidnap you to threaten the port mafia boss.

Having no emotions In your eyes, bandages being redder and dirtier than ever, and 4 subordinates behind you.

“Bring their body to the slaughterhouse, at least their body would be useful in the market”

They were quick to obey to your command, like little rabbits afraid to get killed by the wolf.

The blood on the floors were left alone, and the deafening silence was your company.

Keyword : Was.

You’re not stupid to not know you’re being watch.

By Bruce’s other child no less, the one who was presumed dead by the members.

“You can come out now Jason. Or should I call you by your vigilante name, Red Hood?”

You watch as he slowly show himself to you, putting his gun down, hands holding nothing.

You just blankly stare at him before putting on a small smirk.

“Try to put me in jail? Or did you change your mind when you saw it was me?”

You change your expression to a blank one, the one that shows the darkness in your eyes and the feeling of the grim reaper surrounding you.

In Jason eyes, there’s something wrong with your silhouette.

Is it the way you’re staring at him? Or the feeling of despair, death and sorrows that clings to you.

It was as if you’re not even a human being.

You turn back and walk away from him, having enough of one of the famous vigilante of Gotham.

“You can take the leftover bullets if you want, must be frustrating to use the rubber ones”

Inspired by @-acid-ixx again & again series and @-marcyvamp1re-blog silly little bat

[tinseltrinkets]

I think part of what makes Jinx such a special character is how her story is shown as a hero’s story.

Her actions aren’t heroic, but they’re shown as part of her journey and not defining features. She isn’t a force to be taken down or conquered.

While many villains can be admired, it’s usually through the lens of fear of a depersonalized idea where they’re just viewed as an embodiment of vengeance and chaos. They’re viewed as something to be gawked at, regardless of if they’re likable.

Whether it’s a “you, a normal person, will never be a monster like them” or “you, a normal person, will never be the larger than life phenomena they are,” it’s putting them in the “other” category.

Jinx isn’t a symbol, although many may see her in that way (as we can expect through the trailer, the people of Zaun will distort her image in that way).

When people relate to her, it (usually) isn’t to be edgy or impressive, it’s vulnerable.

The joy she experiences doesn’t just have to be this liberating revenge. It can be serene.

What I mean is you don’t see villains smile like this. And you don’t see them looking tranquil in this way. When they’re happy, it’s used as a juxtaposition, something to be either horrified with (“how can they be happy in these horrible circumstances/with the destruction they’ve caused”) or impressed with (“wow they’re able to be so calm and collected in the chaos”).

We get to see her capable of being serene, and providing serenity. Her joy doesn’t have to be sardonic satisfaction at other’s expense, it can be liberating and peaceful and shared with her loved ones. Something she is probably only finding in herself in the next season and likely through her relationship with this new character Isha.

When people say that Jinx feels more human, it’s not just that we see the traumatic experiences that led to her becoming the way she was, because many villains have that. It’s that it’s not shallow. She’s not larger than life, she wasn’t stripped of her humanity to become an agent of chaos (as much as Silco and herself have tried). She’s not a spirit that inhabits Powder, she is Powder, just with a new experience and path. Powder and Jinx aren’t contracting identities, they’re just as real within her and she doesn’t have to abandon one to be self-realized in the other. She’s not above or below being a human.

[goomyloid]

Can you tell me about your dt player. Since from the way you portray them they aren’t meant to be you. Kinda your oc in a way huh. It’s a cool depiction so that’s why I’m curious.

well today is your lucky day because i literally just filled out this chart right before answering this:

basically my version of them is thoroughly mentally disconnected from all consequences, because everything is just a game to them.

apathetic with only the desire to see what happens, and what becomes of kris and noelle (in the weird route). They always just barely have the upper hand; if things don't proceed down a certain path (i.e. aborted weird route or something) it's only because they allowed for it to happen. kris is very smart, but 'our' knowledge just objectively surpasses theirs in every way. for the most part.

i guess if i had to describe them as a real-life player, it would be the kind of person that plays all the routes without feeling bad about it, someone that somehow doesnt feel as though they're entirely to blame for the story going this way. (they taunt kris over this, maybe just to pick at their brain to get a look of how they're feeling about all of this.)

after all, deltarune is a game. it's meant to be played, it's only natural that people will want to pick it apart inside and out with its level of popularity. nothing should make a player feel bad about playing the game that they bought and spent time on.

regardless of one's investment in the characters, the world is simply not real to us. but in terms of vessel specifically talking to kris or something, it's not like THEY'RE the one saying "kris you're not real lol" or anything like that, it's more so their existence as a 'watcher' of sorts outside the bounds of comprehensible reality renders them in a similar position as us, someone in control and free from any consequences (presumably), letting kris and co. take the brunt of all your wrongdoings.

there's all of that, but i also like to portray them as being more on the extreme side, going as far as to treat characters fictional even when said character is standing right in front of them.

the 'commodification' of noelle plays into this a lot i think. we haven't seen it much in game so far, but we get the implied player attachment to her via treating kris as a self-insert of sorts just so you can get weirdly, creepily close to and controlling over noelle. it comes off more as vessel only wanting to be close to noelle and kind of discarding kris, just like they once were (lol).

the player's funny little fixation on noelle definitely throws a wrench in things kris-and-noelle-relationship wise, because this Thing is masquerading as kris, and noelle (and maybe toriel to a degree) is the only person able to tell something's wrong. it's almost like Hikaru Ga Shinda Natsu in a way -- your friend has been replaced, and you're the only person to notice just because you know them so well. it comes down to noelle's heart and ability to see through whatever vessel throws at her, if she'll be able to reach her hand out and save kris from sinking away before it's too late.

ummm. im getting off track. got too krisellepilled for a sec. VESSEL. i'm definitely not immune to portraying them more lightheartedly sometimes, but when I do that, it's usually in game, more so showing up as the soul instead lol

they're still sarcastic and blunt and weird, but at least they're not crazy destructive and sociopathic. gotta tone it down for the sillies

anyway i think thats all i can think of to say at the moment, if i think of something else big i might add it in a reblog, idk lol. thank you for asking, sorry about the long post!

[lieslab]

Call your mom

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Felix X gn reader

Summary: Your best friend finds you teetering on the edge of suicide in the middle of the night.

Genre: Comfort/hurt

Word Count: 2.2K

Suicide and depression resources

Trigger warning: Suicide, depression, self-hatred, brief mentions of pills, guns, self-harm, hanging, fear of life after death, and fear of being alone.

A/N: It's the first day of 2025 and if you're struggling with thoughts like these, please stay alive. I had a weird urge to drop this which means, at least, one of you is struggling right now. Please pick up the phone and call someone. Stay alive. I know it seems so hard when you're drowning, but you really have no idea what good things are waiting for you. They will find you, I promise <3

_ _ _

At midnight, Felix’s eyes shot wide open without a reason or why. He had just been asleep and yet, as he laid with his cheek pressed against the warmth of his pillow, there wasn’t the usual sleepy haze. It was almost as if he just opened his eyes and hadn’t been sleeping for the past few hours. 

He laid there trying to figure out the reason for it, but none came. The steady sound of his breathing filled the room and he glanced over. The full moon was out tonight and she was watching over everyone, at least, that’s what he thought. 

He didn’t know why your face appeared in his head. Somewhere deep in the subconscious realm and far from his understanding, something tugged on him. It ushered him to go and it forced him out of bed. In the darkness, almost like a shadow savior, he slipped on his slippers and rushed out of his room. 

It was the one thing he actually liked about your shared apartment building. Your apartment was just down the hall. All he had to do was leave his unit, turn left, walk straight, and turn left again. The path was so familiar that he could do it in his sleep. 

He tugged the wooden door shut behind him and didn’t bother locking it. He jerked on the oversized hoodie and rounded the corner, that’s when he saw you. The look on your face, it was one he’d never seen before. 

The length of the hallway was barren at this time of night. Lights were secured above your head and dimmed down for the evening. The dimness couldn’t hide the tears pouring down your cheeks. 

You couldn’t breathe with your thoughts piling up again. You’d been here before, but this time was different. This time, you were sure if you stepped foot in your apartment building, you wouldn’t come back out alive. 

So you paced over and over and over again. Stuck between the urge in giving it all up and trying to find the strength to continue. Living was hard and it was even worse when your own brain hated you. 

How much longer could you last? Too stuck in your head, you stamped yourself as a burden. You cut holes in your own heart and let yourself drown in your own hurt. Blood stained your hands and it was always all your fault. 

A lump sat in your throat and the tears wouldn’t stop dripping. You wanted to keep going. You wanted to try again. You wanted to bite down on that small sliver of hope and cling to it, but you were also tired. This self-destructive cycle led to nowhere. You were tearing your mental sanity to shreds and your muscles were quivering from trying to keep your head held up one more day. 

Just one more day. Just one more try. Just a little more. Another step. Another meal. Another memory creeping back from the depths of your mind and rerunning. Your brain was on fire and screaming. 

Torn between letting go and staying here, you were breaking down. The oil in your machine ran out months ago. Every step weighed a thousand pounds. Your bones creaked and your soul ached. You longed for inner peace, but it never showed up. 

Your dreams were dead. Your brain stamped them out weeks ago. You deemed yourself the family failure. The unlovable one. The kind of person that people steered themselves clear from because you were just too much. 

The weight of your thoughts was breaking your back. Your brain screamed at you to stay, but you couldn’t find peace in sleep anymore. Where people found joy in the rainbows and sunshine, you couldn’t find that anymore either. You ran out of love to give a long time ago. 

Wouldn’t it just be better to give up? To finally rest. To go to sleep. Swallow pills. Pull a trigger. Slice the vein. Step off the stool and let your windpipe close forever. The hurt was temporary and god, it’d hurt, but the peace afterwards… 

You didn’t know what came after this. Maybe it really was heaven or hell. Maybe the rumors were true and you’d burn for eternity for killing yourself. Maybe you’d wake up in another life and in the arms of a new mother. Shiny eyes of another father would be cast upon you. 

Or maybe it’d just be nothing. An eternal darkness and no matter what happened or where you went, it’d just be black. You’d cease to exist. You’d have all this and then nothing ever again. 

You didn’t hear Felix the first time that he called your name, but you felt him. You smelled the familiar scent of minty toothpaste and eucalyptus. Your teary eyes reached up to find his and his heart shattered. 

He cupped your cheeks and his heart squeezed with terror. “What’s wrong?” He whispered as he wiped away your tears. 

You tried to speak, but your words turned into a whimper that got stuck in the back of your throat. How were you supposed to tell your best friend that you wanted to end everything? How were you supposed to tell them that you were so tired, you wanted to go? It was time for you to go. 

Maybe it was selfish to not think about the hurt you’d cause him, or maybe it was selfish for him not to see the hurt that harbored in your heart. Would he ask you to stay if he knew you were drowning inside yourself? The darkness swallowed you whole and no matter how much you tried to swim to the surface, you never made it. 

Did he know this was the last time he’d see your defeated face? Would he remember the bags smeared beneath your eyes? Would he know that your eyes would close soon and they’d never reopen? The next time he’d see you, if he was lucky, you’d be clutching your own cold corpse in the cramped casket. 

His freckles were like constellations and if you were lucky, maybe you’d land upon the stars. Maybe the weight of everything would cease to exist and the lack of gravity, from wherever you landed, would make you float. The warmth of those brown eyes was home. Wherever you ended up, you wanted to feel that similar warmth. 

“Talk to me,” he pleaded softly. “What’s wrong?” 

Your bottom lip quivered. Why did he have to find you at this time? You tried to keep him out of the convoluted mess of your head and heart and yet, here he was. He stood in front of you like the savior you’d been praying for, but now it was too late. 

The flip in your head was made. It was time for you to go. This world wasn’t meant for someone like you. You opted to roll the dice, spin the wheel, and pull the slots. You’d take your chances in the next life. 

“Nothing,” you hoarsely uttered. “I’m just having one of those nights, you know?” 

You were way too calm about this. He watched how frantic you were when he first rounded the corner. Your eyes looked around desperately, like you were searching for something that wasn’t there. 

“Why are you lying to me?” 

His voice was a sweet honey and you desperately wanted to free fall. You wanted to melt into the floor and never exist again. You couldn’t stay near Felix for too long. He’d give you another reason to stay. 

“I-I should go to bed. You’re in your pajamas, you should go get some sleep.” 

His head shook and his messy blonde hair shook with his head. “No way. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me exactly what’s going on with you.” 

Your mouth opened, but words didn’t come out. How were you to truly explain this weight in your heart? How could you bare the shell of this body? If you admitted it all, would he call you selfish? Would he break off this friendship and leave you alone forever? 

“Felix,” you weakly got out. Fresh tears blurred your vision. You reached out to his stomach and gripped the front of his hoodie. 

“What is it?” 

“I-” 

“You can tell me and I promise, I won’t judge you.” 

You didn’t deserve his goodness or his grace. You didn’t deserve this warmth and this sunshine. This savior should have stayed in bed and let your plans unravel, but here he was. You’d been praying for a miracle, for some reason to stay, and here it was, but it made your heart hurt. You were just so tired. 

“I want to kill myself.” 

His eyes locked onto yours and for a brief moment, silence buzzed between the two of you. You held your breath waiting for a response and he couldn’t breathe. You didn’t have time to react as he jerked you into his arms. 

He pressed your head against his shoulder and you gasped. His arms squeezed around you and created a cage of love. “You’re not leaving my sight.” 

“Felix,” you whispered. 

“You don’t have to speak right now. We’ll go back to my apartment and I think I have your mom’s phone number. I’ll call your mom and I-” 

“You can’t!” You jerked away in a panic. Your eyes were wide as you stared at him. “I don’t want to make this a big deal. She’s sleeping right now and-” 

“I have to.” 

Your head jerked and you tried to shove him away. He caught your hand and squeezed it tight. “Let go of me!” Your voice raised as you pulled away. 

“No!” 

“I’ll never forgive you!” 

“I don’t care!” 

“Felix, let go! I’ll stop being your friend! Don’t call her!” More tears filled your eyes. “Please, don’t call her.” 

“I’ll call your mom. I’ll call your dad. I’ll call your siblings and I’ll call the cops.” 

“You’ll lose me,” you weakly threatened. “I’ll never forgive you and I’ll hate you forever.” 

His own tears fell from his cheeks. “Then lose me. Never talk to me again, I don’t care. As long as it means you’re still alive, I don’t care. I’ll lose you either way, just don’t give up on life.” “I’d rather deal with the weight of losing you that way than the weight of writing your obituary. The world doesn’t need me to describe how good you are when it flows from you naturally. Please. Think this through for me.” 

You hated him so deeply right then and there. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to swing and shake him. Didn’t he understand what he was doing? He was purposefully making you a burden now. Your internalized hatred of yourself would become everyone’s reality. You truly would be a problem now. 

“I know you’re struggling and it’s true, I don’t know how much you’re struggling. The future must seem fickle now, but I won’t give up on you. You deserve the future that you talked about months ago and I won’t stand by and let you rip that chance from your own hands.” 

“I will call whoever and I will scream at the top of my lungs to grab the attention of our neighbors. Not because I want to embarrass you, but because I love you. I won’t stop loving you, even if I have to stand here holding you and repeat the words for the rest of the night.” 

“Please,” he pleaded, “just give it one more day and trust me. I will find a way to help you. Don’t let whatever demons you’re fighting win.” 

It didn’t matter that your neighbors were sleeping. It didn’t matter that you were out in the open. The sobs you had been hellbent on suppressing finally slipped out. Your knees buckled and he slung you against his body. 

Your head curled into his body and your shoulders shook. His arms squeezed you and he pressed your head against his chest. The heavy thump of his heartbeat made you cry harder. 

Every organ inside of you was alive and every day, they fought to keep you alive. Memories were created from the people around you. Even when things got tough for others, how many times had you dropped your issues and been there when you were needed? 

You hadn’t met all the people you were destined to meet yet. Still so young, you had so much time left. So many seasons to enjoy and so many new hobbies to try. Unreleased songs and new movies that you’d love. 

Things don’t always last forever and neither would this discouragement and hopelessness. One day, you might be teetering on the edge of ending it all, but the future version of yourself sits on a couch at ease. They’re staring outside, drinking their favorite drink, and contentedly watching the bright yellows, blinding oranges, and soft pinks disappear as the sun goes down. 

The night will not unveil the horrors in your head and it will not be feared. It will bring new adventures and the reminder that the sun will shine again. The people you love will be by your side. You’ll find new reasons to fall in love with the world around you. A bad day will just be a bad day and not stain your life worthless forever. 

As Felix gripped you, he uttered a silent prayer. Whatever was out there, whether it was merely his own subconscious or a god, it helped him save you. He’d call your family and he’d find you help. 

For one more day, you’d continue living, but this time, you wouldn’t be carrying the weight of your sadness and hurt alone. 

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

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