#that seems like a pretend thing to believe

[erwinsvow]

you'd never really put this much effort in at other houses. while you're scrubbing the countertops to remove every last bit of evidence that someone—anyone—had made a mess there, you think about the other houses you used to babysit for.

used to, since there was no need to babysit anymore. mister cameron, who will always remain mister cameron—no matter how much he reminds you to call him rafe—actually pays you double what your other families did. he's a busy guy. you know this for a fact—single dad and some big business guy that people in town used to talk about all the time when you used to listen—so he'd have last minute emergencies and random business calls all the time.

his exact words had been something along the lines of "don't wanna share you with anyone else," but even thinking about that encounter makes your face burn with so much intensity that you think you're going to collapse. that's not what he meant, obviously, he was trying to tell you in nicer words that it was annoying when you replied to his texts explaining how another family had booked you already for that night. so when he upped your rate and said that he'd even pay to say no to others, just in case, you would have been really stupid to say no.

you don't hear much about him anymore, when you're out and about. you spend so much time at the cameron house that your own little apartment seems like nothing more than a bed and a place to get ready before leaving. you practically eat three meals a day with the baby, so even your grocery shopping is in that part of town—all organic, expensive places where you talk to the baby and try to get her opinion on which vegetable puree she'd like to try this week.

it's kind of like playing pretend. no, it's really like playing pretend. you used to dress in the normal, comfortable clothes that were sufficient for babysitting every other family—overalls and sneakers—but now you don't fit in unless you're in a pretty dress and nice sandals. you stay in one outfit from when you show up before mister cameron leaves to when you drive home at the end of the night.

that's the other thing—your car. you've made it work with the same one since you could first drive. it's a little rusty, a little dinged up, but safe as can be. it's nothing fancy but it got you around. but now you do other things for rafe that you never did for other families—grocery shopping and errands and the occasional doctor's appointment if rafe really, really can't make it. you don't mind at all—it's fun to play pretend and you love her like she's your own, but mister cameron tries to make it to every appointment himself, because he really cares about his daughter. it's admirable because you don't see it in every single household.

you hadn't thought there was anything wrong with your car until one day you couldn't get the air conditioning to work, and the back window got jammed and the baby looked so uncomfortable that you had to skip out on whatever you were supposed to do that day. when mister cameron came home that night you apologized so much that you started crying—because really, you never thought there was something wrong with your car and you didn't want to make the baby drive in the heat, just in case. you think he'll be mad, there's no groceries and his suit is still at the cleaner's, and the lotion that you use every night after bathtime has ran out and there'll be none for tomorrow—but he's not.

he's not mad at all. he seems... tired. he seems worried. the first thing he asks that night is if you and the baby are okay. when you nod, afraid that this is the calm before the storm, he sighs.

"good. that's all i care about," and the way he says it—you believe him right away. maybe that's the night your little crush on mister cameron started forming. it'd always been there in the background, you'd be an idiot of massive proportions to deny it. but it felt different somehow, watching him roll up his sleeves and pulling out whatever ingredients there were left over to make dinner with, something that you normally tried to have done every night for him, while telling you to take a seat.

that night he asks about your car—how old is it, when'd you get it, how many miles. do you like the model? would you want bigger, smaller, a different color? it's just conversation—he probably likes cars with the way there's a really nice in the garage under a sheet and a nice but safer one that he takes to work everyday.

(while he's cooking pasta and cutting vegetables, you try to get up and help, but he meets your eyes and shakes his head. wordlessly, you obey and sit back down.)

that's the first night things felt different. you drove home a little giddy, later than normal, stomach full and heart a little too happy that you found it in yourself to finally have a real, nice conversation with mister cameron. you're as shy as they come but your interactions with him are limited—before work, a phone call at lunch (though recently, his first question hasn't been about the baby... it's been how are my girls?), and after work before you leave.

it feels good to know that you're doing something right, that you're good at this even on your bad days. you make a point to leave your place extra early that week, stopping at the pharmacy and picking up the lotion so it's one less thing to worry about. your window still won't roll down and you'll have to figure out how to get the groceries delivered, crossing your fingers that it doesn't cost that much more.

you show up a couple minutes early and go inside to sort out the stuff for the baby before she wakes, when you find mister cameron in the nursery.

"good morning," you say quietly, though it comes out a little above a whisper. she's still sleeping, even though you haven't glanced in the crib, you know her schedule like the back of your hand.

"hey, kid," he says, and your heart starts to thud a little faster. mister cameron's nicknames for you don't make an appearance everyday but for some reason, it has today. he hovers over the crib, watching the baby's chest rise and fall with each breath. you go over to join him, placing the lotion on the dresser. he notices the bottle and turns back to you. "you didn't have to do that."

"she needs it," you reply quietly. "it's the only one she likes. and i was up early anyways."

"thank you." it comes out with such sincerity that you're a little taken aback.

"of course, mister cameron. it's nothing," you smile up at him. he glances back at you, smiling and then turning to his daughter again. "i'm gonna go start on her breakfast."

you make your way to the door when he says your name.

"there's keys on the kitchen counter, and the car's in the garage. i'd like it if you started using that car instead."

and really—how are you supposed to respond to that? you stammer out an 'of course, mister cameron' and go downstairs, crossing your fingers that he made a mistake, or that he wants you to drive his car until you fix yours and he'll take the nice one tucked away in the garage.

but when you make it to the counter, and then head to the garage, your eyes nearly fall out of your head. a brand new pair of car keys, to match the brand new car in the garage. your arguments fall on deaf ears—this is way too much for anyone. yes, you're pretty much throwing money away by still paying rent and the cost of getting your car fixed could probably be enough to start paying for a better one, but this is too much. way too much. it's not normal. right?

but you have no one to ask. the baby's not old enough for playdates, and the girls who replaced you at your old houses are pretty much all high school seniors. on mister cameron's side of town, there's only nannies and au pairs, and they'd probably think you're crazy for turning down such a nice gesture.

and it is a nice gesture. mister cameron listens to every word you say, even when you're not paying attention to your own sentence. the car is exactly how you described—the color you wanted, the size you said would be nice one day incase there's ever a playdate or another baby or whatever the case may be. it's shiny and brand-new and completely undeserving of you. but he doesn't listen.

somewhere along the next month, you realize you could get really used to this. mister cameron does have a point—you're taking care of his daughter every day, so it only makes sense to make sure she's as safe as can be. you make a mental note that if you ever—for whatever idiotic reason—choose to leave this perfect job, you'll make sure he gets the car back.

there comes a point where the relationship... makes its way to the next level. at the end of every week, you have to settle the bills. co-pays at appointments, grocery receipts, the invoice from the gardener that didn't go through so you had given him your own cash so mister cameron wouldn't have to deal with it from work. it adds up, so once the baby is asleep on saturday night, the two of you eat dinner and go through everything.

but this time, he hands you a card instead. a shiny black credit card that spells out his name on the back.

"makes it a bit easier, right? just use this instead. we won't have to settle every week anymore."

"right," you agree, your smile fading quickly. you try to put on a front, a false expression so he doesn't notice your disappointment. saturday nights with mister cameron—him with his beer and you with a glass of wine—once the baby is asleep, sorting out bills and making conversation that almost felt like you belonged here, had unknowingly become your favorite part of the week. sometimes it would go until midnight, talking about things that were neither here nor there.

it's how you learned why he's a single dad, what he does for work, how he feels about his job and how much time it takes away from his daughter. it's why you started sending him photo and video updates everyday so he wouldn't feel like he's missing out on as much, it's why you make sure to craft the baby's bedtime routine around him coming home, so they have their time together.

"somethin' wrong?" he asks, after taking another sip of beer. you're snapped out of your thoughts, focusing instead of how rafe looks today. tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, fingers curled around the beer bottle.

you don't know how any woman on earth could have walked away from this.

"n-nothing. no. thank you, mister cameron, this is great. i'll make sure-"

"it's rafe from now on—remember, kid?"

"yes. sorry, i-"

you couldn't get out of there fast enough that night. it's almost a subtle reminder from the universe—you're not part of that family. you're the nanny who got too attached, who pretended that she fit in too much to a family that's not hers.

you still wear your nicer clothes, you still drive around his nice car. but you try to remind yourself every now and then that this isn't your real life.

the next day, it's like the universe has decided that it's mad at you for coming to this conclusion.

pouring rain the second you get into the car. your raincoat and umbrella and a sensible pair of shoes remain inside your apartment, and if you sit in idle any longer, you're going to be late to mister cameron's. he'll want to leave early since it's raining, so he's probably expecting you any minute.

the roads are a mess—it's monsooning for no reason and people forget how to drive. you honk no less than three times at idiots on the road before getting scared that someone will road-rage you. when you pull into the garage—because yes, mister cameron insists that you park inside and that he can park outside— you're frazzled and sweating and your day hasn't even started yet.

rafe's almost ready to leave, which is another damper on an already bad morning—if he has time, the two of you eat breakfast together. you tell him to drive safe and apologize for being late when he rushes past you, leaning in to kiss your cheek and telling you that he might he home late today, and to have a good day. you don't realize what's happened until he's gone, the door closing behind him.

you stand in the foyer with your mouth open until you hear the baby monitor. from that point on—it's one thing after another. the baby is fussy today, which is the most unusual part of the day. she's never like this, and you conclude that she must be getting sick or something. it's just as well, because there's no reason to go out or to take her out in this weather. she cries, and you try to help, even cave and put on some episodes of little bear to see if something would distract her. but the poor thing just doesn't feel good, and has no way to tell you how.

the hours fly by, and your head even hurts a little from the crying and the overthinking about the kiss from this morning. in all the rush, you eat about two bites of lunch before the baby needs something else.

and then at the end of the day, right around when rafe should be coming home, he doesn't.

you feed the baby and rock her to sleep. she fusses ten minutes later, and spits up all over you and your hair, and then knocks out. you even spend twenty minutes hovering over the monitor, making sure she's okay while drying your hair. rafe's still not home, so you get dinner ready and warmed for him, eating yours alone in the silence. and as if you could handle another thing, you spill sauce all over your dress while trying to put away the leftovers.

you were going to wait until you were back home, safe in your tiny apartment to cry and shower and scrub your skin raw from the day you've had, but it can't wait any longer. you take the monitor into the bathroom with you at full volume, and decide to shower in the bathroom closest to the baby's room just to be safe.

it's not until you're naked, wrapped in a soft towel and waiting for the water to get scalding hot, racking your brain for the location of the extra clothes you had once brought here that you realize the shower closest to the baby's room is the shower in rafe's bedroom.

you haven't been in here before—looking around at the expensive cologne on the counter and the dark blue towels and the hamper full of yesterday's dress shirt. it's not a good idea to be in here, but you need to shower and you can't wait another minute. for all you know, mister cameron could come home in another two hours. your dress is spinning in the washer—and your plan is set. throw it in the dryer, find something to wear for the next fifty minutes, and leave as soon as he's home even though you can hear the raindrops on the roof and the thunder outside.

the shower is what you have been needing all day. you wish you had your body wash and shampoo, but his aren't too bad. you inhale deeply, realizing you're submerging yourself in his scent. you could stay in there forever, but you don't—he's gonna be home any minute or the baby could start crying, and you need to go home.

but he smells so good. you've noticed it before, it just feels amplified now. the towel you wrap yourself in is his, meaning he's dried himself with it before. all the clothes smell like his cologne, and the house is a little cold and your clothes are still washing, and though it's probably the worst idea you've ever had, when you get out of the shower, you head to his dresser and pull out the first clean t-shirt you can find.

it's big on you, you knew it would be. it's soft and warm and smells undeniably like mister cameron. you're completely clueless, exhausted because the baby barely napped and you barely got any sleep yourself, and it's way past your own bedtime right now. he might not even come home, you think, with how the storm sounds. you check your phone but there's no messages, just a flood warning.

yesterday's socks and underwear are still spinning in the machine—how long does this thing take? what setting had you put it on?—and you begrudgingly leave rafe's warm bedroom with the baby monitor in one hand, and his navy blue towel in the other, drying your hair. you turn on the television, watching whatever's on while you pat your strands dry, bending over to wrap your hair into the towel so you can sit for a couple minutes, when you hear the door open.

you snap back up, looking at rafe's face stare back at you—he's drenched, hair wet and suit dripping, wiping his forehead with his hand when he looks you up and down. oh god, you don't even know what he just saw, you were bent over and-

"is that my shirt?"

[cherie-doll]

Can I request COD Men dating a medic reader,??

I love your writing sm ^-^

Ofc!

౨ৎ Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

COD Men x Medic!Reader

Price

Imagine being the new medic and you're nervous because it's your first time working there so you have to try your best to hold it together while patching people up

But one day Price comes in injured and you have to control your nerves as you clean his wound up, he's surprisingly nice and even makes small talk with you, it calms you down

After, you manage to keep thinking about that interaction, just how nice it felt to have a normal conversation, it took your mind off of things and honestly it kept you from a mini panic attack from happening

He wishes he could come see you more often, he liked how refreshing it felt to meet someone who seemed a little hesitant, too afraid to mess up, he likes how you smiled after speaking with him

Since he's busy most of the time he can't come to you as often, but I imagine he likes to invite you to just come and talk to him as you drink with him, it's comforting knowing you can bask in his company and he provides you a shoulder to rest on

Ghost

Believe it or not he trusts you a lot, he shows up to your office in his most vulnerable moments, when he's hurt you treat him and never mention anything of it, he knows it's just you doing your job but he can't help but feel like there is an underlying tone to it

He likes resting in your office or recovery room when he wants to get away from everyone else but can't find a quiet place to do so, he likes his alone time and if being in the medic's room where no one is to come in looking for him then he'll stay there during his free time

He secretly started growing a stronger liking to you when you covered for him and told his buddies they couldn't visit because he "needed to rest", not that he hates his friends he just likes his alone time

He often struggles to sleep so to get away from the other soldiers who snore loudly he'll come to you knowing you're almost always up late and drinking tea, like a cat who is content sitting without talking or doing anything next to you and eventually falls asleep

You tend to admire him silently, the features that you can see through his balaclava when he's not aware of it

Soap

Every time he comes to get checked up he likes making you laugh and telling you the worst jokes, but it makes you laugh lightly and honestly keeps you awake and sane from working overtime since you treat a lot of emergencies

He will be laughing as if he doesn't feel the alcohol you're using to disinfect his wound, he likes pretending like he doesn't feel pain when you push the needle in because he doesn't want to be weak in front of you, it's sort of turned into you trying to make him wince or show that it hurts but he tries grits his teeth and holds it in

Doesn't even know he likes you like that until others are teasing him about how often he talks about you and how he'll try to impress you, in his mind he hasn't come to that realization yet, not that he's denying it because he really enjoys your company

You probably get very nervous checking his eyes when you shine the flashlight on them because you notice the way his eyes crinkle, indicating he's smiling and you have to hold the grin before it shows on your face

As a boyfriend he'd be coming by every moment he can to just cling to you when you're on your breaks and you'll have a hard time getting him to leave you alone or give you some space

Gaz

I can imagine him already having a liking to you, he likes coming by every morning that he can to visit you before anyone else can bother you and just hanging around your office when he's in need of good company

You enjoy his company because he's not unnecessarily flirty like other the others are, he's respectful, caring about your mental health because you deal with so many people on the daily but with him it's different, you don't feel that obligation to smile or put on a fake act around him

Your tired eyes light up seeing him knowing you're going to be recharged emotionally and mentally, it's come to the point where you even seek him after your work is done hoping to spend more time with him

It's sort of hard finding time alone together when so many other people are friends with him yet the moment he sees you he'll pull away from everyone else to go to you

Roach

I have a hc that even if he survives the absolute worst situations no one else has he still deals with the aftermath of it and it's many complications and frequently getting checkups from you just to assure his health is good enough to keep getting sent out to missions

He ends up spending more time with you than he does with most of the other soldiers or members of the task force

He confides so much in you, things he'd never share with anyone else and yet you listen to him so attentively it honestly makes him develop an attachment to you and he'd look for any opportunity to reciprocate the attention you give him

You sometimes hate the way others treat him, despite being a chill guy to be around he's often a little out of orbit when it comes to socializing with the others, you'd think going through shit together would unite them but strangely enough he doesn't get enough dopamine from them like he does with you

It might be wrong to feel this way but you care more about him than all the others, you'll rush to attend his needs before the others

Alejandro

He is actually a very lousy patient, it takes you ages to try to get him to take medication or inject the needle into him despite him always teasing the other soldiers who have had medical procedures done to them

You have to be ready with a cloth and ice pack to instantly place on him or else he'll be wanting to bang his head against the wall for the dramatics, you let him hold your hand, anything to bring him comfort or some sort of relief at that point

To avoid getting to that level of pain he'll often drink before coming to you so he's not fully in his senses to actually feel or register anything you may be doing that would usually cause him to panic, you hate when he does this because you prefer him to be fully aware

Other than that he'll always try flirting with you or calling you something like "chula" in Spanish when passing by you and you simply roll your eyes and hide a smirk knowing he's nothing like that when you approach with a needle

Rudy

He's probably known you since before you were a medic, he's seen how much effort you've put into your training to be where you are today he respects you so much for it

He worries so much for you, probably more than you do for him which is funny because he has the "riskier" job, but he often worries about how you are being treated knowing some of the soldiers you treat have trauma and it can make you very stressed with them

He makes sure you get your much needed rest, especially during the breaks everyone else is gone and you still have to stay around "just in case"

There was this one time he was injured pretty badly and he had to be laid down as someone called the medic, he didn't know who would come but he felt his heart skip a beat seeing it was you running towards him, you knelt by his side and with a warm smile reassured him you wouldn't let him slip away from your grasp just yet

He didn't even need a painkiller when he held your hand to his chest so you could feel how much his heart beat showing you he was still alive and well

Phillip Graves

He could be dying on the bed, clutching a wound with blood gushing out and he'll still manage to give a smug smile and ask for your number, you want to suffocate him with a pillow sometimes but you'll most likely be blamed for medical malpractice, instead you just say "HIPPA" and that shuts him up for now

I like to think he brings his Shadows for checkups like a father bringing his children to the pediatrician, some of them aren't fond of it but he makes them go through it to ensure they are healthy and fit for their next mission or training

If one of his Shadows get severely injured he's rushing to see you with them in his arms (he can't actually carry them have you seen how big his Shadows are??) and begging you to help them, will literally be in tears hoping they heal up just fine and that nothing bad ends up happening

Afterwards, you just kinda have to give him that reassurance and he'll be eternally grateful to you for what you do for him and his team, and don't think that just because you aren't "that important" to his company because he makes sure you feel like a vital member of the family

Him and the Shadows will enjoy spending time with you outside of your work area just to show their appreciation

Makarov

You often worry about him, more than you should, he's always taking risks and needed to end up being brought into your office to have something done to him, you can only sigh and lecture him but he's never the type to take his injuries seriously, most of the time he takes bold decisions and that impacts his health

Most of the time he prefers having you go to him, so you have to pack your stuff up and go treat whatever he's dealing with, he often uses these opportunities as excuses to get to know you better and just overall toy with you

You hate when he does this as it wastes time and he's keeping you away from patients who could be needing treatment, whenever you hint at this he simply shrugs it off, clearly not caring about others

You carry so much responsibility on your shoulders to be carelessly leaving where you're stationed to treat a paper cut, but after all he always slips in something extra to keep you coming

Keegan

Loves to initiate arguments with you for the fun of it, you two will be bickering over him not wanting to take a prescription you've given him

You could be stressing over an infected cut and he's trying to act as if it were nothing, that being said the sounds he makes when he's injured and grunting and clutching his arm or side in pain and trying to control his breathing have me AKJERUJS-

He doesn't actually get to see you all that often as he wishes but you know he'll be coming to get "treated" when he comes back from a mission, he always thinks to come see you before anyone else can

And he knows you're often at risk too when you have to go along to treat sick and injured soldiers, he doesn't like to dwell too much on how you could be in danger so he just chooses to focus on his task knowing if he's not careful he won't be able to make it back to tease you again

König

He's the type to rarely go to the medic just because wounds on his body heal insanely fast but also because you will have to FORCE this man to enter your office

He was used to his the previous medic, an older man who took his time with each patient, could barely see which is why he often told the soldiers who came to him to read the medicine labels for him and such

But imagine his surprise when he walks into your office and sees a younger medic there instead of the old medic, he's completely silent as he sits in the chair waiting for you to clean a wound he only came because the pain got so bad he couldn't suppress it

Now he's considering saying he's fine and walking out, but you're already washing your hands and putting gloves on, going over to him and asking for him to show you the injury

He has to look away and his eyes roam the room, looking for something to focus on other than your focused stare, and gentle fingertips that hover over his skin as you inspect the wound that he could have ignored for a little longer

Horangi

He is a headache to deal with, comes in after every mission to get his injuries treated but will talk A LOT, mostly boasting and smug explaining how he got this bruise and those cuts

You're tired of hearing him but honestly you'll take whatever as a distraction, and you know he's BUILT like that man will be flexing his biceps and you can't help but stare at them, also his waist?!?

Before leaving he always jokes for you not to miss him incase he doesn't come back from the next mission, you just roll your eyes because you don't want to admit that he's grown on you and his absence is something you don't even want to think about

He likes sending you notes with flirty messages on them to show his growing interest in wanting to pursue a relationship with you because you never give in to letting him have your number, he always wants to take you out to some fancy restaurant or cook for you himself, anything to get you out of your office for a day and spend it with him alone

Nikto

You're often doing a million things at once, quickly treating a patient and ushering them out so you can see the next one who's grunting as they wait in line, that day Nikto has to get something treated and he just so happens to go on a busy day

You're in a rush to treat your patients in pain but he notices some of them aren't even in pain, they seem to have relaxed looks on their faces and they don't have any wounds that he can see, they even joke and laugh with one another

Turns out some of them are only there to chat with you, as happens most of the time with soldiers who are stationed in one place too long with little to no freedom to roam anywhere else, Nikto doesn't understand why they would waste your time when it's finally his turn to see you and you tenderly yet efficiently treat him

He likes the way you touched him, even if it was only you doing your job, he likes your pretty eyes, even if you barely looked at him, he thinks your voice is precious to hear, even if you only used it to direct a single question to him, now he understands those soldiers in line who don't mind waiting an hour just to be with you for a moment

[shdysders]

love wasn’t enough

pairing: vada cavell & female reader

summary: you and vada thought you could handle the distance that came with college—until you couldn’t.

word count: 6.8k

The car idled by the curb, its low, steady hum filling the suffocating silence between you. The sun hung low in the sky, its golden light spilling over the street and casting jagged shadows across the pavement.

Neither of you had moved for what felt like hours, and the stillness was heavy enough to crush you both.

This was it—the moment you'd dreaded for months, hanging over you like a storm cloud ever since the day those college acceptance letters arrived.

When you'd first realized you weren't going to the same school, it felt like the world had shifted beneath your feet, throwing everything off balance.

The excitement of getting in—of finally moving toward your futures—was completely overshadowed by the realization that those futures wouldn't start side by side.

Vada had laughed nervously when you told her, brushing it off like it wasn't a big deal. "We'll figure it out," she'd said, but her voice cracked just enough to betray her. She'd always been good at hiding how she felt, but you knew her too well to miss the flicker of fear behind her eyes.

You hadn't talked about it much that night, both of you too overwhelmed to confront what it meant. But later, curled up together on her bed with her arms wrapped tightly around you, the silence had broken.

You'd cried together, your tears soaking into her hoodie as she whispered soft reassurances, even though neither of you believed them. You'd made promises to each other in the dark—promises that you'd keep calling, keep visiting, keep loving each other no matter how hard it got.

They were promises you wanted so badly to keep, but even then, deep down, you'd both known how fragile they were.

The two of you had always talked about the future like it was something tangible, something you could hold in your hands.

Long nights spent lying on the floor of her room, staring up at the ceiling, planning out every detail like it was inevitable.

You'd talked about what you'd do for a living—Vada always said she'd end up working in film somehow, and you had your own dreams, though they always shifted depending on the day.

You'd joked about buying a car together, getting a dog to keep her happy because she swore no house was complete without one.

Marriage, kids, growing old together—it had all seemed so real when you talked about it, so easy.

But the one thing you hadn't talked about was this: the years it would take to get there, and the distance that stood in the way.

It had never really hit you that before you could have that life, you'd have to make it through moments like this.

The thought alone had made your chest ache every time it crossed your mind, so you'd tried not to dwell on it.

A few days before you were supposed to leave, the two of you had started avoiding the subject entirely. Talking about it made it too real, and you weren't ready for real.

You'd tried to fill your time with distractions instead—late-night movies, long drives to nowhere, anything to pretend things were normal. If you didn't talk about it, maybe you wouldn't have to cry about it.

But now, standing by the car, there was no avoiding it. The weight of it pressed down on your shoulders, tightening your throat as you struggled to find something to say.

Vada stood a few feet away, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her hoodie, her posture tense and closed off. She kept glancing at you, then back down at the ground, her sneakers scuffing against the pavement.

Her usual confidence was nowhere to be found, replaced by a hesitation that made your stomach twist. You'd never seen her like this before—unsure of herself, unsure of what to do. And for once, you couldn't blame her.

"Did you triple-check your suitcase?" Vada's voice was quieter than usual, almost like she was afraid to disturb the fragile atmosphere that had settled between you.

"I think I did," you replied, forcing a small smile in an attempt to break the tension. "I mean, if I didn't, I'm sure I'll survive without, like, an extra pair of socks."

The joke fell flat, the lightness you'd hoped for swallowed by the weight of the moment. Vada didn't laugh. She just nodded, her teeth tugging anxiously at her bottom lip.

It was a tell you'd come to recognize over the years, a sign that she was holding something back but couldn't find the courage to say it.

The silence grew, stretching taut like a string ready to snap.

You busied yourself by fidgeting with the strap of your bag, your fingers twisting the worn fabric into knots as you tried to come up with something—anything—that might make this easier.

But the words felt stuck in your throat, thick and clumsy and useless.

"This feels weird," she said suddenly, breaking the silence with a hesitance that made your chest ache. Her voice was quieter now, almost uncertain, like she wasn't sure if she should've said it out loud.

"I know," you admitted softly, your eyes fixed on the pavement instead of her face. The heaviness in your chest pressed down harder, threatening to spill out if you didn't keep your voice steady. "But it's not like we're never going to see each other again."

You forced yourself to look up, trying to meet her gaze even as your stomach twisted with the effort of pretending you weren't falling apart. "We'll FaceTime every day. And text all the time. Nothing's going to change."

The words felt hollow even as you said them, but you needed them to be true. For her, for yourself, for both of you.

Vada's lips twitched into a faint smile at your attempt to reassure her, but it was weak, and it didn't quite reach her eyes. Those dark eyes that always sparkled with mischief, with life, looked dimmer now, weighed down by something neither of you wanted to name. "Yeah," she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Nothing's gonna change."

But it wasn't true, and you both knew it. Things were already changing—had been changing from the moment you'd both accepted that you couldn't stay in the same place forever. Pretending otherwise wouldn't stop the inevitable, and yet, you didn't dare acknowledge it. Not here, not now.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, pushing back the tears that threatened to spill over. This wasn't the time to cry—not yet. You didn't want to ruin the little time you had left together by falling apart. So you bit your lip, forced another shaky smile, and pretended you didn't notice how Vada's shoulders seemed to cave inward, like she was carrying the weight of the entire world on her back.

"Come here," you said, stepping forward before she could argue. Your voice was soft, but the need to hold her was overwhelming, like it might somehow keep everything from changing.

Before Vada could say a word, you wrapped your arms around her, burying your face in the familiar crook of her neck. Her arms came around you instantly, pulling you in with a desperation that mirrored your own.

Her fingers gripped the back of your shirt, holding on like letting go would make you disappear.

"I don't want you to go," she whispered, her voice breaking in a way that shattered you.

"I don't want to go either," you managed, though your throat felt like it was closing with each word. "But we'll be okay, Vada. We will." You didn't know if you were trying to convince her or yourself.

Her hold on you tightened, her breath warm against your shoulder, before she pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes were glossy, the tears clinging to her lashes as if she was trying to will them away.

"You promise you'll call me as soon as you get there?" she asked, her voice small but insistent.

"I promise," you said, your hands resting gently on her waist.

"And if I start failing math, you'll tutor me over FaceTime?"

A soft laugh broke through the heaviness of the moment. "You're not going to fail math."

"You don't know that," she argued, a faint smile tugging at her lips, but it didn't quite hide the sadness behind her eyes.

The way she tried to lighten the mood made your heart ache. You reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face, your fingers lingering against her skin. "You're going to do amazing, Vada. I know you are."

She sniffled, leaning into your touch like she needed the reassurance as much as you did. "You'd better come home every chance you get."

"Every single chance," you said firmly, your voice leaving no room for doubt.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you saw her bite back the tears threatening to spill. But when she caught the slight sheen in your eyes, she reached up and swiped a thumb across your cheek before you could do it yourself. "Don't cry. You're going to make me cry, and I don't need my parents seeing that."

Her weak attempt at humor pulled a soft chuckle from you, but the ache in your chest didn't let up. "You promise to call too?" you asked, your voice quieter now. "You're going away too, remember?"

Her hand dropped from your face, brushing over your arm as she nodded. "I promise."

The weight of everything unsaid hung between you, thick and suffocating, as you leaned your forehead against hers. For a moment, there was nothing else—just the two of you, the soft hitch of her breath, and the way her eyes locked on yours like they were trying to memorize every detail.

"I love you," you whispered, your hands cupping her cheeks. Her skin was warm beneath your palms, and the way she closed her eyes for a second, leaning into your touch, made your heart squeeze.

"I love you too," she replied, her voice shaky but sure.

You closed the small distance between you, pressing your lips to hers. The kiss was soft, lingering, filled with all the emotions you couldn't put into words. Her hands came up to rest on yours, holding them in place as if grounding herself in the moment.

When you finally pulled away, her eyes fluttered open, and you could see the sheen of tears she was still trying to hide. You wanted to say more, to tell her everything you felt, but the words wouldn't come. So you just stayed there, your foreheads still touching, letting the silence speak for itself.

The honk of the car horn shattered the quiet between you, pulling you both back to reality. You glanced over your shoulder to see your parents gesturing impatiently from the car, their faces a mixture of understanding and urgency.

Vada's posture stiffened, her arms falling to her sides as she let out a shaky breath. "I guess this is it," she said softly, her voice barely audible.

Your throat felt tight again as you turned back to her. "I guess it is."

Neither of you moved at first. The finality of it hung between you like a barrier neither of you wanted to cross. But then you stepped forward, reaching for her hands. They were trembling slightly as they found yours, and you held onto them like it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

"You're going to do amazing," you said, your voice firm despite the lump in your throat.

"So are you," she replied, her words almost a whisper. Her lips curved into a faint smile, but the tears in her eyes betrayed her.

You let go of one of her hands to brush a thumb across her cheek, wiping away a tear that had slipped free. "Don't forget that, okay? You're going to be amazing, Vada."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but instead, she just nodded, her grip on your remaining hand tightening.

The car horn sounded again, louder this time, and you knew you couldn't stall any longer. You leaned in quickly, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. It was fleeting but filled with everything you wanted to say—every promise, every hope, every piece of your heart you were leaving with her.

When you pulled back, you cupped her face one last time, letting your hands linger before reluctantly stepping away. "I'll call you as soon as I get there," you said, your voice breaking slightly.

"I'll be waiting," she replied, her tears spilling over despite the brave face she was trying to put on.

With a reluctant sigh, you turned and opened the car door, sliding into the backseat. Your parents exchanged sympathetic looks but didn't say anything as the car started to pull away.

Through the window, you saw Vada standing there, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She looked smaller somehow, more fragile, like the weight of the moment was too much for her to carry. Her eyes never left yours as the distance between you grew.

You pressed your hand to the glass in a silent goodbye, and after a brief pause, she raised her hand in return. Her figure grew smaller and smaller until all you could see was the faint outline of her silhouette against the fading light.

Even when she was gone from sight, you kept your hand on the window, your chest heavier than ever. You didn't let it drop, not until the first tear slid down your cheek and you had to turn away to wipe it before anyone could see.

___

The first few weeks apart had been just as hard as you expected, but you'd made it work. You clung to the promises you'd made that day at the curb, determined to keep things as close to normal as possible, even from miles away.

Your days fell into a rhythm before you even realized it. Classes kept you busy, and your new friends had a way of filling the quiet moments that might've felt unbearable otherwise. Vada, from what she mentioned during your nightly calls, was finding her own place too. She'd joined a few clubs—something about a film club and, surprisingly, a hiking group.

The calls became a lifeline. Some nights, they stretched on for hours as you traded every detail of your day until exhaustion took over.

You could tell she was trying to keep things light, often sharing funny stories about her classmates or how she got lost on campus again. It was enough to make you laugh and forget, even for a moment, how much you missed her.

She'd even complained once about her classes, mentioning how her professor's assignments were impossible. "I'd fail without you," she'd said one evening, after you patiently explained the steps to her over the phone.

It had been a silly mistake—she was reading the questions wrong—but she refused to admit it. You could practically hear her rolling her eyes, her exasperation softening into a grateful laugh by the end of it.

The weeks passed in a blur of busy days and late-night conversations. Every chance you got, you talked about the future you'd once dreamed up together.

It was still there in your minds—the house, the dog, the tiny details that made it all feel real. Neither of you dared to admit how much harder it seemed now, with your paths so far apart.

On the weekends, you'd try to watch a movie together over a shared screen. The plans rarely worked as smoothly as you'd hoped—buffering internet, lagging voices, or one of you falling asleep halfway through—but you didn't care. You'd laugh about it every time, finding comfort in the fact that you were still trying.

You were doing everything right, just as you'd planned. It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.

The weeks slipped by faster than you'd expected, and somehow, the distance didn't feel as unbearable as you'd feared. It wasn't ideal, but it was manageable.

You'd fallen into routines that made it easier—daily calls, texts whenever you had a spare moment, and a constant reassurance that this was only temporary.

You told yourself this was how it had to be, that the sacrifices were worth it.

Vada seemed happy. She talked about her classes with more confidence now, even cracking jokes about how her professor probably hated her because she was always five minutes late.

She teased you about how many new friends you'd made, calling you "Miss Popular" every time you mentioned another study session or late-night hangout.

And yet, there was always a moment in those calls when the laughter would fade, and the silence would creep in. It wasn't awkward, just heavy, like the unspoken truth neither of you dared to acknowledge. You ignored it, convincing yourself it didn't matter.

You felt like everything was as perfect as it could be—like you were both doing your best, holding onto each other as tightly as the distance would allow.

That night felt no different.

You'd sent Vada a quick text earlier in the day, asking if she'd have time for your daily call, and she'd replied with a short;

yh, same time as usual

So, when the clock struck nine, you dialed her number like you always did.

The call started like all the others had. Vada answered on the third ring.

"Hi, baby," you greeted softly, your voice carrying that familiar warmth, the kind you hoped would make her smile.

There was a moment of shuffling on the other end, the faint sound of fabric brushing against fabric, before she answered. "Hi," she said, quieter than usual. "How are you?"

"I'm good," you replied easily, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Tired, though. I miss you."

"I miss you too," she said, and you heard it in the way her voice softened, how she lingered on the words just a little longer.

"I was thinking about you earlier," you continued, leaning back in your chair as you held the phone closer to your ear. "You know that girl I told you about? The one in my ethics class who's always asking the weirdest questions?" You paused, letting out a small laugh.

"She completely hijacked today's lecture by asking if it's ethical to steal a gluten-free loaf of bread. Like, not just any loaf—specifically gluten-free."

There was a beat of silence before Vada gave a faint, almost reluctant laugh. "That's... creative."

"Right? The professor didn't know what to do with her. The whole class turned into a debate about dietary restrictions and morality," you said, chuckling. "It was so ridiculous I actually thought about texting you in the middle of it."

Her response was quiet, almost absent, just a soft "Hm."

It made you pause, your smile fading slightly. Something felt... off.

"How are you, though?" you asked, your tone shifting to something more careful. "You doing okay?"

For a moment, the line was filled with nothing but the faint sound of her breathing. Then you heard her take a shaky breath, the kind you'd heard before when she was trying to hold something back.

Your heart started to race. "Vada?"

"I, um..." she started, and her voice broke on the words. She stopped just as quickly, exhaling sharply like she was frustrated with herself.

You didn't say anything, giving her space to gather her thoughts, but your mind was already spinning.

Was she okay? Had something happened at school? Was someone being mean to her?

A dozen worst-case scenarios flashed through your head, each one making your chest tighten a little more.

"I just wanted to..." she tried again, her voice trembling slightly.

Still, you said nothing, waiting. You didn't want to rush her, didn't want to make it harder, but it was getting harder to breathe as each second passed.

"I was thinking..." she tried once more, trailing off again.

Your grip on the phone tightened, a sinking feeling settling in your stomach. The way she kept stopping and starting—it wasn't like her. And the shaky, uneven way she spoke made it clear that whatever she was about to say wasn't something you were going to want to hear.

But you stayed silent, holding on to the small hope that maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed.

And then it started.

"I just..." Vada hesitated, her voice already breaking. "I don't know how to say this. I've been thinking about it for a while, and..."

Her words trailed off, and you could hear her take a shaky breath. Your grip on the phone tightened as the silence stretched, your chest knotting with unease.

"I've been trying so hard to picture the future we talked about," she began again, her voice trembling. "You know, the house, the dog, the wedding, all of it. But... I just can't see it anymore."

Her words were rushed and unsteady, tumbling out in a way that made it clear she hadn't planned this. "It's like, we've talked about it so much, right? All these plans we made, and I—I don't even know if that's what I want anymore. What if it's not? What if we've just been telling ourselves that's what we want, but it's not actually what's going to happen?"

Your stomach churned as you listened, her words leaving you more confused than anything. "It's not that I don't love you," she added quickly, almost desperately. "I do. I love you so much, but... I don't know if love is enough. Not with how different things feel right now."

Different? You wanted to ask what she meant, but you couldn't bring yourself to interrupt.

"I mean, look at us," she rambled on, sniffling between her words. "You're doing so well there, making all these friends, figuring things out, and I'm... I don't even know what I'm doing. It's like we're moving in completely different directions, and I keep telling myself it's fine, that we'll meet in the middle, but what if we don't? What if we can't?"

Her voice cracked, and she let out a shaky breath. "I feel like I'm letting you down. Like I'm holding you back from... from something, I don't even know what. And you deserve better than that."

The lump in your throat grew heavier with each word, but you stayed silent, your mind racing. None of this made sense. You weren't moving in different directions. You were both just... adjusting. Weren't you?

"And I know this sounds stupid," she said, her voice quieter now. "But I don't even know if I'm the same person I was when we made all those plans. I don't know if I want the same things anymore, and it's not fair to keep pretending like I do. Like we're both still on the same page.”

Her words were spiraling now, losing focus. "It's just—this is so hard, and I hate how hard it is. I hate feeling like this all the time. Like I'm failing you, or us, or whatever this is supposed to be."

You felt your heart drop as she sniffled again, her breath hitching on the other end.

"I've been thinking..." she said finally, her voice barely audible. "Maybe we'd be better off as friends."

And there it was.

The words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You sat frozen, her voice echoing in your mind, even though she'd stopped talking. Better off as friends.

Friends.

She wanted to be friends.

Your chest felt hollow, like the air had been sucked out of you. You clutched the phone tighter, your knuckles white, but your voice still wouldn't come. On the other end, Vada let out another soft, broken sob, and it shattered whatever was left of you.

The moment the words left her mouth, you felt like the floor had fallen out from under you. You sat frozen for a beat, her quiet sniffles filling the silence on the other end of the line. The weight of her words pressed down on your chest, making it hard to breathe.

But then the panic set in, bubbling up and spilling out of you in a frantic rush.

"Vada, no," you started, your voice trembling but insistent. "That's not true. None of what you're saying is true. We can fix this. We can figure it out together, okay? We always do."

She let out a soft, shaky "I—" but you didn't let her finish.

"You're just overwhelmed. That's all it is. Long-distance is hard, but it's not impossible. It's not something we can't handle. You're just—maybe you're overthinking, you know? Maybe you're just tired or stressed or something, but you don't mean this. I know you don't."

Your voice cracked, and you realized tears were already forming in your eyes. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself as the words kept spilling out.

"If it's about the distance, we can fix that. I'll come home every single break, every weekend—hell, every free day I get. I'll figure it out. I'll make it work. I'll come to you, okay? It doesn't have to be this hard. It doesn't have to feel like this."

"Wait, just let me—" Vada tried again, but you steamrolled over her, desperate to keep her from saying the one thing you couldn't bear to hear.

"And if that's not enough, I'll transfer," you said, your voice breaking now as tears started to fall. "I'll drop out here and come to your school. I don't care if my parents get mad or if they never forgive me. I'll do it for you—for us. You'd do that for us too, right? You'd do it if it meant we could stay together?"

Her sharp inhale cut through your words, and for a moment, you thought she might agree. But then you heard her sniffle, followed by a soft, broken, "It's not—”

"No, don't say it," you cut her off again, your tone more frantic now. "Don't say it's over. Don't say you can't see a future for us, because I can. I see it every day. I wake up thinking about it. I go to bed dreaming about it. I know it's there, Vada. We just have to hold on a little longer, that's all. We just have to try a little harder."

You were full-on crying now, tears streaming down your face as you pleaded with her. Your voice wavered with every word, but you couldn't stop. You wouldn't stop.

"Tell me what to do. Just tell me what you need, and I'll do it. If you're feeling like this because of something I did, I'll fix it. I swear I'll fix it. Just... don't give up on us, Vada. Please."

Her quiet sobs on the other end of the line twisted something deep in your chest. You could hear her trying to speak, her voice breaking every time she tried to get a word in.

"Y/N, I—"

"No, stop," you begged, your voice cracking as you ran your hand through your hair in frustration. "Don't say it. Don't say this is what you want, because it's not. I know you, Vada. You don't want this. You love me, and I love you, and that has to mean something. That has to be enough."

You took a shaky breath, your chest heaving as you tried to pull yourself together. "Please, Vada. Just... please. Don't do this. We can figure it out. Together. We can fix it. I'll do whatever it takes."

You waited, your heart pounding in your ears as the silence stretched between you. For the first time since she started talking, you let the quiet settle, hoping—praying—that she'd take it all back. That she'd tell you she was wrong, that you were right, and that you could make it work.

But instead, all you heard was her broken sobs on the other end of the line.

Vada's breathing on the other end was uneven, shaky, like she was trying to pull herself together. "I just..." she started, her voice so quiet it was almost lost in the static of the line. "I don't know if we can, Y/N."

Her words left a hollow ache in your chest, like the ground had been pulled out from beneath you. Your mind scrambled for something—anything—that could refute what she was saying. Before you could respond, though, there was a faint, muffled voice on her end.

It was brief, barely audible, but it was enough to send your thoughts spiraling. There was someone with her. You didn't know who, and you didn't care. All you could think was that of course this would happen.

Of course, she'd meet someone else. She was beautiful, charismatic, and too good for her own good. How could you ever have thought you could keep her?

Your stomach churned as the realization settled in, bitter and sharp. The question slipped out before you could stop it, a panicked whisper. "Did you meet someone else?"

"What?" Vada's voice shot up in surprise, defensive and almost offended. "No! Why would you even think that?"

"I don't know!" you blurted, your words tumbling out in a rush. "I don't know, okay? I just—I thought maybe... I mean, it would make sense, wouldn't it? You're there, and you're meeting new people all the time. And if you did meet someone else, I wouldn't..." You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. "I wouldn't even care. Not really. I'd be fine with it. If that's what this is about, if you met someone, then it's fine. Because that would mean you'd still want me, right? Even if it's not the same. Even if it's just... until you came back."

Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for how desperate you sounded. You hated that you were putting this out there, offering pieces of yourself you weren't sure you could get back.

"Y/N, stop," Vada interrupted, her tone sharp but laced with something softer, like guilt or regret. "It's not like that. There's no one else. I swear, I wouldn't do that to you. I wouldn't do that to us."

Her voice wavered, and you could hear her swallow thickly on the other end. "This isn't about someone else. It's about us. It's about me. Please don't—don't do this. Don't make this harder than it already is."

But how could you not? How could you not fight for this, for her, for the life you'd both imagined together? You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. Just the weight of her confession, heavy and suffocating, hanging in the silence between you.

This was what she wanted. Maybe not what she'd planned, maybe not what either of you had, but it was what she needed. Forcing her to stay, clinging to dreams you thought you both shared but she clearly didn't, would only be selfish.

The realization hit you like a slow, creeping wave, rising higher with every second until it consumed you.

And maybe there was someone else. Maybe she hadn't been lying earlier, but the thought lingered anyway. If there was someone else, it wasn't like she'd tell you.

Who would admit, "I met someone else and that's why I'm breaking up with you," to their sobbing girlfriend over the phone? It wouldn't make sense to expect her to say it outright, not when you were already shattered.

Your throat tightened as the pieces came together, the edges jagged and sharp. You got quiet, the silence stretching between you like a canyon, vast and unbridgeable.

Your palm pressed against your phone, slick with sweat, trembling as your grip faltered. Every instinct screamed at you to argue, to fight for her, but a deeper, quieter voice told you this was the end.

You forced a shaky, fragile smile onto your face, as if she could see it. As if she were sitting across from you, not hundreds of miles away. It was for her. Everything you did was always for her. You couldn't let yourself make this harder than it already was.

"Whatever makes you happy, Vada," you whispered. Your voice wavered, so unsteady it betrayed the effort you were putting into sounding soft, even light. You wanted her to hear you smile through the phone, the way she always teased you about. "I can hear you smiling," she'd say, laughing when you tried to deny it.

But this time, you weren't sure it worked. Your smile was too small, too forced, too broken. You thought you heard her gulp on the other end of the line, a soft sound like she was holding back tears of her own.

"Please don't..." Vada started, her voice cracking. She trailed off, and the silence stretched again before she finally spoke, quieter this time. "I don't want you to hate me."

Your chest tightened painfully as she repeated herself, softer, more desperate. "Please don't hate me."

You couldn't respond. The tears were falling freely now, hot and stinging, blurring your vision. You pressed your lips together tightly, trying to hold back the sob building in your throat.

How could she say that? How could she think you wouldn't hate her? She'd just taken the future you'd built together and shattered it like it was nothing. Of course, you hated her.

But then... how could you? How could you hate her when this was what she needed, what she wanted? If she didn't want you anymore, what choice did you have but to let her go? The hate wasn't real. It was a fleeting thought, something to make the pain feel less unbearable. But you didn't hate her. You couldn't.

The silence stretched again, thick and suffocating, and you could imagine Vada sitting wherever she was, clutching her phone, picturing your face the same way you were picturing hers. She sniffled, the sound shaking slightly through the line. "Please," she said softly, her voice raw and pleading. "Please say something."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. Just the tears, the ache, and the overwhelming weight of her absence that hadn't even fully settled in yet. But you had to say something. You had to give her something. For her. Always for her.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to try again. The first attempt had crumbled under the weight of your emotions, but you had to do better. For her. Always for her.

You pressed your palm against your knee, grounding yourself as you curved your lips into a sharper smile. This time, you were determined she'd hear it. "It's fine, Vada," you said softly, pushing every ounce of fake cheerfulness you could muster into your tone.

It almost sounded convincing. Almost. The words came out soft and measured, like you'd rehearsed them. For a fleeting second, you thought it had worked. Maybe you could trick her into believing you were okay. Maybe that would make it easier for both of you.

But then Vada sniffled again, the sound ragged and broken through the line. It made your heart ache all over again, even as you resented how much it still cared.

"I was hoping..." Vada hesitated, the words trembling. "I was hoping we could still be friends."

Your chest tightened, the ache deepening, but she didn't stop there. "Can we still be friends?" she repeated, her voice smaller, like she knew she was asking too much.

The question hit you like a slap, blunt and rude in its audacity. Friends? How could she ask that? How could she even think it was possible? Just minutes ago, you'd been begging her to stay, willing to rearrange your entire life for her. And now, she wanted to slot herself into a new, smaller role in your world, as if that would be enough.

Your throat burned as you tried to think of something to say. Anything. But all you could feel was the overwhelming sting of her question, of how casually she was trying to rewrite the rules of what you were to each other.

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Vada's question echoed in your head, mocking you, tearing through the fragile hope you'd clung to for so long. Friends. Friends. The word felt like it was twisting a knife in your chest, each syllable a reminder of how far you'd fallen from what you used to be.

How could she ask for that? How could she pretend like this wasn't destroying you?

Your hands trembled as you wiped at your face, trying to keep the tears from falling faster. It didn't work. Nothing did. Your entire body felt like it was collapsing inward, suffocated by the weight of everything you had just lost.

"Sure, Vada..." you finally muttered, your voice hoarse and hollow. You didn't even sound like yourself anymore.

You swallowed hard, pushing the words past the tightness in your throat. "Friends." The word was venom on your tongue, and it slipped out like a curse. Spat, almost, as if saying it was enough to kill you.

Vada's breath hitched on the other end of the line. "I really—"

"No." You didn't let her finish. You couldn't. Not after everything she'd just done, after the way she'd torn apart everything you'd ever dreamed of together. "I'll see you some other time, Vada."

The words came out cold, detached, as if you were already shutting the door on her. As if that would make this any easier.

You didn't wait for her response. You couldn't bear to. Your heart pounded in your chest, your thumb hovering over the end call button. This was it. No "I love you," like there was after every call. No "I'll talk to you tomorrow," because you knew there wouldn't be a tomorrow—not the kind you'd always counted on.

Just as your thumb moved to end the call, you heard Vada's voice again, small and desperate, breaking through your resolve.

"We can still call every—"

You ended the call.

Because you wanted to. Because you had to. Because hearing her voice again, hearing her try to piece together a friendship out of the ruins of what you once had, was too much.

The silence after the call was deafening. It settled in your chest, heavy and hollow, pressing against your ribs like it was trying to break you from the inside out. You stared at your phone, the screen still bright, Vada's name burned into your eyes like a cruel reminder. It was over. Just like that.

Your hands trembled as you placed the phone on your desk, your vision blurred by tears that wouldn't stop. Everything felt too loud and too quiet all at once. The distant hum of voices outside your dorm window, the faint buzz of the lamp beside you—it all blended into a cacophony that drowned out the ache in your chest.

How could she do this? How could she decide so easily that it wasn't worth fighting for? The future you'd both whispered about late at night, the dreams you'd built together—it was all gone. And for what?

You tried to breathe, to steady yourself, but every inhale felt like a knife twisting deeper. You'd spent so long believing in her, in the two of you. You'd built your world around her, every decision, every hope tied to the thought of her being there. And now, she wasn't.

The thought made you feel sick.

You pulled your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around yourself like it would somehow keep the pieces of you together. But it didn't. You were crumbling, your chest aching with the weight of everything unsaid, everything you couldn't fix.

She was gone.

You wanted to hate her. You wanted to scream, to curse her name, to tear apart the memories that still clung to you like ghosts. But you couldn't. You couldn't hate her, not really. Because you loved her. Even now, even after this, you loved her with every broken piece of your heart.

And that was the cruelest part.

Because love wasn't enough to keep her. It wasn't enough to hold onto the future you thought you'd have. It wasn't enough to stop her from leaving.

You closed your eyes, tears slipping down your cheeks as the ache in your chest settled into something deeper, something emptier. All you had now were the memories, the fragments of what you once were.

Or at least what was left.

[grimmweepers]

— ☆ contents: dealing with dragon!form zhongli who possesses cat-like behaviours. human reader. dragon husband. sfw. fluff. established relationship. might be a little ooc. this is very unserious. 0.6k. | masterlist (i’m a dark content blog so mdni).

Dragon!Zhongli who acts much like an affectionate housecat despite his towering size and the magnitude of his status.

He, who is so comfortable around his human partner that he isn't afraid to bear his dragon form day-to-day, lest his cat-like behaviours (endearing as they are) go unnoticed.

Every time you run your fingers through the silk of his dark locks or scratch at the base of his horns, that's when it starts. A deep, soothing vibration beneath his scaled chest. The low rumble is almost hypnotic as his amber eyes drift closed, lulling him (and yourself) into a state of ease. If you remain watchful, you'll catch the corners of his lips curl ever-so-slightly upwards.

You can’t help but giggle because you know it’s not quite purring, but it might as well be.

Dragon!Zhongli whose tail is as much part of his personality as his deep voice and eloquent spiels. First and foremost, that thing is unapologetically heavy. When he’s in a good mood, it swishes around lazily, thumping against the furniture or brushing against your legs as he walks by.

Once it knocked over an entire stack of books and while you were busy laughing, he just sighed and said, “An unfortunate accident.” But if he’s feeling especially affectionate? Even worse. That's when you really have to watch out. It possessively curls around you and suddenly you’re dealing with the weight of a solid tail pulling you closer to him. You’ve almost toppled over a few times because of it.

“Careful, Zhongli,” you’ll tell him. “You might end up sweeping me off my feet.” Then he chuckles at you, tail tightening around your waist just a smidge.

That’s the idea, of course.

Dragon!Zhongli who feigns annoyance every time you act on your favourite habit: lifting his lips to inspect his fangs.

They’re a far cry from the tiny, delicate teeth of a cat, which is the only other creature you’ve subjected to this odd little inspection but that makes them even more fascinating.

"Must you do this every time?" he asks, lips pulling back just enough for you to admire them. They were sharp, pristine, and unsettlingly perfect. Enough to crack a bone with a single snap of his jaw but it was the same mouth he kissed you with. You never got used it.

"I'm lucky you’ve never nicked me with these," you’ll tease, brushing your finger along the largest fang.

Zhongli's responses are always the same: a long exhale as if you've just asked him to recite every contract he's ever known (which he could btw), followed by, “You’re enamoured with the oddest things.” But he lets you do it anyway. His words begin lose a bit of their weight when his tail slowly starts swaying behind him, exposing that he’s enjoying it more than he lets on.

And no one will ever believe you when you tell them how he is when he's feeling playful. It's a rarity but he'll nudge you gently with his horns as a display of affection and if you don't respond right away, he'll flick his tail at you. Not hard but enough for you to look his way.

Pay attention to me, it seems to say.

It’s mischievous, even if for a moment. Then you’ll catch a glint in his eye while he pretends to be all composed, but truly, he finds it amusing how he easily this form could be used as a weapon against you when he warrants his own needs.

The mighty dragon, who can command the earth itself, is stripped of his grandeur when you're around, replaced by a creature who wants nothing more than to be with you in the simplest way. And if you mention it, he’ll give you that look of half exasperation and half fondness before pulling you closer and acting like it’s purely your fault he’s such a softie with you.

a/n: if it wasn’t obvious already, i am a cat person (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑)

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Every Day That You Want

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, tooth-rotting fluff, pregnancy, pre-established relationship, marriage proposal

Summary/Warnings: You have big news for Dean. News you have to tell him, wether he likes it or not. You really hope he likes it, though.

Author's Note: Kind of a prequel to another fic of mine (Still You Want Me), but can be read alone. I just love putting big scary men in normal situations.

Word Count: 2.9k

You can do this. You’ve been to hell and back, you’ve killed angels, you’ve survived at least three apocalypses, and you’ve helped raise the Anti-Christ. This should, comparatively, be easy. 

It’s not. It’s the most daunting and terrifying thing you’ve ever done. It’s just words, but you’re going to choke on them because they could ruin your life. You’ve rehearsed in front of the mirror until your voice didn’t sound like yours anymore and nothing you said seemed real. It had been like repeating the same one word over and over again, until it’s nothing but an odd sound. Until it meant nothing.

But this has to mean something. You have to be able to say this to Dean, and you have to try and not get lost in the possibilities of how he’ll respond. He won’t leave you—Dean would never leave you—but he might tell you he doesn’t want this, and then you’ll have to make a choice. You don’t want to make a choice. You don’t want to hear Dean tell you that, with the lives you lead, this wouldn’t be a good idea. That it doesn’t matter what either of you want, because this isn’t something you get to have.

You want to have this, though. You want to have Dean and the baby. You want to have him as you’ve always had him before—strong and tired, always fighting because it’s all he knows how to do, but resting his head on your chest in the dark and humming against your lips when he kisses you—but you also want to have him in this new way. Where he’d smile for more reasons than just you and Sam and Cas. Where he’d get to direct some of that undying loyalty to someone who’d never be ungrateful, who’d would see him as a hero in a way he might finally believe. 

He’d be so good at it. Dean would spoil the kid, and teach them everything he knew, and care for them more than he’d ever care for himself. It breaks your heart sometimes, how he doesn’t kill himself for Sam, and he doesn’t drink himself to death for Cas, and he tries to get better for you, but he still doesn’t really know how to look in the mirror and not see a shadow.

And this would be the piece of him that’s never been tainted. The piece of him that crawls over you in bed just to hold you, that still watches cartoons and gets excited when he sees a cool car or hears an awesome drumline. The part of him that still cares, against all odds, and cares so much you’ve been worried it would kill him. The part of him that’s so simply made of light and love, crushed under years of his soul being bruised and beaten.

A part of him that won’t break. A part of him you love just as much as the rest of his wreckage, but that you still try to tend to, because you’ll love him the same if it vanishes, but you don’t think he deserves that. Dean deserves to only have that piece of him expand, to have it absorb all the love you throw at him, to grow until he can see it too. Until he can believe it’s there.

You know that it’s all so fucking hard. That Dean will never be all light, but you wouldn’t ever expect him to be. You know that a baby won’t fix him, not by far, but you also know it will show him he can create something. That he doesn’t poison everything he touches. 

That he made something entirely good, with you.

And if he tells you he doesn’t want this, you’ll live with that. You’ve lived with worse.

But you don’t even want to try to live with it. You’ll probably have to, but you’d like to pretend you won’t. 

The most you’re daring to pray for is that he doesn’t freak out. But angels don’t really take your calls anymore. 

So you’ll just have to hope.

You’ve set this up perfectly. There’s a pie in the oven that you will not let burn. There’s bacon and pancakes on a plate waiting for him when he finally gets his ass up. You have the whole bunker to yourself, because Sam’s off to see Eileen.

You’re not allowed to tell Dean that—Sam says he gets annoying—but you will in order to get him in a better mood. Sam’s fatal mistake was believing that you wouldn’t do anything to make Dean happy. So this is really on Sam. He’s the one that introduced you to Dean in the first place. Just because you were his friend first doesn’t mean he didn’t lose your automatic allegiance the moment he said this is my brother and his brother was the hottest man you’d ever seen. 

Sam should’ve known better. His big head should’ve understood that letting you anywhere near Dean—let enough so close that you’d be allowed to fall in love with him—would have always resulted in you using his secrets against him to make Dean happy, so you could slip in the fact that you were pregnant with Dean’s baby as easily as possible. 

Like any sane person would.

Although you have been up for hours, after only sleeping two. And you might be losing your mind. But anyone would lose their mind in a situation like this. Waiting for their dumb boyfriend to wake up so they can change his life forever. 

But Dean’s still asleep. You’re starting to get worried. He usually sleeps in late, especially after hunts, but not this late. Not past noon, long enough for you to stress eat half of his pie, then make a whole second one. Not long enough for the coffee to go cold three times.

You’re about to go check on him when he appears in the kitchen door. Bleary eyes and mussed hair, his glazed eyes focusing slightly when they land on you.

He starts to shuffle towards you, and you forget everything you’d rehearsed. He looks sleepy and adorable, and you’ve seen him like this before but you’d like to see it a million times more. You’d like Dean to always drop his head on your shoulder and wrap his arms around your torso, to always slump over you with a low hum. To always kiss the crook of your neck and let out a long breath when your hands snake around his neck and your fingers tangle in his soft hair.

You could have him like this forever. 

You just have to tell him. 

“Dean-“

“Why’re you up.” He speaks against your skin, his voice slurring slightly, tugging you a little closer. “’S early.”

“It’s 3pm, baby.” You draw back to smile at him, and he just blinks at you. “You’ve been knocked out for fourteen hours.”

He shakes his head, pouting slightly as he takes your hand in his. “Nah. Doesn’t feel it. C’mon.”

Dean starts to walk away, taking you with him, and you’re snapped out of the daze.

“Wait,” You pull on his grip, and he turns with a frown. “Where are you going?”

“We’re goin’ back to bed.”

You give him an amused look, your affection briefly overpowering your panic. “We?”

He nods, tugging your hand in his until you’re pressed right against his chest. “Only up ‘cause you weren’t there. Need to get my girl back to bed, you need sleep too-“

You do need sleep, but until you tell Dean, you might as well be injecting caffeine right into your bloodstream.

“But I made you bacon-“

“Course you did.” He grins, pressing a light kiss to your nose. “You’re awesome, baby.” 

You feel your stomach flutter, and at this stage it has to only be nerves, but that doesn’t make anything easier. “Can we please eat?”

Dean hums, scanning carefully over your face. “You eat already?”

“I had some applesauce-“

“Then we’re good.” He starts to move again, and now you’re attached to him like a magnet. You couldn’t move away if you tried. “Bed.”

You’re frayed and wired and on edge, trying so hard to find the will to insist he stay and eat, but Dean’s so warm and suddenly you’re drunk on him. He’s sturdy and soft in all the right places, herding you back to bed with hands on your shoulders and mumbled praise about being his dream girl, making him bacon for breakfast and lovin’ him more than he deserves, and you wish you had enough backbone to just shout at him that he does deserve your love. He deserves whatever you can give him, including a baby that he needs to know about now before you explode.

But he gets you back into bed, splaying his body over yours and pinning you down.

“Didn’t see Sammy,” his head is buried in your chest, his voice muffled against your skin. “Where’dhe go?”

“Eileen’s.” You sigh, running your fingers through his hair. “I’m not supposed to tell you that, though.”

Dean chuckles, his hands drawing slow circles on your hips. “You’re a little backstabber, sweetheart. I’m never tellin’ you anything again.”

“I’m backstabbing Sam for you.” You shrug, smiling at the air. “I’d never backstab you.”

“’S exactly what a backstabber would say.”

You giggle. “You’re tired, Dean. Your brain’s not working right. Maybe if we get up-“

“Not getting up.” He grunts, squeezing your body. “Not until you get your own fourteen hours.”

“I’m okay, Dean-“

“No. Sleep.”

You sigh, squirming slightly under him. “You know, it’s bad for you to sleep in. It’ll mess up your circadian rhythm-“ 

Dean tilts his head up, frowning at you. “What’s going on with you?”

“I, um-“ You swallow, your whole body suddenly far too warm. “Huh?”

“You always make me sleep extra after hunts.” His voice is a little stronger, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Why’re you suddenly trying to get me up?”

“Nothing’s going on-“

“No.” Dean’s sitting up now, rolling onto his back and pulling you over his lap, his gaze stern. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong either-“

He says your name, squeezing your waist as he rubs his jaw. “Please just tell me. If it’s a body we can hide it, but I need to know if it’s a monster body or person body-“

“Why the hell would it be a person body-“

“I dunno, but if it is you gotta tell me, so I can grab the salt.” He cups your cheek, offering you on his charming, downright boyish grins. “I’m not letting any ghosts haunt your hot ass, babygirl.”

“Thank you.” You mumble, dropping your brow to his. “But it’s not a body.”

“So there is something.”

“Yeah.” You whisper. “But I… I’m not-“

“Hey,” Dean leans back, holding your gaze as he tucks some hair behind your ear. “Whatever it is, I don’t care. I’m helping you.”

You swallow, squeezing your eyes shut. “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, like it’s simple. Like this will really be that easy. “For you? Always.”

It takes deep breathes, and hands curled in Dean’s t-shirt—gripping him hard, making sure he won’t fly away or vanish into the air when you speak—but you do it. You run over your entire rehearsal one last time and let it all go, because Dean’s right here, in front of you, and you just need to-

“I’m pregnant.”

You say it, and he doesn’t vanish into nothing. Dean just stares at you, eyes wider than you’ve ever seen them, and whispers, “With a baby?”

“Yeah, Dean.” You offer him a small smile. “A baby.”

“My- my baby?” 

You open your mouth with a slight frown, and Dean’s hand flies to cover your mouth before you can speak.

“Wait, shit, I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just-“ He groans, his eyes seeming to drive right into your soul as his voice because hoarse. “You’re sure? That you’re… growing one?”

You wish you could read him better right now. You’d laugh at him saying growing one.

Instead you just nod, and it’s like something flips in Dean. He grins—wide and toothy and unrestrained—and you barely have time for the relief to hit when he’s kissing you. Long and deep and passionate, until you’re dizzy and grinding down onto him, falling over his chest and clinging to his shoulders.

“Dean,” you gasp as he dives down to kiss a line over your collarbone. “Shouldn’t we, shit-“ He starts suck on a soft spot behind your ear, and all your exhaustion is starting to catch back up with you, so everything is really just a haze. “Don’t we need to talk-“

“No,” he mutters, rutting slightly up into you and chuckling against your skin when you whine. “Just need you, baby, need to- son of a bitch!”

Dean’s yanks himself up and twists to his bedside table—his hand on your hips holding you steadily against him—scrambling around the drawers as he mutters low words you can’t hear.

“Are you okay?” You ask, your hand fisting in his shirt once more. “I mean, I know you might have doubts about-“

You’re cut off as Dean surges back up to kiss you again, this one shorter and soft, but still firm. 

“No doubts, sweetheart.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’m better than okay. I’m fucking amazing.”

“Good.” You sigh, pulling back to scan over his face. “What was that, then?”

Dean smiles at you, and it’s… nervous. He’s almost never really, truly nervous, but this smile has no edge, no carefully designed charm. It’s just Dean, purely him, smiling at you like you’re holding his heart in your body.

You kind of are.

“I know I, uh, I don’t say it enough. You know I’m not good at saying it. But I do love you,” Dean says your name, and you blink at him. This sounds like a speech. “I love you so much it drives me insane. And I’d never want this, want a baby, with anyone but you. But, I, uh, I want all of this. Whole stupid, apple pie thing, just with you.” He takes a long breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “Marry me.”

You gape at him. “What?”

“Marry- shit, wait-“ Dean reaches slightly behind him, grabbing a small box, and pops it open with his thumb. There’s a diamond ring inside, and it looks like a real one. Not the ones you’d use on cases, that would give you a rash for a week after. This looks… carefully made.

Made for you.

“Dean-“

“Marry me?” Dean looks between your slack jaw and the box, his voice almost nervous. “Please?”

“I-“ This is going better than you could’ve ever even imagined. You’re not sure how to handle it. “I don’t want you to marry me just because you knocked me up-“

“Baby, I didn’t pull this ring out of my ass.” He drawls, his voice a little firmer. “I’ve been getting ready to ask you for months. I was going to kick Sammy out next week, make a picnic in the library-“

“Really?”

“Yeah, I-“ He frowns. “Why’d you think I was poking about your ring size?”

“I don’t, um, I don’t remember you doing that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head slightly. “That’s good. I was worried I ruined it. I, um-“ he glances down at the ring, his face falling back to the nerves, and you realize you haven’t actually answered him yet. “I haven’t-“

It’s your turn to kiss Dean, and these words aren’t difficult to say at all. “Yes,” you whisper, pressing another, smaller kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll marry you.”

“Awesome.” He grins, and the ring is barely on your finger when he’s diving back into you, kissing you until you can’t ever remember anything has been difficult in your life. 

You yawn right as Dean pulls away, and he chuckles. 

“You alright, sweetheart?”

You hum, nodding. “I’m good. So good. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Dean says your name in your ear, and it’s quiet and gentle. Not like a secret, but a promise. “How’s a day in bed sound? We can try and get you pregnant again.”

“That’s not how it works, babe.” You giggle, folding a little deeper into his hold. “I’m gonna have to buy you some books.”

“I’ll read them.” Dean kisses the top of your head, and you can feel his smile on your skin. “For you.”

“Thank you.”

“Course.” He sighs, squeezing your body slightly. “We’re having a fucking baby.”

“Yeah.” You smile, and there’s that piece of him, shining on the surface. All joy and wonder for something that’s really just good. “We are.”

End Note: Dean Winchester in my head this is indeed the life you live every day. Season 15 isn't real it can't hurt me.

Title from Waste by Foster the People

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[upon-sunflower-trails]

it cries a soft weep like mine

nam-gyu x reader | oneshot | 1965 words

songfic, i guess? based on eric by mitski. if i'm being honest, this fic was really cathartic for me to write.

warnings: nsfw. pretty fucking toxic relationship, nothing physically or sexually abusive, but it's really toxic. fairly graphic depictions of sex. emotional abuse. manipulation. dacryphilia.

You like control, well, I do too

Take off my clothes and watch me move

You can come closer, I'll let you hurt me

How you choose

It had been a little over six months since you decided to pursue a relationship with Nam-gyu. You'd met him through a mutual friend, where the attraction was almost instantaneous.

That's all it seemed to be. Purely physical attraction. You knew you wanted more, to have a relationship that was full of genuine intimacy. You wanted the sort of love that led to late night conversations in bed, with your hands threaded in his hair as you both looked up at the ceiling, gentle smiles on your faces.

Nam-gyu was not that kind of lover. It was all about how far he could take things without you pushing back. He used you for sex and not much else— it's not like he was ever home. You couldn't tell if you preferred the crippling solitude that settled in your gut when he was out doing god-knows-what during the day, or if you wanted to cling to him despite the ways he made it clear you were of no importance to him.

In the beginning, you pushed back. You two would constantly argue over the smallest of things. He wanted to be his own person, even if it meant disrespecting his relationship with you. You still had enough strength to stand your ground, to yell back as he slammed his fist against the counter. 

You still remembered the first time you had come home to him in bed with someone else, as they scurried out of the door as Nam-gyu laid still in bed with a smirk on his face, disregarding the angry tears streaming down your face as you shouted at him like a rabid dog barking at its owner. 

You wanted to leave then, but he convinced you to stay the same way he always did. Pleading with you, pretending he cared in that moment— promising he would change, that he had a moment of weakness. Things had been so difficult for him, he wasn't in the right state of mind. And then he'd have you bare in front of him, knowing he would be able to reel you back in any time.

Help me with the zipper on my skirt, it's stuck

As you kneel, I'll be watching you fix me

This view of you, of the top of your head

Makes me forgive you

After a few months, even your mutual friends could tell things weren't right between you and your boyfriend. You had become more withdrawn and careful with your words. You refused to drink, knowing it would lead to you breaking down and spilling your guts to anyone in proximity to you. 

Nam-gyu paraded you around as if you were an exotic pet on a leash. He would shut you up if you even dared to speak in front of the people who were no longer your friends, but his. He convinced you that their worried glances were instead glares of disgust, that everyone knew how mean you were to him behind closed doors. You believed him; how could you yell at him when he had been trying so hard to get better?

At one get-together, the same person you had caught him sleeping with was there. Even in your wounded state, it festered— festered until you could feel every rational part of you become infected with blind rage. You snapped as he placed an arm on theirs after ignoring you all night, even though to anyone who was watching it was obvious he was simply helping to steady them after they had fallen.

You were made to be the fool. Onlookers saw you as insecure, jealous, crazy. Nam-gyu played the part of the hurt boyfriend who couldn't believe the accusations you were throwing at him. Everyone believed him, because why would they trust you? You had been acting strange and distant for months now.

That night, Nam-gyu hadn't berated you. He simply helped you undress, murmuring that he would make it up to you.

"Don't know why you always make me out to be the bad guy, baby." "I was just tryin' to help them. Didn't you see them fall?" "We already talked about this, why do you keep bringing it up?" "Am I not allowed to have friends now? I'll just stop talking to them, if that's what you want. In fact, I'll stop going out entirely."

He said it all as he helped you out of the shoes that were blistering your feet, unzipping the skirt you had been fiddling with all night. He looked up at you through his lashes, eyes glistening as he did his best to seem hurt by your accusations. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks as he jutted out his bottom lip, wailing that the last thing he wanted to do was hurt you.

So you let him back in again. You turned a blind eye yet again to all the trouble he had caused you, because at least he was a good fuck for the night.

But how long, how long can we play this way?

I'm tired, I'm tired of not loving you

My heart, my heart wants to hold you

But I know, I know, I know the rules

Six months in, you knew you held nothing but an odd mix of sorrow and contempt for Nam-gyu. You tried to rationalize it, that this was what love was really supposed to feel like. 

The only physical intimacy he engaged in with you was sex. It was never gentle, or soft, or tender; it was bordering on violent and possessive, despite you not truly belonging to him. And as soon as he had spilt himself into you, he would turn away and not allow you to hold or touch him. He claimed he never saw the point of cuddling or any sort of aftercare.

You knew he heard the sobs that racked your body every night. As you clutched the comforter close to your bare chest, pillow wet as the thick seed between your legs served as a constant reminder of what you were putting yourself through.

Some nights, you would reach out as he was sleeping, desperate to brush the stray hairs from his face. He truly looked peaceful like this, his resting state making you forget how cruel he could be. Every time you outstretched your limbs, craving any sort of loving embrace, you retracted at the last minute. You knew to roll back over and force your eyes shut, praying that perhaps this was all just a bad dream you were going to wake up from. That you were in such a happy relationship in real life, you were forced to have constant nightmares of what a terrible relationship would look like.

And every morning, as harsh sunlight beat in through the blinds on your face, you were reminded that this was your reality. That you would turn over, and Nam-gyu would be gone— not in the way that he had never existed, as the divet in the mattress suggested, but that he left without bidding you farewell as any good lover should.

You knew you weren't in love with him. How could you be? You despised him, deep down, even if you never admitted it to yourself. But you had promised yourself to him at some point down the line, and he hadn't dumped you on the side of the road yet.

So, for now, you stayed.

Blue light, dark room, the white of your teeth

As you smile at my trembling shoulders

But your skin, did you notice your skin?

It cries a soft weep like mine

You always tended to cry during sex with Nam-gyu. Perhaps he had just gotten used to it, or he had twisted in his mind that they were tears of pleasure. Either way, it didn't matter.

You enjoyed the release, yes, you only stayed with him for the pleasure. Well, that was what you told yourself. 

You wept as he thrust into you, because it was the only time the relationship felt real. His presence was overpowering, as the stench of his cologne settled into your nostrils while the cold sensation of his rings against your sides were the only thing keeping your mind tethered to reality.

He would growl into your shoulder as he bit and nipped at you, leaving marks that you never hesitated to cover (since they were a reminder that you were with him). His teeth shone in the low light of your "shared" bedroom, amusement coming out as a hiss as you cried out his name, a mix of pleasure and despair at your current situation.

Insults and degradation would be hurled your way under the guise of him "getting too into the moment." You always tried to ignore when he would moan out someone else's name. It only made you cry harder, and that only made him rougher. You guessed that your sobs spurred him on, that in some twisted sort of way seeing you in such a broken state aided his arousal. You never wanted to think too much into it, lest you begin to bawl even more.

Every once in a while, on extremely rare occasion, he would let a tear slip as well. Maybe it was a sign he was still human, too. That deep down, he felt sorry for what he had put you through. He was always quick to hide it as soon as it happened, and just like that he would go back to the same Nam-gyu he always was.

Those nights, you would always hear sniffling and muffled sobs beside you as you wiped your silent tears away.

I'll sell, I'll sell my whole to you

What's my, what's my, what's my price?

How about, how about just a part of you?

You were too deep in to leave when Nam-gyu finally began investing your money in things as well. He had lost everything already, and now needed your financial aid to pick him up off the ground. You wanted to be the perfect partner to him, to support him in his time of need. You tried to find any positive you could about him as you got deeper and deeper into the relationship, making decisions that would only solidify your inability to leave him.

You had lost everything alongside him, drowning in debt as he made even more irresponsible decisions with your money. You couldn't even stick up for yourself, let alone get out of the situation entirely. You were stuck, practically entrapped with a barbed-wire engagement ring digging into your finger. You laughed at the idea, but realized the metaphor didn't seem so far-fetched.

You weren't sure what it was that you did that finally pushed Nam-gyu over the edge. He abandoned you without a word, one day muttering something about making up his debts and the next day vanishing into thin air. You weren't sure if he'd ever return. Deep down, you knew you didn't want him to. But as it stood, you were crushed. Lost and hopeless without him, simply going through the motions everyday with no solace in pretending he loved you at night while being shoved against the headboard.

In some strange way, you missed him. It wasn't as though he completed you, but you had become so wrapped up in a life not with him, but of him, that you weren't sure how to exist outside of being Nam-gyu's. 

You weren't sure how to survive without the assurance of him being in your life.

'Cause I want, I want, I want, I want

I want, I want, I want, I want, I want.

[thewinter-eden]

You Called?

images are mine (except middle HJ pic that I got from pinterest). please do not use without permission. ATE pcs are my inspo for this series.

part 5 of the skz crack!horror series.

pairing: Han Jisung x fem!reader rating: mature, dark themes summary: demon!Jisung is summoned by your friends during a drunken college party. They’re trying to scare you, pretend to summon a demon and then lock you in the basement until they decide to let you out, but then the demon actually comes, and he thinks your friends are jerks.

warnings: Fear/comfort, edgy but soft Jisung, terrorizing of minor characters, discussion of spiritualism/afterlife, my only reference for demons is Supernatural, reader is freaked out by witchcraft, slight disparaging of witchcraft and mysticism (does not reflect actual beliefs), Jisung is instantly whipped, deals, fear, this one turned out a little angsty, truth or dare.

word count: 5k

Comment a request to be tagged.

series info

“I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Of course you don’t. But clearly, your aunt did.”

Yes, it’s your aunt’s fault. If only she didn’t have a basement full of jarred herbs and tarot cards and ouija boards and weird leathery spell books, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. You’d be in a different one, for sure, because having the friends that you have isn’t your aunt’s fault, it’s yours, but still—you wouldn’t be locked in a basement with three of your friends browsing through your aunt’s dusty new agey books.

“Now, come on, sit around the circle thing.” One of your friends, Rami, tugs you down by your elbow to sit cross-legged on the edge of a chalk rune on the floor. It looks aged and scuffed and mostly faded by dust and time, but present enough to be identifiable as something mystical.

“I’m serious, I don’t think my aunt would have wanted us down here.” You mutter. It seems colder all of a sudden, chills covering your arms and shivering down your spine.

“Then she should have cleaned it out before she died I guess.” Rami returned, gesturing for Chae and Boyoung to sit down as well. “And besides, this was your penalty. You accepted it, so this is what we’re doing.”

You wouldn’t have accepted the stupid penalty for the stupid drinking game from the stupid college party upstairs if the alternative hadn’t been being cornered by the greasy frat boy who kept slipping his hands under your shirt every time he got the chance.

Next time your cousin tries to convince you to come over and “let loose with a couple of friends” you’re going to remember that her idea of hanging out is a massive college kegger.

“Alright, here it is.” Boyoung draws her legs up underneath her and rests the massive tome of the spell book she’s holding across her knees. She shoots the others a devious smirk, and then clears her throat. “Are we ready?”

You most certainly are not.

It’s not like you believe in the afterlife and mysticism and witchcraft and all of the other spiritualism nuances that your aunt was into, but you also recognize that you definitely don’t know everything about the scope of the universe. You’re willing to admit that you might be wrong about what exists and what is folklore, and you’re certainly not enthusiastic about playing around with the afterlife—just in case.

You’ve never even touched a Ouija board, because what if?

You don’t think they work, but what if?

And now, because you lost a stupid drinking game, your stupid friends are going to use the demon summoning ritual that your aunt just had, like it’s an old family recipe or something.

“Can I pick a different penalty?” You try again, your palms sweating. Yeah, sure, nothing’s going to happen because it’s obviously an old gift shop spell book (a really old, really big gift shop spell book), but all the half-burnt candles and chalk runes and hanging herbs around you are starting to freak you out.

Boyoung and Chae both shake their heads, while Rami reaches out and snatches your elbow. “This was the deal—one summoning spell, and then ten minutes by yourself. You agreed.”

You feel like crying.

You regret it. You regret coming. You didn’t like your aunt when she was alive—who gives their nieces and nephews cat whiskers and tinctures for birthdays?—and you certainly don’t like your cousin now—she clearly has a terrible idea of a good time—so why did you even come tonight?

At this point, you’re even wishing you can go back upstairs and ask the greasy frat boy to rescue you from your friends. They’re way too excited about leaving you locked in the creepy basement after a demonic invocation, whether they believe in it or not.

“Go ahead!” Chae nudges Boyoung. “Hurry up, I wanna go back upstairs.”

“It’s fucking creepy in here.” Rami agrees, rubbing her arms and jutting her chin towards the book.

“Why don’t we just do something else? Forget the basement.” You complain, starting to get back to your feet.

Predictably, Rami yanks you back down. “Rules are rules! Go ahead, Boyoung-ah.”

That’s how you find yourself sitting in a dark basement while your friend chants ominously in Latin, your heart racing like you’ve just run a marathon. Why did it have to be a demon summoning? Why couldn’t it have been a séance? At least if you were going to be playing around with pretend spiritualism, you could pretend to talk to someone you actually liked.

Your dad had died when you were little, you could pretend to have a tear-jerking reunion and then get the fuck out of that creepy old witch house once your friends were satisfied.

Why do you even call them your friends anyway?

You’re all just the members of a few too many group projects for your biology classes, more associates than anything else.

But Boyoung is still chanting, tripping over awkward pronunciation of the dead language and squinting through the faint light to see the faded text on the ancient pages.

You don’t think it’s your imagination when a whisper of air ruffles the hair at the back of your neck, but you’re also extremely anxious at the moment. So anxious that you physically jump when Boyoung slams the book shut.

“Done!” She chirps, hopping to her feet and dusting off the seat of her skirt. She fixes you with an evil grin. “Ten minutes by yourself!” Then she loops her arm through Chae’s and your three associates clamber back up the rickety stairs to the basement door.

Before they leave you, teary and trembling on the concrete floor, Rami pauses and looks back at you. “And no using your phone. If we see any light under the door, we’ll keep it locked for an extra ten minutes.”

It was a meaningless threat, because you know for sure they’re gonna go upstairs and get more drinks and find more friends, and you’re going to have to call your cousin to let you out after they forget about you.

So there you are. In the dark, in a creepy basement, all by yourself. You’re still sitting on the ground, cross-legged, your shaky hands gripping at your knees like it’s the only thing grounding you.

It’s just an empty basement.

It’s just you, by yourself.

You decide to close your eyes and focus on your breathing, counting the lengths of each inhale and exhale until the vague sounds of Boyoung’s invocation fades from your memory. You sit there, just breathing, urging the tension to melt from your muscles, until it feels like an eternity has passed.

The party is still in full swing on the floor above you, the music and laughter floating beneath the door down to you. You focus on the shouting voices until your spine relaxes.

When your eyes finally open and blink down at the bright screen of your phone, reading the giant numbers of the clock glaring back at you, you realize you’ve only been alone for three minutes.

Every ounce of tension returns, winding through the fibers in your muscles until it’s clamped around your bones and settled in the roots of your teeth. You’re still in a creepy witchy basement for another seven freaking minutes. As the darkness seems to physically seep into your skin, your gaze is sweeping the shadows of the room.

Bookshelves covered in spilled wax, random feathers, jars of little stones and dirt (hopefully dirt?), various crystals, tons of super old books, crates of more books, larger jars of plants and branches that you can’t begin to make sense of, and an aura that you can’t quite put your finger on.

You can’t say why you feel like you’re being watched, especially when you know you’re alone, but your heart is once again inexplicably racing in your chest.

There’s no one.

The shadow to your left is the marble bust of a saint or an angel or something, the one near your feet is the pile of musty blankets on an old wooden chair, the one straight ahead of you is the kettle that hangs from a frame over the ashy pit of a cold fireplace.

Honestly what the hell was your aunt up to before she died?

You bring yourself back, focusing on the cold concrete beneath your butt, the way your ankle is grinding into the floor, the cold that’s curling its fingers around your throat when your shirt slips off of one shoulder.

As you try to slip back into the calm refuge that you’d found with your eyes closed, desperate to not emerge from the pit of the basement with tear streaks of dust and mascara, all you can hear is your own breathing.

There’s no one in there with you, no one in the shadows, no one lurking behind the stairs.

Sucking in a deep breath, you hold it and listen to your heart pounding in your ears. It’s a trick you learned to calm yourself when you were young, counting to four between breaths. In the next few moments, you feel your body begin to relax and sink back into a neutral position.

Your lungs burn as you count to four for the tenth time.

The next exhale is loud.

And it is most decidedly not your own.

You shoot upright, hand snapping out to clutch at your phone. Fuck what Rami said, you need that flashlight. Tracking the shadows again as your sweat-slicked hands fight your thumbprint reader, eyes widely combing every inch of the dark room, you find yourself unable to peer past the blackness to see the source of the sound that made your heart flip.

Your phone just keeps shaking its “try again” message at you, stubbornly refusing to unlock.

Until you see them—and you realize that you’ve already been looking at them—your gaze landing on them a dozen times in the past thirty seconds, not even registering them.

Until they blink back at you.

Your fingers stomp your passcode in and swipe on the flashlight.

Cold white light floods the room, and he’s standing there, staring at you.

You scream, bundled nerves exploding your body backwards and you find yourself on your feet, scrambling back against a heavy bookshelf.

But he’s just standing there, watching you from the other edge of the chalk circle thing you were sitting on. His head is tilted slightly, sharp eyes hooded as he beholds you silently.

Your arm is practically spasming as you try to keep your light pointed at him and check all the walls and corners at the same time, your brain screaming at you to figure out where he came from. Where did he come from? There’s only one door in the basement, and it’s up the flight of stairs to your left.

“What the fuck?” You screech, your other hand scrambling for something—anything.

The man’s eyes narrow.

He’s not especially tall, but he’s lean and strong, dressed in all black, his raven hair curling over his forehead and neck. There’s something devilishly beautiful about him, about the honey of his skin and the flick of his tongue between his lips.

His eyes mimic yours, tracing you up and down, and his tongue flicks again. Then he opens his mouth and his chin twitches up, short locks of hair flipping away from his eyes. “You called?”

The sultry baritone of his voice floats to your ears with heavy, dangerous weight, and your fingers automatically clamp around the first thing you find. Before you can reason your way through your next decision, you hurl it—the book you’re suddenly holding—directly at his head.

The man flinches, knocking the book aside with the swipe of his hand, but doesn’t realize there’s a second one coming.

You’re pelting them as quickly as you can find them, yanking ancient (probably valuable) books off of the shelf, sending up plumes of dust everywhere, hurling them at the man as you edge your way towards the stairs. He’s standing between you and your exit and you’ll be damned (hopefully not literally) if you’re going to be sacrificed to a demon in your freaky aunt’s basement.

But then his voice reaches you with a completely different tone.

“Stop! Oh my god, stop!” He’s twisted away from you, his hands up covering his face. You see glimpses of his eyes gone impossibly wide, lips jutting out in a disbelieving pout, trying desperately to catch your gaze. He dodges another book and dances away from another. “Why are you—stop!—you called me!”

Another book strikes his shoulder and his pitch goes even higher.

“You literally called me! Stop!”

You stop.

He sounds so…offended that you’re battering him with books that you just plant yourself, clutching a heavy tome to your chest, gaping at him.

He takes a second to collect himself, smoothing down the sleek black jacket that wraps around his thick shoulders and falls snugly around his narrow waist.

Running a hand through his hair and shaking dust out of it, he gapes right back at you. “Do you know how rare it is for this to happen?” He demands, eyes still comically wide. “We don’t just come when called anymore! You—” He jabs a finger in your direction and you shriek, flinching. “Are lucky that I was curious!”

Your hope of coming out of this experience without wearing your mascara in crusted ribbons down your cheeks went out the window about fifteen books ago. “You…you’re…” You suck in a deep breath that sounds like it choked you all the way down. “You?”

The man glares at you, planting his hands on his hips. “You are unbelievably rude.” He decides, taking a step closer as though you aren’t literally hiding behind the giant book in your hands. “You reach through the veil to call upon a spiritual being in the year of our Lord, 2025, and when I answer the freaking phone you throw a library at me? This is why we don’t talk to you people anymore.”

But he doesn’t reach to touch you or attack you and stomp on your skull, so you lower the book away from your face ever so slightly.

He’s standing in front of you, arms crossed over his chest, a disappointed frown on his face.

You take a second to blink at him, a flood of tears trickling down your cheeks. There’s so much happening, so much shattering your entire perception of the universe right now, but there’s only one thing on your mind. “Did you just say ‘oh my god’?”

At your timid, whimpering voice, the demon’s eyes roll. “Are you serious right now?”

You flinch, stumbling back. “It’s just…” Your eyes wander and you mentally pinch yourself. But, honestly, he’s fucking gorgeous and your racing heart is making your head spin already. “You’re a demon?”

“Yeah, so?” He shoots back.

“So…” you swallow harshly. “God?”

This brings a smirk to his lips. “If you came down here to ask about God, I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

“I didn’t call you.” You argue, glancing behind you to make sure you aren’t going to be falling into a coffin or some other terrible thing that your aunt has hidden back there.

He looks confused. “You didn’t?” He glances around. “Someone did. It’s not like I can get the address wrong.”

“My friends called you.” There’s nowhere for you to go. You’re standing against the wall, mere feet away from a literal demon, and there’s nowhere you can run from him.

At the obviously otherwise empty basement, the demon raises his eyebrows at you. “Where are they?”

You shakily point towards the stairs as you slide down the wall to the floor. “At the party. It was a dare. A penalty for a dumb game—they were supposed to pretend to summon a demon with all of this weird shit and then I was supposed to stay down here for ten minutes by myself—they just wanted to scare me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Please just go away, I’ll never bother you, I swear.” You’re sobbing, completely overwhelmed, feeling completely exposed to this spiritual being as he watches you fall apart.

You’ve got the massive tome propped up on your lap, leaned against your forehead to shield yourself as you weep.

Do demons kill people?

Do they just possess people?

Are you going to go on from this night demon-possessed?

Are you supposed to pray or something?

Weight lifts from your bones as the tome is suddenly taken from you, and you blink past tears to see that the demon is crouched in front of you, dark strands of hair dancing with his eyelashes as he peers into your fearful face.

His gaze traces the trembling in your shoulders, your hands, your thighs, the rigid, bulging muscles in your throat and forearms as your body tightens with terror. When he speaks again, his deep voice is gentle. “Your friends summoned a demon and locked you in here by yourself?”

There’s nothing you can do but nod, wishing you hadn’t skipped your weekly phone call to your mom earlier. You wish you’d told her you love her, that you never meant to be possessed by a demon.

You see his hand lift and your eyes squeeze shut, a whimpering gasp rushing past your lips. If you get out of here alive, you’re burning down the basement and going to church.

But then his warm—feverishly hot, actually—fingertips glide over the wetness of your face, and his thumb is wiping at your tears. When your eyes snap open, he’s cupping your cheek in one hand but his eyes are black fire. “Stay here, baby, I’ll be right back.”

His touch disappears in a swirl of black smoke and he’s gone, vanished right before you like he was never there.

But your cheek is still throbbing from the heat of his palm, your heart thumping in your chest from the impact of his low voice.

Did he just call you baby?

All of that goes directly out of your mind because in the next second, you can hear enormous crashes of thunder above your head. The music from the party dies with an electric squeal that makes your ears sting, and then screams fill the air. The ceiling of the basement pounds and trembles with running footsteps from the floor above, furniture crashing and college students stumbling into things.

There’s a flicker from beneath the basement door, and then the light disappears.

The single bulb over your head goes out.

You scramble for your phone, turning the flashlight back on, heart hammering as you listen.

The screams begin to fade, sounding farther and farther away, until the house above you is completely silent.

Black smoke puffs in front of you and there he is again, the demon with the fire in his eyes.

The reflexive yelp that scratches up your throat is accidental, but it seems to douse the flames and the man’s gaze softens as he lowers himself to the floor, mimicking your folded-knees position. He lifts a hand and gestures to you, beckoning you closer.

Obviously you don’t move, terrified out of your mind. “What the hell did you just do?”

“I locked them in a room with me and scared them.” He shrugs. “It wasn’t as funny as they thought it was going to be. Your friends are assholes and I don’t think you should hang out with them anymore.” He tilts his head at you, his hand still extended. “I didn’t hurt them, I promise. They just ran away. As long as they stay away from you, they’ll be fine.”

You’re going to be completely honest with yourself, you didn’t have nearly enough wits about you to wonder if he’d gone up and slaughtered the whole bunch of them. But it’s nice that he didn’t, you guess.

“So.” He claps both hands to his knees. “This is a college party? I haven’t been to one of these in ages. Do you still play truth or dare?”

Your mouth falls open.

He scoots closer.

“Why as long as they stay away from me?” You’re grasping for understanding, wondering why you’re still on the filthy floor in the creepiest room you’ve ever found yourself in, staring at a demon who’s just asked you to play truth or dare.

The demon’s eyes narrow but his lips curl in a playful smirk. “Truth or dare, baby?”

You can’t help the shiver. Do you refuse to play? He’s a literal demon who can apparently call upon thunder and destroy sound and electrical systems and frighten the bejeezus out of an entire college party.

It stands to reason that playing the silly game is probably in your best interest.

“Truth.” The tiny whisper of your voice puts a flash of teasing disappointment in his eyes.

“Okay,” He says, and scoots even closer. “Are you grateful I made your friends piss themselves for you?”

A storm of emotions strike you. Are you grateful? Yeah, a little bit. It would have been hilarious to watch, now that you think about it. Are you confused as to why he did it? More than you can articulate. Would you have ever asked him to get revenge over a penalty that was supposed to be a joke? Honestly, probably not. Are you going to tell him that?

Hell to the no.

“Yes.” You swallow. “I’m grateful.”

He looks satisfied with your answer, with himself. “Good. Your turn. Ask me.”

You don’t want to ask him. You want to leave this house just like everybody else did, with your tail between your legs and your world changed forever—but alive. But you can’t. So you clench your fists and shed another round of tears. “Truth or dare?”

What would you even dare him to do?

“Dare,” He says devilishly, tongue flicking out to scrape his teeth. His eyes are mischief and intrigue, but they’re watching the trail of your tears with undeniable softness.

“I dare you…” Your voice chokes like a candle being blown out, and you struggle to get it back. “I dare you not to hurt me.” It’s pathetic. It’s laughably pathetic, but you’re scared beyond all reason and you need any kind of reassurance to keep you sane right now.

The teasing falls from his expression instantly, and a solemn stare levels with you. “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe with me, I swear it.” His hands twitch, he wants to wipe the tears from your face, but he won’t—not again—not until you’re not afraid of him anymore.

You could weep all over again from the sheer anxiety of it all. “Why? Why would I believe you? Why me?”

He just smiles. “It’s my turn. Truth or dare?”

You are absolutely not ready to take a dare from a demon. “Truth.”

“Tell me your name. I’m Jisung.”

Jisung is looking at you like you’re a harbinger of hope, and you suddenly wonder if your name is supposed to hold power. Does giving your name to a demon give him power over you? Should you lie? Do you keep it to yourself?

But he gave you his name. (Or did he lie?)

You tell him. You’re locked in a basement with him—he doesn’t need a magical connection to you to kill you. He could hurt you whenever he wants.

He says your name out loud and you flinch, waiting. But your blood doesn’t boil, your eyes don’t explode, your brain doesn’t leak out of your ears. Your name on his tongue gives you confidence though, like he’s acknowledged you on an existential level and now you can look him in the eyes.

“Truth or dare.”

“Truth.” He already knows you won’t dare him to do anything, not while your mind is still racing with questions.

“Tell me why I’m safe with you, Jisung.”

He blinks at the strength in your voice, at his name in your mouth. It’s so overwhelming, to hear his name spoken aloud, that he has to turn away from you. How long has it been since he’s heard it? A millennium? An eon? Has it ever sounded so warm before? He’s blinking back tears, coughing past an ache in his chest, scrambling to collect himself before he looks back at you.

He could tell you any number of things and they would be true, but would they be enough? You’re the first face he’s seen in decades. You’re the first person who’s looked at him in years. You’re the first person who’s said his name without hurling it like a curse against him. You didn’t beg for your life when he appeared, you apologized like you bumped into him at the supermarket. Because he keeps waiting to see what you’re going to do next, say next, if you’re going to hold his gaze again.

But how does he say that to you?

He settles on his first realization of you. “Because you didn’t use me.”

You’re confused, fear falling away from your face completely as you puzzle through that statement. “I didn’t use you?”

He nods towards the book of spells that holds his invocation. “People summon demons to make deals—to use our power for their own gain. If we answer a call, it’s with the understanding that we’re being summoned to be leeched off of. You’re the first human I’ve ever come to who didn’t want anything from me.” If his throat tightens as he says it, he blames it on a millennium of loneliness and not the swell of pity that floods your eyes.

So he clears his throat and plops his chin in both palms. “Truth or dare?”

You’re warming up now, leaning into the rawness of the open wound he just exposed to you, and you feel your cheeks heat. “Dare.”

He’s stunned, delighted, and he smiles. “Dare?”

You swallow thickly, avoiding his gaze, and nod. “Dare.”

Jisung leans forward on his knees and one hand, the other lifting to wipe the last of your tears, and he lingers there, hovering right next to you. “Make a deal with me.”

The words strike you with conflicting fear and excitement, your eyes wide as you stare at him. Radiating heat from his skin kisses your face, feeding the blush on your cheeks. “But you just said—”

“It’s my deal,” He interrupts. “My terms with you.”

You don’t know whether to be scared or interested, but you have few options in the way of reactions. “What are the terms?”

“Summon me again.” He says simply. “Whenever you want to. Regularly. And I’ll protect you.”

You’re gaping directly into his face now, utterly baffled and not at all afraid. “Protect me from what?”

Jisung shrugs and lowers himself back into a seated position, this time so close that his knees are touching yours. “Anything, really. But there is the reality that once you’ve reached through the veil, there are traces of you on my side of it as well. Your presence is known now, you might be vulnerable to things from the other side.”

“Things?” You repeat. “What kinds of things?”

He frowns, like he doesn’t want to tell you. “Demons, spirits, the fallen. But I’ll protect you from all of them. They might not find you, they might not care—but if they do, I’ll be there.”

This is so much worse than a stupid prank demon summoning. “Why? Why would you make this deal?”

He smiles at you then, and it’s the most vulnerable he’s looked so far. “There’s not much in the way of goodness where I’m from. I miss it.”

“Goodness?” You repeat, frowning.

“You.” He says, reaching out and flicking your knee lightly. “Friendship. Smiles. Warm touch. Laughter. Shit—” He breaks off and turns his head away and you think you see him wiping wetness away from his own eyes. When he looks at you again, you almost think you had imagined it. “Give up your stupid ass friends and take me instead.”

You’re stunned; floored; flabbergasted. One of those weird hawk feathers on the bookshelves could knock you right over. “Jisung?” What do you even say to that?

He heaves a massive sigh and both of his hands curl over your knees. You don’t mind. You honestly don’t mind. Even if you know better than to trust him all at once, you don’t mind the way he’s touching you—the way he’s looking at you.

If he’s trying to trick you into some kind of possession, grooming you to be some kind of slave, you don’t know. You’re terrified that you’re being taken in by the most beautiful sad eyes you’ve ever seen, but right now you’re stuck.

He’s still watching you, eyes hooded and hoping, and you give a nod. “Okay. Deal.”

His fingers tighten around your knees and you would be terrified at the feeling of being caught in his grasp if it weren’t for the gaping grin that spreads across his face like you’ve just told a child he can go to Disney World.

“Is there some kind of blood pact we have to do to settle the deal? A contract?” You ask nervously, hoping you know which of the dozens of the books on the floor holds the invocation. “What if I summon the wrong demon on accident?”

“Just add my name to the invocation, I’ll come.” He says, and the smile on his face is addictive.

“You’ll come just because I call?”

Jisung squeezes your knees. “If you call me, I’ll come. And promise me you’ll ditch those assholes that locked you down here.” He pulls you closer to him, eyebrows lowering in earnest. “If any demon other than myself had answered, you could have come out of this experience very differently. I don’t want you around any more of their idiotic ideas.”

You laugh then, finally, and he stares at you in awe. “I promise.”

The demon straightens, satisfied, and then he’s extending one hand to you, which you willingly take this time. “The deal seals with a kiss. There’s no fine print, not for you. You have my word—regardless of what you think a demon’s word is worth.”

He has a point, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You let him pull you to your feet, you help him find the spell book and tear the page out, slipping it into your pocket like you’ve just gotten his phone number.

When he circles back to you, he doesn’t look so dangerous anymore. “Are you ready?”

You’re nervous, still doubting what may come of your future, but you’re not scared right now. Instead, you nod, and let his warm hands tilt your chin up. You see the black flames ignite in his eyes once again, just before Jisung presses a searing kiss to your lips and fire shoots down your body.

It’s a simple kiss, as simple as pushing a stamp into a wax seal, but when he leans back to observe the heat blooming across your cheeks, your mind is gone. You feel his forehead touch yours, the whisper of his breath on your skin, the burning impact of his next words, but you’re only barely keeping up.

Because you definitely no longer regret coming to this party, or losing that stupid drinking game.

“You’re mine now, baby,” Jisung whispers against your cheek, and flashes you a wink. “Just call me and I’m yours.”

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @estella-novella @babyphotos0325 @softfor-svtptg @furfoxsake22 @tubelightanyaa @kayleefriedchicken @rockstarkkami @sp1derst0rrr @eastjonowhere @its-stayville-forever @allenajade-ite @naraportokala @jinniejjam @blackberryrains @feetoffthemalfoy @highandalive @scarlet789 @ramadiiiisme @thecutiepieme @lemonn015

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run to you: chapter eight

marcus pike x f!reader

A/N: it's here. Finally. Don't look at me. Can't believe we only have 4 chapters to go after this one! I have such a deep fond love for this little universe and I'm so damn thankful for all of your comments, reblogs and asks! Your kind words make my bloody year! Hope you enjoy angels x

Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and ‘You’re Somebody Else��. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.

Word count: 4.7k-ish

Warnings: angsttttt, swearing, general heartache and bittersweet goodbyes, a break in, these two make me want to listen to a heartbreak playlist all day and just cry

main masterlist | series masterlist

This story will have explicit sexual scenes in the future so 18+ only.

The words play in your mind as you make a beeline to the public bathrooms, a relentless cycle over and over and over. Your conversation with the consultant had been mind achingly frustrating, and yet, despite knowing his little tricks and various mental hoops he gets his chosen victims to jump through, you can’t help it—you give in.

You find yourself jumping through those damn hoops, letting his words drive you borderline insane.

Jane has it all wrong—so wrong—so why can’t you stop thinking about what he said? What would give him the impression that Marcus has feelings for you? Feelings that extend beyond the expected responsibility of a leading agent, and mere guilt lingering from their shared history.

Does he see something you can’t? Has he heard something? Found something?

The bitter tang of resentment builds in the back of your throat as your mind goes down more paths, creating more questions with no answers in sight. This is what he wants.

Jane wants you to be overwhelmed with questions and what ifs and a desperation for the truth, so you’ll go to him for the answers. So he can spin words, play and pick your brain some more. It’s a cycle, one that obviously works well for him. This is how he plays, and it’s vicious and cruel, and—

—and yet you still let his words confuse you, still mull over them in your head.

You keep fucking falling for it. 

Your hands shake as they deposit your bag beside the sink, the cold water splashing over your skin doing nothing to divert your thoughts or distract you.

Of course there are no feelings anywhere.

Maybe this is just a ploy to hurt or embarrass Marcus—surely there’d be some bad energy there, given the history between them both. Maybe Jane’s not finding enough entertainment within the investigation and is instead making his own.

You don’t know. What you do know is that you refuse to waste one more fucking second wondering what is going on in that man’s head, and what his ploy is.

It hits you as you stare back at your reflection in the mirror, the obvious internal war written across your face with creases of stress and watery eyes—you can’t do this. You’re not cut out for this rollercoaster of drama. You’ve had enough. 

Jane, the case, Marcus, the FBI—you’ve had enough of all of it. You’ve done enough, and Marcus has always said to tell him when you decide you’re done. He’s always said that you’re under no obligation to do anything you don’t want to do, that you could back out at any point. Or maybe that was just another lie.

The bitter part of you churns to life, still angry, still holding onto the aching resentment from the past. Vicious thoughts and memories tainted by heartbreak flood your mind, but it doesn’t seem to cut as deep as it usually would. He didn’t lie about that. 

He said you were in control, he gave you his word—and you took it. You trust it.

Would he be disappointed?

You did tell him that you’d help, that you’d do what the FBI asked of you and get them the information they need, but at what cost? Your mental health was already taking hits, an array of emotions continuously assaulting you from merely being around Marcus again, let alone being bombarded and interrogated by some wanna-be mentalist freak from California.

No. He’d understand.

You dry up, blotting the paper towel across your throat and willing your heart to slow down as you look over your frame in the reflection. The wire’s still perfectly hidden, tucked deeply away under your jacket from where Marcus had pinned it, but the mere thought of it sitting there has a cold dread creeping along your veins.

That whole conversation with Jane had been recorded.

Marcus is going to listen to it. His team is going to listen to it. You can’t deal with the fallout of that. You can’t be humiliated like that. What would he do? What would he say?

Though of course you know the truth and that the idea of Marcus having any type of romantic inclination towards you is fucking ridiculous, you’re still not exactly fond of the idea of sitting there and listening to him explain why he does not, and would not, ever have feelings for you.

Maybe—maybe you could get ahead of it.

Surely if you just tell him, ask him, that the recording be discarded as you’re backing out. There’s nothing on there, there’s no need for it. Just delete it, forget about it and move on. 

You grab your things and leave the safety of the bathroom, clutching your bag like a lifeline as you begin to make your way towards the exit, but then you see him. He’s a good distance away from the path you’re taking, and you wouldn’t have noticed him at all if you weren’t suddenly highly aware of every person milling about the building.

Edward Thomas.

Someone who had played a big part in your life before everything went to shit. He’d been involved with some of your replicas, their creations and the deals around them once they were complete. You weren’t aware of his exact place in all of it, but you know damn well it was much higher on the food chain than you.

He looks the same, despite everything. Did nothing happen to him when it all fell apart? Was he not arrested along with everyone else?

Probably not. He had money—serious money. He had connections. He had the network you had ensured to keep out of. Perhaps you would’ve been better following his footsteps, kissing asses and sucking up to the underground elites of the world, making more of a name for yourself behind closed doors. You would've been untouchable, invincible. 

Where would you be now? Back in your penthouse, mostly unscathed and living life as normal.

There’s no use dwelling on it. It’s a can of worms you could continue to open and close for the rest of your life, wondering what if until it drove you mad.

Doing what Edward Thomas did, does—it’s not you. It wasn’t you back then, and it wouldn’t be you now. You just wanted to paint, you weren’t in it for the money. Although, admittedly, it did help.

You want to move towards him, to hover in the background beyond the group of smartly dressed people surrounding him, enough for him to see you, to peak his interest. This could be what Marcus, the FBI, needs. This could, potentially, help the investigation, if he is still doing dealings under the table. 

But then what? You’d be stuck having to go further. There’d be no backing out. There’d be more drama, more headaches, more mind games, more lies. You can’t do it.

This has developed into something you don’t think you have the nerve for. The idea of it all seemed so easy when Marcus came to you, but the reality of it? You don’t have the mentality for it all. You’re not an agent. You’re not trained for this. You don’t have people behind you, covering for you and protecting you.

You turn away.

Rigsby lingers by the bathroom you had exited from, nose in a pamphlet showcasing the must sees of the museum, but his eyes flick to you as if to check on your movements. You swallow, give a barely there shake of your head and then continue on your way out, leaving him to alert Marcus that you had left.

—

You’re only a mere few feet away, but he can feel the distance that now stretches in between you. Distance that could never be removed or forgotten. The thick sheen of glass hides him from your gaze, but that doesn’t stop him from flinching when your eyes glance at the mirror upon entry.

He’s a coward. A fucking coward. He intentionally sat out on the move today, refused to be a part of the team bringing you in, all because he was scared of seeing your face and the look of betrayal in your eyes. Shit, he’s still scared now. Maybe that;s why he stays behind the glass, refusing to be a part of the interrogation.

You’re holding on so fucking strong, he’s damn near proud.

Jenner throws everything at you. He does all that he can, but when you don’t budge, he throws an apologetic glance towards the mirror that you thankfully don’t catch. It’s time to pull out the ace card, to let you know they had more on you than you think, and it makes him fucking sick.

He can’t move.

You’re confused when you hear the mention of his name, his real name, and why wouldn’t you be? You have no idea who he is, who he really is.

Sweat slicks his palm as he pulls at the door to the interrogation room, builds on the back of his neck under the crisp collar of his shirt as he takes a seat. He can’t look at you. He can’t look at you because he’s a piece of shit coward, unable to confront all the shit he’s done.

Bile stings at his throat.

It takes every fucking bit of him to keep it together.

The file is heavy in his hand as he slides it across the table before he finally manages to meet your gaze. It cuts him to the very core. He feels the hit of it deep in his chest. His jaw starts to ache from the pressure of keeping his teeth clenched tightly together, forcefully swallowing down every flicker of pain and guilt and self fucking loathing until he’s nothing but a blank slate.

Tears start to build rapidly in your eyes and he knows then and there that he’ll never forget that look of pure and utter heartbreak creasing your face. The face he had stroked so softly, kissed so lovingly.

“Special Agent Pike,” you rasp softly, almost choking on the words.

It’s a viciously harsh blow to the system and he falters almost immediately.

I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m sorry—

You don’t look at him anymore, and he’s almost glad for it. You’d see how he starts to crumble, how his tongue darts out to wet his lips in a panic and how Jenner makes a small gesture for him to take a deep breath and cool it before he says something that’ll end him in deep shit.

“I want a lawyer.”

—

“I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. Any of it.”

He seems to be expecting the words, taking them in with nothing but a small reassuring smile and a simple, “Okay.”

Honestly, you were expecting a little more. Maybe a few questions fired as to why you couldn’t do it when you seemed so intent on following through with it all originally, but when he says nothing else, you deflate. You wet your lips, wondering if there’s some sort of catch, but Marcus remains silent, watching the flutter of emotions pass over your face.

“That’s it?”

“When I told you that you’re in control of this, I meant it. If you’re done, then you’re done.”

Hearing him confirm it brings such a sweet relief to your mind, you can practically feel the weight of it all start to seep from your shoulders, but despite that guilt still sits in the pit of your stomach, uncomfortable and relentless. It falls from your mouth before you can even think to stop it—

“I’m sorry. I thought—I don’t know. I guess I just thought it would feel different, or be easier than it actually is. I think I’m just… tired. Of everything. I want—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” he cuts in quietly, giving a small reassuring smile when you glance at him. “We asked a lot of you, and I understand that. It’s okay—really.”

Your conversation with Jane plays back through your mind, almost tauntingly. A small part of you wants to tell Marcus about it, he should know Jane’s off parading about on his own path without a care for the plans or rules or whatever it is that gets set in place during an investigation, but then what?

He’d want to know what he said, and you don’t have it in you to look him in the eyes and tell him. You don’t want to open yourself up to that embarrassment. Of course what Jane said is all bullshit, it’s ridiculous to even think about yourself, but to have Marcus bluntly tell you so would be a bit of a slap across the face.

“The recording,” you start with the creepings of hesitation, tongue rolling along your lips in an effort to bring the words out smoother, “what happens to it?”

 A flutter of a frown creases his brows as he eyes you from across your kitchen before he gives a noncommittal shrug, finding no harm in your curiosity.

“It gets put in with the rest of the evidence.”

“Even if there’s nothing on it?”

“It would need to be cleared by an agent first, but if there’s nothing of use on it then it just gets discarded.”

“If—if I asked you to delete it now, without listening to it, is that… would you?”

The frown immediately deepens.

He seems to stand straighter, something seeping into his expression as your question lingers in the air, and you watch, waiting for the suspicion that doesn’t seem to come. He just seems concerned, whether on your behalf or his investigation you don’t know. He doesn’t seem to know that Jane had jumped on you at the museum, surely that would’ve been something he would address immediately upon seeing you after the last time,  so you’re positive he’s unaware of what’s on it.

“I—” he stops, tongue running along his lips, “I can’t risk the case—”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you. There’s nothing worthwhile on it, but if I wanted you to forget about it and delete it, would you?”

Would you trust me?

It goes unspoken, but it lingers behind your words. Despite the anxiety churning in your stomach and the panic building in your chest from how he’ll take your request and what he’ll think of it, you’re curious. He has no reason to trust you whatsoever, especially given your history, but some sort of shaky foundation had been built between you over your time working with him—how far did it go?

His concern grows, and he takes a careful step towards you. “Has something happened?”

Should you tell him? No. Just be done with it all.

“Just answer the question.”

“What happened?”

“Marcus.”

The frown remains steady between his brows, his eyes unwavering as they focus on yours and study your features, but eventually, after a few moments of searching your expression, he gives a small careful nod. You can’t help but recoil slightly in surprise, not expecting the answer. You don’t even know what you were expecting.

Your first response is to call him out, because surely he wouldn’t, but as you watch him and the way he starts to shift almost nervously, you start to believe him.

“You would?” You question softly, brows pulling together. “Why?”

“Because you asked me to.”

That’s it? That’s all it would take?

He swallows, eyes falling to the floor as his hands find his hips. “Are—are you asking me to?”

“Maybe.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“No.”

It’s not an answer he wants, but he seems to accept it. His frown stays on you, his eyes bouncing back and forth between your own as he attempts to work out whatever you may be thinking. You see the conflict play across his face, the urge to push for more answers, the want to understand.

Something seems to click behind his eyes and you don’t know what to brace for in the seconds that follow. Anger? Accusations? 

He strides towards the kitchen counter, takes the little device in hand and holds a small button along the side until it gives a small beep followed by a clear confirmation of ‘recording deleted’. It’s over and done with within the span of thirty seconds and you’re left reeling.

Holy shit. He did it. You stare, wide eyed as he tosses it back down and runs a hand over his mouth, before turning and pacing the small width of your apartment. 

You watch him go.

There was nothing on it other than your little spat with Jane, but he didn’t know that. You could be hiding anything. You could’ve turned on him, evaded Rigsby’s watchful eye, found someone in your old circle and told them everything you and the FBI have been doing. Anything could’ve been on it, and yet he listened to you.

He trusted you.

“You could’ve just deleted evidence,” you breathe, still stuck in disbelief.

He knows it wasn’t. He fully believes you would never ask that of him, but at that very moment, he couldn’t have cared less if it was evidence. He would’ve dealt with it, like before. Technology isn’t always reliable, and issues almost always arise during cases with something tech-related. No one would know. No one would need to know.

“Yes,” he states plainly, and you’re so perplexed by the word and how he seemingly shrugs off his actions that you need to take another moment to process it.

“Just like that.”

He finally stops pacing, turning to face you fully.

“Just like that,” he echoes quietly.

This was a bad idea.

Not just the erasure of potential evidence and his apparent nonchalance regarding it and the risk to the position he had gruellingly earned over the years, but the whole thing.

The whole fucking thing.

He should never have bought you into this. He should never have knocked on your door. He’s right back to where he was back then, stuck and doing some very questionable shit he would easily lose his job over all because he’s an idiot.

You don’t hide away from his gaze, and he doesn’t shy away from yours. You’re still trying to work out his thought process, the logic behind his actions, and you keep coming up with nothing. There’s no reason why he would do something like this, for a nobody like you. There’s no motivation, no need on his side to do as you ask and blindly delete shit without questioning it further…  unless—

Unless, what Jane said holds some merit.

Why else would he do it?

No.

Maybe he’s just doing it as a favour, to try and make up for all of the shit he put you through. That makes more sense than him having feelings for you. He hasn’t been around you enough to justify any sort of feelings—he doesn’t know you. Or is he carrying them from your previous relationship? But it’s been ages since you were together, and that was all fake back then. There was nothing real there, it was all a lie. 

The headache is coming back.

You exhale slowly through your lips, eyes falling away from him and to the simple black device once more. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. You don’t need to know any more. It’s all done. It’s over, and you can finally get back to your quiet little normal life. You can move on.

“Thank you.” And you mean it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly, clearing his throat. “I know this must’ve been very hard for you, and we appreciate all of the hard work you’ve put into this investigation. I appreciate it.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” you half smile, the pull of it natural.

“Yeah, I’m sure,��� he huffs softly in amusement, slowly coming closer to pick up the device from the counter and tuck it away into his pocket. 

“I mean, I wasn’t thrilled to begin with, but… it turned out okay.”

He smiles fully, and it hits just like it used to. You don’t look away. There’s no harm in taking it all in one last time. You won’t see him after this. You didn’t know last time, before it all fell apart. You didn’t get a chance to enjoy all of the little things you liked. You didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.

“Well, I’ll—I’ll leave you to it. Thank you again. There might be some final paperwork, but I’ll post it out.”

You nod as you follow him slowly to your door, tucking your cardigan around you and crossing your arms tightly across your chest. You ache. Somewhere deep inside your chest twists, and your throat starts to tighten. You’re not exactly sure what you’re thinking when you call out to him before he can reach for the door, and you’re left with nothing to say when he pauses and turns to you.

There’s nothing to say. He doesn’t bother filling the silence. You stand there, eyes roaming his face in an effort to picture him as he was back then, when he was Alex. He lets you. There’s something there, something hanging in the stillness surrounding you both because you can feel it start to tug and twist at your insides.

Finality.

This is goodbye—a proper one.

It’s not Marcus you want to say goodbye to.

Slowly, deliberately, you step into him and he doesn’t move a muscle. He stills under the hand you steady yourself with on his arm, breath all but hardening in his lungs when your face nears his own.

Your lips press ever so softly to his cheek, only mere millimetres from the corner of his lips, and the shaky little exhale he lets out confirms it all for you.

Jane was right, but you have no idea just how much. He was in deeper than you could have possibly ever imagined. Everything was still there, simmering right under the surface and threatening to be his entire undoing. He doesn’t speak, can’t speak, for fear of saying the wrong thing and fucking this last little moment up.

He relishes in it, in the one final tender touch of your lips that sends his pulse to a heavy hammer beneath his skin. It kills him, destroys him, but he takes it willingly with an open heart. The final punishment to close the last chapter of your story.

His eyes are closed when you pull away, but they soon flutter open to meet yours, and they swim with all the apologies and guilt he doesn’t let himself say anymore. You’re thankful for it, you don’t want to hear it. Not now. Your lips tingle, and a warmth spreads along the skin of your cheeks. 

“Bye Scribbles,” he rumbles finally, and you swear there’s a slight shine of tears in his eyes.

They mirror the ones suddenly building in yours.

Goodbye Alex.

“Goodbye Marcus,” you return softly, and then he’s gone.

—

He wants to tell you to run.

The words sit on his tongue: a beg for forgiveness, a plea to just get on the first plane out of the fucking country and disappear, and he damn near draws blood to stop himself.

Though he tidied up as much as he could, ensured there were appropriate plea deals in place and a chance for you to get out of this better than the others if you cooperated, he still dreaded the next few days.

You have no idea.

No idea that your world’s essentially going to shatter and come down around you, and it’s all his fault.

Your kisses feel like a punishment. Each one threatens to cut through his restraint, and when you whisper those three sweet words in his ear he wants to vomit.

He wants to tell you everything. He wants to explain that this fake persona you had given yourself to so fully was still him—it was all him, just under a different name. 

He doesn’t.

He lets the guilt eat away at him, lets the heartache practically tear him apart from the inside out until he feels raw. There’d be no salvaging this. There’d be no walking away from this with you still on his side, and rightly so. This will fucking break you, and he’ll carry that for the rest of his life.

He sits up long after you fall asleep, studying each dip and curve of your face and committing it all to memory. He traces over your skin, attempts to smile when you sleepily wake from his touch and hides the presence of his tears by scooping you into his arms for the last time. 

—

It’s surprisingly easy to return to life as it was before he knocked on your door. A weight had been lifted free from your shoulders, a promise of new beginnings born from finally gaining closure. Was it what you expected? No, but it was no less welcome. 

You managed to get your old job back at the diner, and spent days sketching aimlessly in the park.

It was normal, until it suddenly wasn’t.

The door’s pried open when you return from a late night shift, the obvious signs of a forced entry with the wooden edges of the door chipped and the frame split from pressure. Your hand shakes as you push it open, stomach turning as it gives way to the utter chaos that is your little apartment. Your home.

Your things are everywhere, drawers are opened and the contents spilled out onto the floor, furniture upturned and tossed carelessly to the side. Someone had been looking for something, but you know you have nothing of worth. Not anymore. They wouldn’t have walked away with anything of significance but still, there’s a bitter sting of loss, of intrusion that seems to rattle you to the core.

Heart beating heavily in your throat, you carefully step over the mess and further into your small apartment, and beyond the thunder of your pulse you hear nothing else out of the ordinary. Whoever had been here was long gone, leaving nothing but destruction and questions in their wake. Who the hell did this?

He’s the first and only person that comes to the forefront of your mind, and when you shakily reach for your phone and find his name still saved in your small list of contacts, he answers after the second ring despite it being so late. You almost feel guilty for bothering him, but something about the way he seems so immediately concerned placates any doubt.

“Hi, I—I’m sorry, I don’t… someone broke into my apartment—”

There’s a sudden flurry of movement on his end that crackles down the phone. 

“Get out of there,” Marcus demands, before you can even finish working out the right words to say.

He doesn’t tell you to call the cops, he doesn’t tell you it’s not his problem and that you’re on your own now. You feel a slight wave of relief, but facing the disaster of your apartment has a wave of vulnerability hitting you and your eyes start to burn. 

“There’s no one here,” you mumble around the sudden dryness of your throat, “they’re gone. Can you—”

“I’m on my way. Listen to me, I need you out of there, do you understand? Do not touch anything, leave everything as it is.”

You nod, despite knowing he wouldn’t be able to see it, and step back out into the quiet corridor of your floor.

There’s no one around.

Your skin prickles with worry, your nerves working into overdrive to stay vigilant. Every quiet shuffle and bump beyond the walls of neighbouring apartments rattles your senses, and the hand holding your phone starts to shake. He must sense your panic, hear the way your breathing starts to pick up as your chest starts to tighten.

“It’s okay, I’m coming. Stay on the phone with me.”

“Okay,” you exhale as a tear tracks down your cheek, leaving a cool trail in its wake.

Maybe this is an overreaction. Maybe it’s just some random burglary, someone out to get a quick bit of cash for whatever they need, or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s not all over as you had hoped. Has someone found you? Do they know who you are? Do they know what you did?

You feel sick.

Your voice catches in your throat, “Marcus—”

“I know. I’m coming.”

[munnmolads]

"Who are you?" - Rafayel's Nightly Stroll Theory/Headcanon

My thoughts about Rafayel's jabs about forgetting MC during Nightly stroll and theory on what might have happened before the game events. Spoilers for Nightly Stroll, Under Deepspace main story and Rafayel's story branch.

Recap from Nightly Stroll - Rafayel gets injured and gets into the hospital. He calls MC to visit him in the morning, and she arrives there late at night. Angry at her lateness, Rafayel pretends to forget MC.

Later in the story we learn that this is a jab at MC actually forgetting him. They met much earlier as kids and made a promise to meet again the spot next year.

Only later in the story branch MC gets to know about her forgetting Rafayel.

Something I want to point out with the branch relating to their meeting even if it's slightly off-topic, their meeting happened 14 years ago, so MC was around 7-8 years old, and Rafayel was 10. I believe MC is referring to the experiments that we can read more about "Sealed in Dust" World Underneath story, and her age during those experiments was specified in Under Deepspace Chapter 5-1. MC still doesn't know the full extent to her experiments and doesn't connect yet that those memory losses are related to them.

While Rafayel says that he didn't ACTUALLY wait for her, he still seemed to hope that they would meet again. As if this isn't heartbreaking enough, I have wondered one thing... How he knew MC truly forgot about him?

In main story chapter 2 when they meet "for the first time", he doesn't seem to be surprised about the fact that she doesn't recognize him. He seems like he already knows she has forgotten about him, and keeps up the facade of not knowing who she is. Only after chapter 7 he shows how bitter he is over it.

Then going back to him mentioning "settling a score with her"... While I feel that we might never know what that actually meant, I feel him "forgetting" MC back is one of his ways to get back at her, in a very specific way. In addition to Nightly Stroll, he very momentarily pretends to forget MC again because he's angry with her. If you don't log in for 30 days, you will get a new interaction with the guys in the cafe, he will say this:

(thanks to SORAII for uploading a video of it, I am way too obsessed with this game to do this)

While this moment is shorter than in Nightly Stroll, it has the similar theme: He asks who MC is, and mentions that she looks kind of familar. I don't know about in other languages, but in EN voiceover he also raises his pitch a teeny bit here, and in Nightly stroll it's obviously higher.

Here is where my theory/headcanon comes in; MC has said those words to him. They met again after MC forgot everything, and ironically, has forgotten about it. And he's mocking her for it.

I imagine Rafayel did approach her after finding her - being ecstatic that he finally found her, only to hear those words. It also makes sense considering how convoluded his methods of trying to involve himself into her life have been but still never approach her until the main story starts. Also, considering how bitter he is about it and how he sincerely wanted MC to use the bond to make him not to hold a grudge anymore.

And for her, she thought she just met some guy who mistook her for someone else.

[bakudekuficlibrary]

Do you guys have any fake dating bkdk with a nsfw and angst

BakuDeku: Fake Dating ( angst & nsfw ) 28 Works.

Vicious by feelslikefire ( E | BKDK | 105,173 | 13/13 )

Midoriya and Bakugou wind up in the very last position either of them thought they'd be in: Hero Partners. It's not fun, but they learn to cope. Their first big assignment together takes them undercover to infiltrate a cult, but the situation turns out far more sinister than they first thought.

(Or: Midoriya and Bakugou pretend to be Fake Married, join a cult, start having sex, and learn not to suck as partners, not necessarily in that order.)

What I can never tell you by Mikacrispy ( E | BKDKBK | 27,067 | 6/6 )

‘Bakugou suffered an accident. You need to come back. Now.’

After living in the US for 5 years, Izuku returns to take care of a concussed Bakugou who believes they're engaged. Now, Izuku has to pretend he's in a relationship with the man he's loved for most of his life, knowing that it's just a matter of time until Katsuki gets better and realizes it's all a lie.

Courting for the Camera by imnotpoppunk ( E | DKBK | 111,654 | 29/29 )

"Courting," she says, simply, beginning her pitch. Izuku's eyes go impossibly wide, already not liking the direction this is headed in. "One of the things that people love to see in other public figures is when they begin to court their prospective mates. So, I've devised a plan to stage courting rituals with you and a potential mate, all of which will be either posted to your social media or accidentally captured by paparazzi."  NightMight Pro Hero Agency is dealing with backlash from the public over their top hero, Deku, being an unmated alpha, and their concern is only growing as the Hero Ranking Polls draw nearer.

Similarly, Fat Gum Hero Agency is struggling to find a compatible alpha to calm their explosive omega, Ground Zero.

And so, the two agencies strike up a deal: plan a fake courting between the two heroes and everyone ends up happy. Right?

Maybe.

Someone Borrowed by mynameis152 ( E | BKDK | 138,996 | 38/38 )

It felt like hours that he stared at Izuku, coming to terms with the fact that a man, his childhood best friend, whom he hadn’t seen since their senior year of high school, was there in front of his very eyes. Then his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched before he uttered through gritted teeth the very name Izuku had longed to hear for years.

“Deku.”

Spyderwebs by surveycorpsjean ( E | BKDK | 69,069 | 8/8 )

Katsuki and Izuku are tasked with an undercover mission as a couple aboard a luxury cruise ship. The problem is, they haven't seen each other in years.

lover's compass by sapphicflower ( E | BKDK | 55,177 | 5/5 )

Katsuki and Izuku are rival spies from separate agencies, and generally try to stay clear of each other's missions if it can be helped.

However, when their missions seem to diverge into one, they must collaborate for the first time since their falling out from several years ago. Forced to pose as a lovesick couple who are checking in to a romantic getaway island, Katsuki and Izuku have no choice but to set aside their personal differences for the sake of keeping up appearances and not getting caught by other enemy spies.

To say that Katsuki is not fucking happy about this arrangement is the understatement of the century.

Read {between} Your Lines by greatcloudninja ( E | DKBKDK | 54,252 | 18/18 )

Midoriya Izuku, up-and-coming actor, has finally hit his big break: he's been cast as one of the leads in a film based on the first book of a best-selling novel series. Even better, his co-star is none other than his idol, Bakugou Katsuki, who has been acting for over twenty years.

However, Bakugou seems to have it out for Izuku, leading to tension both on and off set. When some incriminating photos surface, the studio suggests an extreme form of damage control: having Bakugou and Midoriya fake a relationship to get ahead of the rumors. But not all of Midoriya's fans are accepting of the relationship...

Can the two of them get through filming without killing each other first, or will hate turn to passion along the way?

to have and to hold by maquina ( E | BKDK | 43,019 | 10/10 )

Teased for being permanently single, Katsuki bets he'll have a plus one by the day of Kirishima and Mina's wedding. As the event rapidly approaches, he instead reaches out to his former childhood best friend, Izuku, and invites him to be his fake boyfriend.

What could go wrong?

The Boyfriend Theorem by imnotpoppunk ( E | DKBK | 80,930 | 23/23 )

Katsuki is the first omega to ever play for the UA University men's hockey team. He's just not sure how much more he can take before he cracks under the pressure of it all.

Izuku is an alpha grad student working on his PhD in philosophy. He's also working on keeping himself convinced that it's his one true passion in life.

A tutoring session leads to a white lie to save face and after that things get more complicated than either of them had intended.

Pretty Boy by Hopeless Creations ( E | BKDKBK | 422,116 | 65/65 )

Katsuki Bakugo is the arrogant heir to a multi-billion dollar company. Mitsuki Bakugo is, quite frankly, done with his shit, and threatens to disown him if he doesn't start bringing a partner to events to show he's taking his future seriously. Izuku Midoriya is an escort.

What could possibly go wrong?

The Pretty Woman BakuDeku AU you didn't realize you needed in your life, with a twist!

OR;

“The fuck did you just call me?”

Izuku stared him down, green eyes glinting and refusing to show sign of weakness. Thank god his shaking hands were hidden in the darkness of the vehicle. “Well, since you seem to have a nickname for me, I figured I should have something fitting for you, too, right? Mine means useless, I presume, and yours is…” He looked Katsuki up and down, pursing his lips, before his face again broke out into a smile, seasoned with just the right amount of patronizing. “Cute.”

[ Graphic Depictions of Violence | Past Rape/Non-con | Abuse | Heavy Trigger Warnings ]

Break my heart by SapphicPandaBear ( E | BKDKBK | 70,376 | 29/29 )

"You mentioned practice," says Izuku. "What were you thinking?"

"Depends on boundaries."

Izuku covers his flustered emotions with a laugh. "We could always start with road head."

Silence.

Damn. Maybe he went too far. "Sorry, Kacchan, I—"

"Too dangerous," says Katsuki, his voice low and rough. "Handjob would be easier."

Izuku's heart stutters in his chest.

---

Or, a grievous misunderstanding drove a wedge of silence between Katsuki and Izuku for 7 years. Now a dangerous honeypot mission has them undercover, investigating a politician suspected of violent hate crimes and a suspect BDSM club, all while navigating each other's volatile emotions under forced proximity.

[ Graphic Depictions of Violence ]

Izuku and Katsuki's Guide to Fake Dating by TheFifthCharmedOne ( E | BKDK | 16,783 | 10/10 )

Mitsuki has been repeatedly asking (read: harassing) her son about settling down with someone despite his apparent lack of interest in doing so. After a long day of hero work, the last thing Katsuki feels like doing is talking about this crap with his mom. So, he tells her he's dating Deku just to shut her up. And it all rolls downhill from there.

how he should've known (and how it turned out) by vannral ( E | BKDK | 43,918 | 13/13 )

Izuku should’ve listened and known and watched out for this so he wouldn’t be here, in this position. But he is, and everything is awful.

In which Katsuki and Izuku pretend to be a couple to avoid journalists, the plan backfires magnificently because of course it does, and the act goes on. Includes feelings, pining, domestic fluff and jealousy.

Not-Dating by MiraChaDoodles ( E | BKDK | 14,290 | 1/1 )

“On a...date…” Izuku repeated the word as though it made no sense. As though the four letters that formed “date” simply didn’t mesh together to create meaning in his mind. They truly didn’t seem to. D-A-T-E. Katsuki couldn’t be saying that word to him...right?

---

Or, Katsuki takes Deku on a not-date to save his career, only to find himself wishing it were real.

Whiplash by Flarewrites ( E | BKDK | 29,061 | 5/5 )

Shouto: Let me get this straight. Shouto: You’re in love with your fiancé, who is also not your fiancé because he proposed on purely platonic terms but now you’ve caught feelings and you don’t know what to do. Izuku: YES! No? I don't know.

OR the one in which Izuku and Katsuki are both disaster gays and Shouto wants to bang both their heads together.

A Kiss as a Lie by Fawn_Eyed_Girl ( E | BKDK | 39,522 | 7/7 )

Izuku might be the Number Five hero in the country, but the adorable young man is not immune to the thirst of social media. When his boss is finally tired of having one of his top heroes sexualized and picked apart, body part by cute body part, he comes up with a suggestion he thinks will fix everything:

Izuku needs a fake girlfriend, at least through the big Hero Gala, which is two weeks away.

Except that Izuku is not interested in girls.

Luckily, there’s another hero at the agency who offers to be Izuku’s fake boyfriend.

Unluckily?

It just so happens to be Izuku’s crush from the time he was…well, forever, if he’s being honest.

How will he survive the next two weeks as Kacchan’s “boyfriend”?

With artwork commissions by kalcia 💖

What a damn hero by SaysiWrites ( E | BKDK | 5,904 | 1/1 )

When Izuku comes across an account full of photos captioned "send this to guys who won't leave you alone" it seems like the perfect way to get clingy suitors off his back. What he doesn't expect is a spiral of stupid actions that leads him to asking the man to play along.

Nor does he expect to find out the buff angry dude is a pro hero.

love is a labour (i'll slave til the end) by nikkiRA ( E | DKBK | 3,830 | 1/1 )

"You know," Kacchan says, although Izuku clearly doesn't. "Just scent me, and act like we're together. It doesn't have to be a big deal."

But it is a big deal. It's a very big deal, because Izuku is madly in love with him, and it's hard enough hiding that on a regular basis. And now Kacchan wants him to pretend to date him? To be mates? How was Izuku supposed to do that?

But how was he supposed to say no?

Blurry by spicymacaron ( E | BKDK | 4,614 | 1/1 )

When his mom tries to set him up on a date, Izuku panics and tells her that he’s dating Katsuki. Surprisingly, Katsuki agrees to be his fake boyfriend for a week until they can publicly break up. The problem is, Katsuki’s starting to take his role seriously and Izuku’s finding it harder to pretend.

Not So Fake After All by kyramidoriya ( E | DKBK | 12,275 | 5/5 )

Izuku and Katsuki have always been a bit too competitive. It gets them into trouble this time when they bet who can keep a fake relationship going the longest. The worst part? They have to do it while keeping their genuine feelings a secret from each other.

Who's going to win the bet? And can they keep their love hidden?

[Abandoned] bring me the head of a love song (bring me the head of a lie) by saekimchi ( E | BKDK | 32,813+ | 6/?)

“We aren’t dating,” Izuku blurts out, only just managing to keep from spilling to the head of his Hero Office just how thirsty he is for big, mean, and blasty. Katsuki makes a disgruntled noise that Izuku is too preoccupied to parse out the exact meaning of, but there might be something close to agreement in there so he’ll take what he can get. “We aren’t dating, so--”

“I don’t know,” says Ryo smoothly, flipping the newspaper around so he can inspect the photograph more closely. “Usually when your tongue is that far down another person’s throat, it’s a good indicator that something special is going on.”

Chapter 8 of How Long Will This Last by osakakitty ( E | BKDK | 1,822 | 1 out of 12 )

Prompt 8: “I need you to pretend we’re dating…”

excuses by wbtrashking (orphan_account) ( M | BKDK | 15,089 | 1/1 )

Four weeks isn't a lot of time to find a date to a wedding, but Todoroki issues Bakugou a challenge and the blonde refuses to back down.

He happens to run into Midoriya, so he asks the shorter man to accompany him as his fake date for the occasion. Bakugou figures it'll be good for both of them―he hasn't been on a pleasant date in years, and Midoriya needs to move on from his recent breakup.

It winds up being as fun as it is complicated. That's just Bakugou's luck.

Hold me like you mean it! by Unoutan ( M | BKDK | 8,420 | 1/1 )

Kacchan needs a favor of him and he never openly asks for this help! This is, but one addition to the signs that their relationship is progressing closer and closer as friends, but...is that all Izuku wants? He will never say no to Kacchan when he needs his help. Never.

[Abandoned] I do but I don't - we're really fucked by greekfreaks ( E | BKDK | 127,458+ | 18/25 )

Where Olympic swimmer Bakugou Katsuki gets into serious trouble after a UA student exposes him as something he says he isn’t – a raging homophobe. With the threat of the IOC disqualifying him from the upcoming Tokyo games, his famous fashion designer mother, Mitsuki – with the help of his PR team and a long-standing blood pact with Inko – devised the ultimate plan:

Dating your childhood friend (and enemy) Midoriya fucking Izuku.

Kiss and don't tell by SaffronRum ( E | BKDK | 42,203 | 47/47 )

When Katsuki Bakugou stumbles into Izuku's shop, Kiss and Tell, he didn't expect the pro hero to need his under-the-table services.

What would happen if Katsuki found out it was all a scam?

(short chapters of approximately 800 words)

You and Me and a Baby Makes...Me by Fawn_Eyed_Girl ( E | BKDKBK | 106,361+ | 26/? )

Bakugō Katsuki wants to break into the Top 10 heroes in Japan more than anything. He’s put in the work; he’s strong and capable. The only problem is his…”attitude,” which makes him the Hero People Love to Hate.

On the other hand, Midoriya Izuku is the number 2 hero, and beloved by everyone...except Katsuki. Once childhood friends, and now bitter rivals, and reluctant business partners, Katsuki just can’t deal with Izuku’s success.

Then one day, a daring rescue leads Endeavor and All Might to concoct a plan that just might be the perfect makeover for Katsuki. It’s an idea that Katsuki hates, and Izuku loves.

An idea that Katsuki fights against with his entire being, especially when he starts to fall in love with it—and with Izuku—too.

[Abandoned] Reluctantly Yours by Hazel_Halfpint ( E | BKDK | 25,026+ | 4/? )

If you asked Midoriya Izuku about himself, he'd tell you he's average. He loves his mom and siblings, and works hard to reach his goal to be a quirk-related counselor. Unfortunately, part of that working hard, includes interning with his (attractive) hot-headed, crass, and annoying boss at Endeavor Agency. Bakugou Katsuki; Japans Number 2 Pro-Hero and sought-after Alpha bachelor. Izuku does his best to keep to himself, doing what's requested of him, and going home.

Until he finds himself in a meeting with Endeavor, Bakugou and the Hero Commissioner. In rapid succession three things occurred, 1. Endeavor mentioned Bakugou settling down. 2.Bakugou looks like he wants to explode, until he notices Midoriya. (That look never means anything good.) 3. The blond alpha says six unthinkable words, "Izuku and I are getting married.”

**Inspired by "The Proposal" w/Sandra Bullock & Ryan Reynolds**

[thatboreddrake]

"I accept that there will be those who I cannot save."

When I first read those words on a wiki page for the Stormlight Archives, I assumed they would pertain to learning that it's okay to kill your enemies. That Kaladin would be taught a lesson on how some people will choose to place themselves outside of your ability to protect them, and that that is not your fault. People like Moash, who continue to make themselves a threat to the other people he had sworn to protect.

And I was fine with that understanding, at least at first. It's a natural counterpoint to Lirin's perspective that "you cannot save lives by taking lives." I was interested to see how Sanderson explored it, as this is a concept that I have struggled to accept for myself. I even thought it could be an interesting foil to the Third Ideal: "I will protect those I hate, so long as it is right." But then I read Oathbringer. I saw the Battle of Kholinar, where Kaladin is broken by the realization that the people on either side are just that: people. Here there are two different groups who he feels honor-bound to protect, and they're killing each other.

It is no wonder that these events broke him, driving him to where he is by the start of Rhythm of War. When Kaladin failed to swear the Fourth Ideal in Shadesmar, during the Battle of Thaylen Field, I was excited to see how he would grapple with that reality. Sanderson did not disappoint, tho he delivered in a way that I did not expect.

Kaladin, under orders, steps back from the front lines. He puts down the spear. He returns to his training as a surgeon. He invents the concept of group therapy to help others who were suffering from battle shock, like him. He learns that there is more than one way to protect people. And he seems to be making progress, if slowly, to recovering from his failures in Oathbringer.

This all comes crashing down when Raboniel and her forces invade Urithiru. Kaladin is left feeling powerless. He has to hide to survive. He repeatedly fails to protect the Sibling against the assaults of the Fused. All he can manage is to keep Teft from being taken captive, nursing him through his coma. Now, more than ever, he feels that he is a failure at doing the one thing he has sworn to do: protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Then Wit comes along, with the story of the Dog who Wished to Become a Dragon. He shows Kaladin that, even if your goal is fundamentally unachievable, good results can still come from your efforts. That it is the Journey that matters, even if you never reach your Destination.

Kaladin is bolstered. He marches out to face the Fused one final time: a last stand. Do or die. And he is winning. In spite of it all, he finds that he can still protect others. But its a lie. He knows its a lie. In his own thoughts, he is pretending to be Kaladin Stormblessed, one last time.

When Vyre arrives and slaughters Teft, what little scaffolding Kaladin had left is kicked out from under him. Teft, the one person he felt he could genuinely help during the occupation, lying on the ground with his eyes burned out.

This is why I believe the way in which Kaladin achieves the Fourth Ideal is so much more impactful than I ever imagined it would be. Because it's not some simple lesson about how "you need to learn that its okay to kill/not save people if they aren't on your side." It's not a question of morality or honor at all, really.

It's an exercise in futility.

What has broken Kaladin is the fact that, no matter how hard he tries to protect people, they always end up dying. He feels that his efforts were wasted. Yet he forgets the countless moments allowed to those he saved, even if he only delayed their death. He forgets Dabbid, who would have bled out on the Shattered Plains were it not for Kaladin's intervention. He forgets the battle-shock patients who saw the sun again because of his efforts.

In the end, it's not about whether we die or not, because that is the inevitable end to every life. But Life comes before Death. Death may be the ultimate Destination, but every step towards it makes up the wonderful Journey of Life.

And so Kaladin is reminded: there will be those who you cannot save. There will be those who you cannot keep alive, no matter what you do. So instead of mourning their deaths as a failure, he learns to celebrate the times they had together. It's all about cherishing the moments that we have, and not allowing the end to sour those happy memories.

As Dr. Seuss once wrote, "Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."

Life before Death, friends. Journey before Destination.

[tavolgisvist]

When I interviewed Derek Taylor he was in semi-retirement. Being off the drink he wouldn’t meet in a pub, suggesting instead a cafe near my office and close to Brian Epstein’s old London HQ, by the London Palladium. Just across Regent Street was the Savile Row building where Apple used to be.

Within the record business he was still revered by PRs and journalists who’d watched him operate in his heyday. ‘There’s a man I have a lot of admiration for,’ one told me. ‘He was a man of manners. He had great style. And when you didn’t get anything from him, he made you come away feeling you’d been royally entertained.’ Another said: ‘If I’ve ever modelled my approach on anyone, it was him. It just struck me that he had this incredibly civilised attitude to the whole thing.’

Raised in the Wirral, Taylor left the Manchester showbiz desk of the Daily Express in 1964 to be Brian Epstein’s assistant - he’d just helped Brian write his autobiography A Cellarful of Noise - and then became the Beatles’ public relations man. ‘My inclination was always as an enthusiast rather than a relentless hunter down of evil men, which is why I crossed over from writing about the Beatles to writing for the Beatles.’ Friendship with Lennon was cemented one drunken night in Pans: ‘Are you pretending to be from Liverpool or something?’ John demanded. But he could be won over, Taylor recalled, ‘once you had proven you weren’t from Manchester and therefore useless’.

Derek looked after Epstein’s public relations in the media frenzy over Merseybeat, which had no precedent in Britain. ‘I remember going to get hold of Cilia Black at a hairdresser’s in Liverpool - because if you got to Number 1 you went and had your hair done. It was a more innocent age. The joke of getting your parents a house in the country had been laid out in the 50s: the paradox was that whereas pop stars were seen as very vulgar and crude people, they were in fact very sentimental people who bought their parents homes.’

Within a year he was restless, however, and after a minor tiff with Brian he moved with his wife Joan to Los Angeles. Here his first PR clients were the Byrds, another brilliant group who were transforming the sound of pop. When they toured England, Brian took them to a West Country gig by train, so that they could re-create the scenes in A Hard Day’s Night. In America, Taylor’s gentle whimsy and optimistic world-view made him an ideal mouthpiece for the Love Generation, and in 1967 he helped set up the first great hippy event, Monterey: ‘Doing the Monterey Festival was easy. I was never afraid of looking a prat. I sent out a very fancy press release: “Through a gold Californian sky, a festival of great delight and magic . . .” It was part GCE poetry, part journalese and part marijuana, and it was saying this is not an ordinary thing we’re doing . . . We were not trained PR men. I wasn’t that smooth. I was honest. The Beatles got us pretty well trained to be straight, to be yourself, and that got me by a lot.’

Droll and charming, Taylor acquired a glittering reputation for hip eloquence. He’d need these qualities more than ever when he was recalled to London to become the Beatles’ PR again. During their troubled and final years, he was the spokesman for their idealistic but chaotic Apple adventure. ‘That was the biggest test,’ he told me. That was a hard and unhappy time, a lot of the time. The press had turned against the Beatles, and the Beatles turned against Apple. I never lost faith. I still believed in an Apple that was there to fulfil at least some of the promises, to give people a cup of tea if they came in, or a few quid. At the same time we were all having a couple of drinks during the day… And what we were trying to do was to save the world. This had gone beyond PR, this had gone to another phase. In my case it was entirely political: we had lots of money and other people had bugger-all, so Apple seemed to me like a wonderful idea.’ Was money wasted? ‘Well, what is money wasted? It depends on what you think money is for. I’ve always felt that it was for spreading about.’

Newsreels show Derek, bravely defending John and Yoko in the media circus of their bed-in for peace. Back at Savile Row, his hospitality was legendary. He became an alcoholic in the process. ‘So, what with the Beatles falling out, the money running out, my administrative skill being limited, my generosity with their money being unlimited, confusion ensued. Downstairs you had John and Yoko running a peace campaign on a grand scale; Paul was wondering how he’d got into this madness in the first place; George was only interested in spiritual matters; and Ringo was quite indifferent to the whole thing, really. There was a lack of direction, to put it mildly. In Liverpool they were asking, What has happened to our boys? Liverpool has the capacity to absorb all sorts of craziness, from Derek Hatton to Bill Shankly. It’s a place which is never short of extremes. But the Beatles even had Liverpool baffled: “They’re goin’ round in fuckin’ dresses now!” ’

When the Beatles split, Derek stayed on for another year: ‘I didn’t accept the break-up. I’d say: The break-up is temporary. The Beatles will never break up. And they haven’t. They can never be ex-Beatles.’

Then he took a job at Warner Brothers, eventually becoming its UK boss. His philosophy was unchanged: ‘It was always trying to show people a good time, that was the thing. And that meant lunching, parties, receptions, meeting them at the airport with enormous limousines and people with flowers. In Liverpool I’d see that they stayed in the Adelphi and not some modem place.’

He’d greet the visiting US acts at Heathrow and drive them into town via Windsor - a big detour, but Taylor always took the qualitative view of life, not the quantitative.

When he spoke about the Beatles it was never the statistics of chart success that excited him, but the magical essence he detected at the group’s very core: ‘I never saw the charts as being the real measurement of value. Real value doesn’t necessarily end up in the singles charts.’

He kicked the drink in 1975 and as a Warners executive sponsored several Liverpool acts, especially George Melly, but also Liverpool Express and Deaf School. (When he tried to sign the Sex Pistols from EMI in 1977 he was overruled.) By 1978 he was ready for retirement in East Anglia: ‘I began to dread people coming in and saying, “D’you wanna hear the guy’s new album?” Because I didn’t. I wanted to hear George Formby.’

His last project for Warners was overseeing the clever Beatle parody the Rutles. ‘After that I realised that was more or less it: I’d done the Beatles at the beginning and the Rutles at the end. Out!’

But that was not the end: by 1995 he was back at Apple, hard at work on the Anthology CDs, films and book. I’d visit him there, in the company’s smart new place in K. - no longer dispensing unlimited hospitality, but still the in-house wit and sage, perched above the fray like some benevolent owl.

As a publicist he was a cut above the average spin doctor; he had the sense to know that the spinner is not the ball. ‘Anyone can do it,’ he said of PR. ‘There’s no mystery to any of this. On the other hand, what I love about soccer, or tap-dancing, is that there’s no deception there. I’d watch John Barnes on TV, taking those corners, and say to my wife as a joke, “He’s bullshitting, it’s trickery.” Because it so obviously isn’t. It’s all so wonderfully honest . . . Artists are reachable, and so deeply human and insecure, that if you can slot into that - the fact that we’re all little children, weak, we’re all in this struggle to get by as best we can - then you can become a publicist and you can become their friend.’

Derek Taylor died in 1997, leaving the magnificent Anthology book as a memorial. ‘If you want to think I’m a bit of a Charlie,’ he once told me, ‘I still believe that we come back, and that your body is just like a coat and hat that you take off, and you’re still here even if you’re dead.’ On the dangers of fame, he wrote: ‘I would guess that there is no combination of weapons more dynamic than a strong childhood within the closeness of Liverpool, a sense of humour and a belief in a power higher than ourselves.’

(Liverpool - Wondrous Place by Paul Du Noyer, 2002)

Part (I), (II), (III), (IV), (V), (VI), (VII), (VIII), (IX)

[minecraftbookshelf]

(marriage of state) you've mentioned a couple times that the Rivendell siblings are pretty fucked up, but i'm not sure if they're like, an unusual amount of fucked up for their peer group. so on a scale of 1 to 10, where would you place all of the marriage of state rulers? are there any particular standouts we should know about, besides our beloved Scott and Xornoth?

I waited to answer this because I was going to draw a diagram but apparently that's just not going to happen right now so we'll just use our words.

Not Actually Doing Too Badly, Weirdly Enough:

Pearl. We love an unbothered queen. She is the sanest of the whole lot which is. Saying something. The desire to punch things in the face is unrelated to any sort of trauma its just her idea of a good time.

By the time of the main arc, Lizzie also fits here. She's dealt with most of her issues already. She knows who she is and she is comfortable with it. (Almost no one else is but that's not her problem)

Joel is vibing. An unbothered king. Living his best life, happily married. Definitely Unhinged but like, weirdly healthy about it.

Would Be Doing Fine If Not For Plot:

Shrub Berry was having a very normal time as a very normal gnome up until they very suddenly weren't so like, there is technically some fucked up-ness but its very recent and hasn't settled in yet. There is hope.

Jimmy has 99 problems and most of them are named fWhip and Mythical Sausage. A little insecure but like, he's got a supportive family and is doing alright.

There Is Something Wrong With You But Its Hard To Tell If It Has A Specific Root Cause Or If You Are Just Like That TM/Cumulative Effects of Your Environment:

Joey was raised in a temple under threat of assassination and also all kinds of magical things with strong potential to kill him but like, other than that he's doing alright he's just. Him.

Believe it or not the only thing Wrong with Mythical J Sausage is that he was raised in a family where power-hungry imperialism is the norm. Its mitigated somewhat by being close with Pearl especially but also like. He had loving supportive parents they just also taught him that Mythland is superior and the peak of civilization.

fWhip also falls into this category. He also had a good supportive, loving family but is also very undeniably one half-step in the wrong direction away from going full supervillain. Maybe its the redstone poisoning, maybe its being pushed into a position of leadership at too young an age with absolutely no preparation or even real warning.

Very Clearly Has Something Wrong With Them but Is Pretending So Hard to be Normal:

The Rivendell Siblings think they are doing so good at being normal. Especially Scott. Scott things he is The Most Normal. Everyone else is Very Very Concerned. Sucky parents, sucky situation what with the whole gods and possessions and prophecies thing. Religious Trauma personified x2

The only person who thinks they are More Normal than the Rivendell siblings is Gem. She is pretending so hard to be normal she's convinced herself of it. Beneath her traditional Wizard Character Faults (arrogance, tunnel vision) are some very deep-seated abandonment issues and self-loathing and identity issues.

Seems Very Normal Until You Realize Holy Shit You Are So Fucked Up Please Get Help:

Katherine Elizabeth was raised similarly to Sausage except her mother was not loving or supportive and instead of attempting to shield her from the uglier side of politics and power plays actively exposed her to them and trained her to commit them. The mortals that live around the Overgrown borders were very very lucky that Katherine decided early on that she likes mortals. Just like she likes sheep!

Pixlriffs. Just. Pixlriffs.

[woodchipp]

Every time I see you interacting with the OMORI fandom, I notice something

I don't think the general fandom... likes the Mari twist. Oh, they still think the game is peak cinema, some even say that Mari's death is poetic, but it feels artificial. It's tied with the fact that nearly everyone projects on Sunny, they relate to his depression and struggles with his mental health... "minus the Mari stuff". Even though "the Mari stuff" changes irreversibly the perception of the character.

Why do you think it's the case? My personal theory is that the average player spends up to 20 hours thinking Mari killed herself and so relate to Sunny's depression and root for him to get better, and by the time the twist occurs and recontextualizes the reasons for Sunny's behavior, they just can't make it fit in the idea of the character they made and so double down on the fact that he's Depressed and the game is about Healing.

There are a few possible causes for that.

1) Yes, the twist comes really late into the game, and that’s the chief factor. From what I’ve managed to gather, the average fan spends roughly 10-20 hours sinking into the game’s aesthetics and projecting themselves onto Sunny since he has no distinct personality otherwise. By the time the game finally deems it fit to slam the twist in the player’s face, the fan would be likely to either ignore it or to excuse it away, as by that point, they’ve projected onto Sunny so heavily that confronting the fact he did something objectively unforgivable would mean feeling bad about themselves.

And yeah, it’d explain why the fandom pretends that the game is an “inspirational” story about self-forgiveness/recovery from trauma, and aborts the conversation immediately when you point out the story is really about Sunny’s desire to stop feeling bad over having killed his sister and helped defile her memory before he leaves. Nobody wants to feel they’re unforgivable, so they just disregard the context of Sunny’s trauma… even though that’s the core of the entire game.

2) Sunny’s age is also a very frequent argument in his defense. It stems from a very infantilizing perception of him as a character - since he was 12 at the time he killed his sister, he is a “literal child” and apparently cannot be held accountable for any of his decisions, such as deciding not to run away to his room when he had the chance.

Thing is, when you cross a line, being a “child” ceases to absolve you of criticism or punishment (especially if it’s a fictional character), and deciding to go along with the plan to desecrate the corpse of your sister so that you'll look innocent is a pretty substantial line to cross even at 12. Moreover, the fandom doesn’t seem to take issue with pinning all the blame for “making everything worse” on the 12 yo Basil to make Sunny look like the victim of the situation, so age is evidently not a “Get Out of Jail Free” card.

3) The twist is absurdly contrived in a way that breaks the plot. To put it bluntly, there is no way neither Sunny nor Basil wouldn’t instantly call 911 even if they were panicking, there is no way a panicking 12-year-old would come up with a cover-up plan that complicated on the fly, and there is no way the plan was so foolproof the authorities didn’t notice anything. It breaks the plot to such a degree it’s easier to simply dismiss it as an “accident”. Which leads me to my next point.

4) Sunny’s part in the twist is discussed through the lens of an accidental shooting. That’s more of a feeling I get from talking to the fans than anything else, but I believe it’s still notable. Since a kid accidentally shooting someone is the closest realistic “template” for an accidental killing people can work with, they seem to operate under a similar kind of logic when discussing the twist and/or arguing in Sunny’s defense.

For example, in such a case, the parents are usually at fault for their negligence with the gun and their failure to properly supervise their child. Likewise, OMORI fans often blame Sunny and Mari’s parents for their ostensible “neglect” of their children, even though the game doesn’t elaborate on said children’s relationship with their parents before Mari was killed whatsoever. It’d also explain why his decision to lay his hands on Mari is framed by the fans as a “little mistake” - nobody would want to imply that the kid wanted to shoot, right?

Of course, the obvious problem with such a perception is that there is a huge difference between a child pulling the trigger while playing with a gun without knowing it was loaded and getting physically violent with someone in a fit of rage.

[goodluckclove]

Snapshots from Adolescence

I'm not even waiting for that poll I posted to finish because I remembered like half my audience are teens and I can take this opportunity to prove my credibility as an Adult Weird Kid.

So I grew up in San Jose, California. Specifically like south side, right by the hills. I think I was middle class? I honestly can't tell. My dad was a civil servant with a six-figure salary but my parents were terrible with money to the degree that when Riley found my dad's salary online I was shocked. I had a bike and a weekly allowance of like 25 bucks that I made cooking dinner for my older siblings during the week. I am also learning I had a pretty loose leash - a choke-hold in terms of emotional abuse, but in terms of being allowed to go places alone it was essentially non-existent.

I spent a lot of time alone. That was fine. I still think it's super important for any person to be able to be comfortable with their own company and actually be able to have fun by themselves. I'm still totally psyched to go out to a restaurant or a movie by myself, which is something other people I know seem to hesitate to try.

In middle school, though, I would pretty much spend all day biking around the weird business neighborhoods by my house. I would tell my mom I was leaving (She wouldn't ask where I was going or when I would be back) and I would usually bike to one of a handful of places:

a large field on the side of a busy road where the wheat was tall enough to hide in

a parking lot near the transit station where someone ditched an exercise bike and a broken dishwasher

a separate, adjacent lot where i would sit in a shopping cart and stare at the nearby overpass

These were all crazy sketchy places for a young kid to be in alone. Obviously that didn't occur to me at the time. I would listen to music - usually DEVO, I think. DEVO or like Pink Floyd. Maybe Bauhaus. I would also make a stop at the liquor store on the corner for Pringles and soda, or to the Nob Hill for fresh fruit. I would snack on my snacks, loiter shamelessly, and vibe out to music for like eight hours. My mom knew about the field and was like flaccidly resigned to me spending so much time there, but didn't actually stop me from doing it until I lost my school backpack in the sea of wheat and it was gone forever.

I got considerably more classy once I was like 13 and started high school. After that I started taking the light rail downtown. Parents were slightly more restrictive about this, making sure I knew not to wander around. At first I would only go the San Jose State University Library (which kicks ass and is eight stories tall), or the art museum, or this bakery Bijans that sold fancy little cakes. After a year or so like that their restrictions were dropped completely and I was just free to bike the city at will. Once again - cool at the time, in retrospect pretty insane to me.

It was cool, though. I spent a lot of time at Caffe Frascati, this Italian cafe that unfortunately doesn't exist anymore. I'd also stop at Cafe Stritch, a sort of bar/lounge venue that sold the best fries I've ever had in my life. Also great live music. But holy shit great fries.

By that point I was also spending a lot of time in hotel bars. I was maybe 16-17. I'd sit right at the bar and order a virgin mojito. I have to imagine I was able to do this with virtually no one ever giving me guff mainly because I looked a lot older than I actually was. I have theory that there's also a grey area in a hotel bar versus an actual bar where right out the gate they'd ask for a card. And I'm sure it helped that I never asked for actual liquor. Once a server accidentally mixed me a real mojito and I took one drink and immediately sent it back.

Putting this all down in writing sounds both quirky as fuck and also totally dull. Because while I realized early on that the average 16 year old was not getting a mocktail alone at a while enjoying a jazz quartet at the AC Lounge, I also never considered it a huge brag because in a real sense I was just sitting and listening to music. The alternative would be being at home and watching movies I guess.

Pretty much all I would do when I'd go downtown as a Hip Teen was write for like five hours for whatever novel I was working on before going to get lunch or a Little Treat (Usually CREAM, or the ice cream place at San Pedro Square Market). If anyone is ever in Downtown San Jose for some reason I still have a ton of recommendations.

I also have things I wouldn't recommend, such as the amount of time I spent biking the Guadalupe River trail through the city. Not a safe area at all. i would also literally wade in the river sometimes which - Jesus. In the current day I can't tell if it's more of a shock that I never got kidnapped, or avoided stepping on a needle or broken bottle.

I think by the time I was a Senior in high school I would sometimes lug my typewriter downtown and sell poetry for strangers. I charged like three bucks a poem. Sometimes people would pay in coffee or, for the employees of the movie theater I sat in front of, a huge bag of popcorn. I think I made like 70 bucks in a day once. Use part of it to buy dinner for my friend at our favorite Chinese place. The waitresses were really nice and once gave me a double serving of egg rolls for free.

By then I had my first job - Exhibit's Specialist at the Children's Discovery Museum. I think 17-18 was around the time I started taking the train to San Francisco to stay in one of their hostels for the weekend. I stayed at a few around that time. My favorite is probably the Adelaide Hostel.

I have a lot of mixed feelings about recounting all this. It sounds like a younger person might look at this and find it cool, maybe consider it a point of envy. But I've apparently developed into a perceptive and empathetic adult, because when I imagine a person that young doing all of that the first thing I think is wow - you really don't want to spend time in your own home, do you?

So it goes, I guess. It turned out essentially okay.

[twopercentboy]

I'm a firm believer that Edwin does NOT have internalized homophobia ☝️ repressed his sexuality? sure, obviously. but internalized hatred for himself? NO!!!

My man immediately confessed his love to Charles once he realized what his feelings were. He was going to even earlier but literally got dragged to Hell in the middle of it !!! He did not question the validity of his feelings and he definitely didn't question whether he was allowed to feel them !!!

Edwin has a lot of complexities when it comes to dealing with and acknowledging his emotions, but this is not one of them. Charles is not one of them.