#the rapid realization that you are in a tragedy

[overangel]

ₛₜₐₜₑ ₒf dᵣₑₐₘᵢₙg

❥ This is a yandere batfam x neglected reader story.

act 1

Everyone has something they wish they could do over. There's probably something at the tip of your tongue, or nestled in the back of your mind that you'd give anything to change. What if you got a second chance? Nothing is as it seems and this is only the beginning. Do it right this time. ❥ TW: su!c!de and su!c!de attempts, death of a parent, depression & anxiety, semi-descriptive death.

Torrential rains poured as the crashing waves destroyed your entire world in a single Tuesday morning. Lightning backlit charcoal clouds and struck down everything that had the audacity to stand.

 

Anything that wasn't nailed to the ground and half of everything that had been were ripped away and sent spiraling wherever the wild winds willed them.

Some neighborhoods were completely submerged and you had lost track of where you were when all hell broke lose. Were you at home hidden away praying that the storm would pass you by, or had you been one of the many who tried to leave town on foot when traffic stood still?

You quickly realized the specifics didn't matter when nothing would ever be the same. It was as if your sixteen years of life, every pivotal and precious moment, meant nothing at all. 

It should’ve been a normal storm, nothing to halt traffic and close the schools over, so how could it come to this? How could the recently erected dam that represented your humble town's industrial resurrection dissolve like a  child's sandcastle? 

How could pedestrians be dragged away by the surging storms that would leave many families broken and many more caskets empty?

How could it all happen so fast? 

So many questions swirled on, but you were the only constant. As the waves crashed around you and licked at the soles of your mother’s feet, you held on tight, your iron grip crushing her fingers as you felt her own grip going slack.

Something in your right wrist popped, causing your hand to twist painfully to one side, but your strength didn’t wane. You wouldn’t let go even if your hand was ripped from its socket. 

Your left hand was being lacerated as you could only grab a fist full of barbed wire before the gale winds sent you and your mother tumbling over the edge of a bridge.

A line of barbed wire fell over your head and wrapped tightly around your neck, shredding skin with each tug. You were the marionette and the wire that tore your flesh were the strings.

Who was the puppet master?

 

Millions of ice cold needles rained from the heavens, and the winds whipped dirt in your face. A particularly sharp rock that could’ve fit in the palm of your hand clipped the corner of your left eye and blood raised down your cheek, but despite it all, nothing could distract you.

Your gaze was straight and true as you stared down at your mother and into her flat eyes. You knew you had lost her, but couldn't bring yourself to let go.

You found out how thin the skin on your neck was as the wire tore in deep and now, instead of blood gushing from your wounds, it seemed to pour inwards and you started to feel suffocated. The rapid waves and tempestuous winds dragged you forward as the water levels began to rise even more. 

Your mother was half submerged and the hale stopped hurting so much, and the burning turned to a pleasant tingling sensation that gave way to numbness. As the barbed wire around your left wrist peeled your skin like a grape, and the wire around your neck was flirting with decapitating you, you stared down into the face of the woman who brought you into this world and had never stopped

fighting for you.

This was the photo that had taken the world, for a lack of better words, by storm.

This single screenshot from a drone’s live feed was captured at just the right moment and something in your eyes resonated with the common person. Amidst a tragedy, was a child who loved so much, even more than her body could handle as the blood gushing from your wounds and your abnormally twisted wrist made clear.

But what really got people talking was that Bruce Wayne's only biological daughter was nearly killed when his own dam collapsed. 

❥

It should’ve been a 𝓒𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪 story, but fairytales just weren’t in the cards for you. You never stood a chance when you were a mark on his name from the moment you were found. Your reveal was like a personal attack on his carefully cultivated reputation, but you didn't have a say in the matter as you would be in a coma for months following the storm. 

While you were fighting for your life, your father in blood only, was already building up a bias against you over the 'scandal.' The media was out for blood and wanted Bruce Wayne’s head on a pike for being a “deadbeat dad” and you couldn't do anything to dispel the bad blood before it congealed into something you couldn’t scrub away.

Your relationship with your father was in tatters and you had never met him a day in your life.

Maybe that’s how it all began? Maybe it was social media and the news that set the tone for your relationships with your “family.”

Maybe that’s why Bruce always looked like he was holding back bile when he caught a glimpse of you. Maybe that’s why Dick’s smile was always too tight and so quickly dropped before he even turned away from you completely (maybe he didn't care if you saw).

Maybe that’s why your injuries went ignored. Maybe that’s why no one noticed when your weight dropped too low or increased exponentially with each traumatic event.

Maybe that’s why no one noticed your broken arm or that it was from a suicide attempt when your half brother took everything too far. 

Maybe that’s why no one noticed you buying a gun and bringing it into the manor.

How old were you? An adult, somewhere in your twenties? You had nearly failed high school and college wasn’t even an option for you. The specters and demons that haunted Wayne Manor had sunken their talons into your flesh like the barbed wire did all those years ago and tightened a noose around your neck the moment you stepped foot onto that land.

You weren't allowed to thrive. You weren't allowed to be anything more than what they needed you to be and that was barely alive.

The inhabitants, both of this world and the next, had haunted you for years and they were going to make you into another ghost who haunted this place. 

That was the only time you had entered the Batcave since “coming home” as Bruce Wayne’s only biological daughter. They had thought you were ignorant to their double lives but you had known and kept the secret close to your heart. As if it was a mutually shared promise.

A one sided pact that made you feel like you were part of the family if only a little in the most desperately pǝʇsıʍʇ way.

Your presence was cloaked in shadow, and your steps were as silent as the grave. They were all there, and the sight made you hesitate.

A burning lump in your throat of a barely contained sob tried to tear through when you had sworn you were done crying over them. Guess that was another lie you told yourself.

Every “family” member was present like it was the most natural thing in the world. Each personality was so distinct but meshed perfectly in ways that they never could with anyone else.

You could never mesh. You tried. You cut off so many pieces of yourself—no one could say you didn't try!

Did it matter in the end? Are you happy with who you became? Of who you killed to get here?

Being on the outside looking in for the final time was a sobering experience. 

Any doubt in your mind evaporated. This was the right thing to do. All of the actors were on stage and the light illuminated the cozy scene of familial trust that can only be born from adversity and shared suffering.

It was your turn to exit stage left.

You would never see the ending of their play.

Cassandra noticed you first, because of course she would, but she didn’t move. She only stared you down with unblinking eyes, eyes like black pearls that you had once found so pretty, but were too intimidated to meet in all these years.

You had only looked into her eyes once, maybe during the first week you since you had arrived at this God forsaken place, and you immediately burst into tears like an idiot. Her eyes broke your heart then. It would be the first of many times where someone looked at you, and you could tell they didn't see a human being. 

You just wanted to say 'bye.' You didn't hope they'd break down and cry over you, you just wanted to let them know you were leaving now.

“What are–” Dick had fixed his mouth to say when he finally saw you after his eyes followed Cassandra's line of sight, but it was too late.

No batarang could fly fast enough to knock the gun from your hand, but no one moved a muscle, too transfixed by the weapon clenched in your scarred hand.

Your grip was just as tight and cocksure as all those years ago when you held on for your and your mother's lives.

You didn't break eye contact with your father as a sad smile pulled at your lips. Something in your eyes scared him, a most primal fear he hadn't felt since he was a child–the feeling of terror a screeching bat used to inspire. 

This was the most non-negative attention they had ever given you and it would be now of all times. You laughed a humorless, watery laugh at the realization as you raised the gun to your head and seven pounds of pressure made all the pain go away. 

Brain matter splattered against the wall, and blood spurted onto Damian’s face. Your only blood sibling had gotten back the Wayne blood he found you so undeserving of and the “wench's blood” he disparaged you for.

That phrase had killed you when it was spat out so many years ago and the grave had been paved over in cement when no one defended your late mother.  

He can have all the Wayne blood he wants now. 

 

The blast was followed by Alfred bursting through the batcave’s entrance and sprinting down the steps. His eyes were wide and terrified, "No, no, no!" Something was beginning to crack, "How could you?" Was he talking to you or to them?

A roar tore from his throat unlike anything anyone had ever heard from him. There was a certain vocal range that Alfred Pennyworth had never exceeded in his tenure as personal butler and pseudo parental figure to Bruce Wayne and his growing brood; So, no one knew this sound was even possible. It wasn't that of a distraught man, but of a wounded beast and a broken heart.

The scream that ripped from the man's throat was a guttural howl that chilled them all to the bone.

He dropped to his knees and pulled your lifeless body against his chest. He cradled you as if you were a small child as he carefully tried to hold your head together in his trembling hands. Delirium clouded his eyes, a madness that made him feel if he found all of the pieces he could put you back together again.

“Please, no…” Hair and scalp fell in chunks and your shattered skull came apart in his hands. “My dear girl…” 

He had always known the outside world was too much for you. Keeping you near him was the safest place for you in a world that didn’t understand how precious you were.

You would have to face people who didn’t appreciate you the way they should in your own home, but that was a small price to pay to keep you safe.

That’s what he had thought.

The last bit of color drained away from this seemingly immortal man as your body drained of blood. You had taken the last of his colors along with his heart and he would never be the same.

His heart, his health, and a piece of his mind would be taken away with you.

“What did they do to you..?”

Jason’s mask was affixed firmly to his face when it happened, and his expression was a mystery except for a strangled gurgle emitting from the mouthpiece.

Like a death rattle.

He too dropped to his knees. “No.”  Your blood soaked into his jeans as the mountain of a man had fallen to his hands.

Contrary to what everyone thought, you had passions and goals. There was so much good you wanted to do for others in ways that didn’t involve running around in a cape. Why didn't you? Why didn't you believe in yourself?

"If I had another chance, I'd do it right this time. If I had just one more chance."

Before your soul could be devoured by the hallowed halls of the manor forever, the flame you had once smothered ɪɢɴɪᴛᴇᴅ.  

In a personal room, in an exclusive hospital away from prying eyes, a comatose Y/n L/n cried a single tear as her condition stabilized.

[morgan-va]

Ena x G/N Reader HCs: An Ode To Isekai (Or, How You Destroy Her and Moony’s Sandwiches)

One moment, you were choking on a pickle that the employee at your favorite fast food restaurant neglected to remove. The next, you were plummeting through a swirling mess of distorted colors, shapes shifting around you like a broken computer screen. Gravity twisted in ways it shouldn’t, and just when you thought you’d keep falling forever—

THUD.

“AAAH! OUR BEAUTIFUL, PEACEFUL PICNIC! DESTROYED! TRAGEDY! WOE IS ME!”

The voice was loud, dramatic, and oddly robotic, and as you groaned, struggling to push yourself up, you realized you’d landed right on top of a checkered picnic blanket… and two figures. One was an angular, multi-colored humanoid flailing her arms wildly, and the other was a round, moon-faced being staring blankly at you.

The nausea was instant. The sky was glitching, the grass beneath you was pixelated, and the entire world meshed together with low-poly graphics. Panic clawed at your chest.

“Oh! How fascinating! A new specimen! A new friend! A LOST SOUL!” The colorful girl’s tone flipped in an instant, her arms outstretched as if you were some grand discovery.

You barely had time to react before she yanked you upright with alarming strength. “Salutations! My name is Ena! And you are…?”

ENA is immediately, intensely curious about you. One second she’s mourning the loss of her sandwiches, the next she’s staring at you with her face way too close to yours, inspecting you like you’re some rare artifact.

“How peculiar! You have skin! And your eyes—so full of FEAR and EXISTENTIAL DREAD! Adorable!”

The one apparently named Moony, still sitting on the ground, tilts her head. “You look sick. Don’t vomit on my blanket.”

You do, in fact, feel sick. The ground beneath you doesn’t feel real, and the sky keeps shifting between daytime and nighttime. Your body feels out of place in this world.

“Oh nyo, my new chum is feewing siwck :c dis is allll my fauwlt” Ena cries, polygonal tears falling out of her eyes and literally bouncing off of you. However, she notices your shaky breathing, and she seems to pause her breakdown. Then her tone shifts into something oddly clinical. “Ah. I see. Overwhelmed. Confused. Rapid heart rate. Nausea. Ah, yes. Yes yes yes. Yes yes. Expected results.”

“Do not worry, my fleshy, fragile companion! I, Ena, shall teach you the ways of this realm! Perhaps you shall THRIVE! Or perish horribly. But no! I shall ensure your survival! HOPEFULMISTICALLY!”

She switches between exaggerated theatrics and cold, matter-of-fact, and often bizarre statements at random, which does not help your anxiety.

At first, her advice isn’t very helpful, or well, maybe it is, at this point you aren’t sure of anything anymore. “Do not drink the water from the drinking fountains. Or do. It might turn you into a dog. Or erase your mouth. It’s a gamble! And you know what God says about that!”

Eventually, though, she starts learning how to help in a more… normal way. She slows down when she notices you trembling, and after a long pause, she mutters, “You feel like you don’t belong here, don’t you?”

It’s the first time her voice sounds completely even. No wild swing, no emotional outburst, Just quiet understanding, as if both of her sides are coequal in their understanding.

She places a hand on your shoulder. “I know that feeling. I still feel that way, most of the time.”

“But,” she continues, suddenly perking up, her yellow side taking control again, “I have ADAPTED! And so can you!”

You’re not entirely convinced. But the way she begins doing a strange dance around you like you’ve already won something makes it hard to stay hopeless.

“Besides! You have me now! A trusty, glorious, questionably competent guide! Let us find you STABILITY! Or at least, a divine snack.”

Moony finally chimes in again. “... You still crushed my sandwich.”

Ena gasps. “And a REPLACEMENT SANDWICH! Quickly, to the food vendor! Or the wishing well! Maybe we’ll be lucky and summon a perfect BLT (Barely Legible Tomato) from the void!”

[inkyquillstories]

Out of Our Minds (A Body Swap Story)

Note: The discord version of this story has some videos and more photos. If you would like to read that version, you can find it here: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS

The Beginning 

Walter James Holloway, born in 1959, was a lifelong Kentucky auto mechanic, known for his grit and hard work. Years of heavy eating and little exercise had left him overweight, but he found comfort in his routines—working under car hoods by day, unwinding with a cigar by night. His bond with his son, Daniel, was distant, but with his grandson, Ryan, it was different. Ryan admired his old-school ways, even when they clashed.

Born in 1999 and shaped by Chicago, Ryan David Holloway was athletic, disciplined, and ambitious. A 6'2", 215-pound physical therapist, he dedicated himself to helping others regain mobility. City life was expensive, so when he needed a more affordable place to stay, Walter offered him a room. The arrangement suited them both—Walter enjoyed the company, and Ryan appreciated the short commute to his sports rehab job.

The night of the accident, the chill in the air had been sharper than expected. Walter had shivered, rubbing his thick hands together before eyeing Ryan’s coat. His own was too thin for the dropping temperature, so Ryan handed over his heavier jacket without a second thought. Neither man realized the mistake—their wallets, tucked into their respective coat pockets, had now been switched. As they got into the car, Walter stubbornly insisted on driving. He claimed Ryan had drunk too much at the gathering, even though Ryan had barely touched his glass. The old man wouldn’t listen, convinced that his grandson was unfit to drive. Reluctantly, Ryan let him take the wheel.

The hum of the highway filled the silence between them. Walter’s hands gripped the wheel firmly at first, but then his fingers slackened. A wave of dizziness hit him, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. His chest tightened, and for a split second, his mind blanked—his body freezing up as he experienced a transient ischemic attack. The car swerved wildly. Ryan reacted instantly, reaching over to grab the wheel, but the sudden movement only made things worse. Tires screeched, the vehicle spun, and before either of them could fully comprehend what was happening, they crashed headlong into the highway divider. The impact sent the car flipping multiple times before it crumpled into a final, jarring stop.

The collision was so violent that their skulls fractured, and their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.

Emergency responders arrived to find both men unconscious, their skulls fractured from the violent collision. The impact had been so severe that their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.

Paramedics rushed them to the nearest hospital, where chaos and confusion took hold. Due to their exchanged coats, the hospital staff misidentified them. Their last names matched, their faces were too swollen to compare to their IDs, and in the frantic rush to surgery, no one double-checked. Their medical files were also misplaced and mislabeled, further cementing the misidentification.

Relying on mislabeled records, the lead neurosurgeon reviewed their brain scans. One brain, though outwardly resembling that of an elderly individual, exhibited an unusual level of rapid healing—traits typically found in much younger patients. This was, in reality, Walter’s brain, but the accident had triggered a restoration process that made it appear younger. The other brain, while structurally younger, showed significant inflammation and signs of deterioration more commonly associated with advanced age. This was actually Ryan’s brain, which had suffered more damage from the accident, making it seem far older than it truly was.

The medical team analyzed the locations where the brains had landed, mistakenly believing that the brain near the muscular body belonged to the younger patient and the brain near the older, overweight body belonged to the elderly man. Compounded by misidentification and limited time, the surgeons made a catastrophic assumption—believing Ryan’s brain to belong to Walter and Walter’s brain to belong to Ryan. 

The hospital staff proceeded with what they thought was a life-saving operation. They addressed the extensive trauma to their skulls and bodies, miraculously sparing their internal organs. After repairing the fractures, they carefully placed the dislodged brains into what they assumed were their correct bodies. What should have been a clerical correction became a medical catastrophe.

The Awakening

Walter awoke with a start, his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. His vision blurred for a moment, then sharpened with a clarity he hadn’t experienced in years. He blinked, confused. Wait… he thought, reaching up to rub his eyes. His hand—his hand—caught his attention. It was large, strong, and calloused, but not from decades of wrenching on cars. This was something else entirely. He flexed his biceps, marveling at the ease with which they moved. No stiffness. No ache.

He sat up slowly, the movement effortless, and glanced around the hospital room. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nose, but his body felt… different. Alive. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. His knees didn’t creak. His back didn’t protest. He stood, his breath catching in his throat as he realized just how tall he was. He felt… powerful.

Walter took a few tentative steps, each one feeling lighter than the last. His feet carried him with a grace he hadn’t known in decades. He glanced down at his body—Wait, this isn’t my body. His chest was broad, his arms muscular, his waist trim. He ran his hands over his torso, his fingers tracing the contours of hard muscle. This isn’t me. His heart raced as he stumbled toward the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror stopping him dead in his tracks.

Staring back at him was Ryan.

Walter froze, his breath hitching. No. No, this can’t be real. He stepped closer, his hands trembling as he reached up to touch the mirror. The face—Ryan’s face—mimicked his movements perfectly. He turned his head, examining the sharp jawline, the stubble that shadowed his face, the piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold a life of their own. This… this is Ryan’s body.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Walter—now in Ryan’s body—grabbed Ryan’s smartphone from the nightstand. He tapped the screen, the bright glow illuminating his new, youthful face. His heart pounded with exhilaration as he stared into the selfie camera, tilting his head to admire the sharp jawline, the smooth skin untouched by age. He ran a hand through his thick hair, relishing the unfamiliar yet thrilling sensation. The reflection staring back at him was strong, vibrant—everything he had lost over the years, now his to claim.

Bringing the phone back into the bathroom, he placed it on the sink, angling the camera just right before hitting record. Walter flexed, watching his bicep swell with power, then smirked as he reached under his arm, rubbing the thick patch of armpit hair with satisfaction. The sensation sent a wave of pride through him—this body was youthful, masculine, perfect. Grinning, he grabbed the phone, lowering the camera to capture the tight ridges of his abs, tracing a hand over them possessively before finally lifting the phone to his face. His smirk widened as he locked eyes with his reflection, drinking in his own smug satisfaction.

But the curiosity didn’t stop there. His eyes drifted lower, over his flat stomach, toward the waistband of his hospital-issued pants.

His heart pounded as he slid them down, revealing the thick, heavy weight of Ryan’s bulge. Walter’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling as removed his underwear. He touched his new cock and it was warm, heavy, and currently his own. He gave it an experimental stroke, a moan escaping his lips as pleasure shot through him...

Then he observed it even more and began to make his dick and balls swing like a pendulum

He leaned against the wall, his knees weak as he continued to stroke himself, the sensations overwhelming. His other hand wandered, exploring every inch of his new body. He pinched his nipples, gasping as the sparks of pleasure intensified. He ran his fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, down his sides, over his hips. Every touch felt electric.

Walter paused, his nostrils flaring as he caught a whiff of something. He lifted his arm, touching his armpit hair and then inhaling deeply. The scent was musky, masculine, and familiar. It was Ryan’s scent—his cologne, his sweat, him. Walter’s cock twitched in his hand, his arousal spiking. He couldn’t help himself. He leaned in, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. It was primal, raw, and his.

His strokes grew faster, his body trembling with need. He tilted his head back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as pleasure coiled tightly in his gut. This is… this is too much. But he couldn’t stop. His hips bucked into his hand, his cock throbbing with every stroke. He moaned, the sound low and guttural, filling the small bathroom. His balls tightened, his release building with every passing second.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his grip tightening as he edged closer and closer to the brink. His muscles tensed, his body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him. And then he was there, his orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave. He came with a shout, his cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum spurted onto the floor. He collapsed against the sink, his legs trembling as he rode out the aftershocks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Walter stared at the mess he’d made, a strange mix of guilt and satisfaction swirling in his chest. He had just jacked off in his grandson’s body. What the hell is wrong with me? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t deny the exhilaration coursing through him. This body—Ryan’s body—was incredible. And it was his right now.

He cleaned himself up, his mind racing as he tried to process everything. He needed to figure out what had happened. How he’d ended up in Ryan’s body. But for now, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of… excitement. He looked at his reflection one more time, a sly grin spreading across his face. This is going to be interesting.

Ryan’s consciousness drifted back slowly, his mind groggy as if weighed down by something heavy. His whole body felt wrong—bloated, sluggish, stiff. A dull ache radiated through his limbs, his joints protesting even the slightest movement. His chest rose and fell, but his breaths were deeper, heavier, almost labored. Something was off—terribly off. His heart pounded, but instead of its usual strong, steady rhythm, it felt slower, weaker, unfamiliar. He swallowed hard, his throat raw and dry, and when he moved his hands, they felt thicker, rougher. Panic crept in.

His fingers brushed against his face, and his stomach dropped. His skin was loose, not firm and smooth like it should be. He traced over deep wrinkles, then moved up to his head—his hair. His heart clenched. The thick, youthful strands were gone, replaced by thinning hair and a balding scalp. His breath quickened as he looked down, only to see a broad, heavy gut stretching his hospital gown. His arms were thicker, softer, with veins more pronounced and skin slightly sagging. His chest was heavier, fleshier, completely wrong.

This wasn’t his body. His hands fumbled beside him, landing on a pair of glasses on the nightstand. His trembling fingers slid them on, and suddenly, the world snapped into focus. Desperation overtook him as he reached blindly for the phone on the nightstand, his unfamiliar, clumsy hands struggling to grip it properly. He turned on the screen, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he opened the camera app and switched to selfie mode. His entire body froze. Staring back at him was Walter. His grandfather’s face. 

The lined, aging skin, the receding hair, the tired, sunken eyes—it was all there. His breath hitched as he slowly touched his cheek, watching Walter’s reflection mimic his every movement. His fingers trailed down to his heavy jaw, the rough stubble, the loose skin of his neck. His horror deepened as he lowered the phone, angling it toward his chest—the bulky stomach, the unfamiliar flesh. His own grandfather’s body. His vision blurred—not from the lack of glasses, but from pure, overwhelming dread. The phone slipped from his hands, clattering onto the sheets as he screamed. This couldn’t be real. But it was.

In the other room, Walter’s exploration was cut short when a sound froze him in place. A voice. A voice he had known all his life. His own voice—but weak, hoarse, and laced with panic. He cleaned himself up immediately and wore his hospital robes once more. 

Walter turned abruptly, his heart pounding. He followed the noise, pushing open the door and stepping into the hallway. Another hospital room. He moved quickly, his newfound speed shocking him. As he approached, he heard rustling, then a sharp intake of breath—followed by a scream.

Walter shoved the door open and stopped in his tracks.

Walter froze in the doorway, his breath hitching as he got his first real look at the body he had left behind. His old body. Ryan was sitting on the hospital bed, hunched forward, his face twisted in shock and horror. But it wasn’t just the face—it was everything. The broad, sloping gut, the soft arms, the sagging flesh hanging from his neck. Was this really what he had looked like all this time? The sight sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. He had always known he was overweight and old, but seeing it from the outside made it so much worse. How had he lived like this? His breath was heavier, his posture slouched, his very presence sluggish. Walter clenched his jaw, forcing down the wave of disgust and relief threatening to bubble up. Because now, that wasn’t him anymore.

Ryan’s head snapped up at the sound of movement, and his breath caught. A man stood in the doorway—young, muscular, shirtless. His body. His body was standing there, staring at him. His stomach twisted in confusion. How was this possible? His pulse pounded as the world sharpened. The stranger wasn’t a stranger. He knew that face—the sharp jawline, the confident stance, the broad chest. But it was wrong.

Walter took a slow step forward, his powerful legs carrying him effortlessly, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "Ryan," he said cautiously, pretending to hesitate.

Ryan inhaled sharply at the sound of his own voice coming from someone else’s mouth. His hands clutched the hospital sheets, knuckles white. “No… no, no, no… that can’t be…” He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his body trembling as he looked up at the man—at himself. “Grandpa?” His voice wasn’t his voice. It was rougher, weaker—Walter’s.

Walter nodded slowly, as if the realization pained him, but inside, he felt a thrill of satisfaction. "I don't know how," he said, carefully keeping his tone neutral, masking the excitement rising in his chest. “But we woke up like this. We woke up as each other.”

Ryan let out a shaky exhale, staring down at himself in disbelief, his hands gripping at the thickened flesh of his stomach. His own grandfather’s body. His breath quickened as he clutched at the loose skin, the soft flesh of his arms, the unfamiliar weight pressing down on him. He had felt strong his entire life, but now? Now he felt heavy, sluggish, weak.

They stepped closer, eyes locked, studying what they had lost and gained.

Ryan’s wrinkled hand trembled as he reached out, pressing against Walter’s hard abs, then his solid pecs. He squeezed—firm, powerful, his pecs. His fingers drifted up, brushing through thick, luscious hair—his hair. A shudder ran through him as he traced his strong jawline, the smooth skin.

Then, he hesitated, looking at his own body. Slowly, he raised a shaking hand to his bald scalp. His breath hitched at the thin, wiry strands left behind. His grip moved to his soft chest, squeezing—nothing but sagging weight.

Walter finally reached out, gripping Ryan’s weak arm, squeezing the loose, aging flesh. His fingers pressed into Ryan’s soft pecs—his old manboobs—and he barely hid his disgust. He lingered only for a moment before stepping back, rolling his strong shoulders.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Both turned as a nurse stepped in. “Oh, good. You’re both awake. The doctors will be in shortly to see you.”

“This can’t be real.” He turned toward Walter, who stood there in Ryan’s youthful body, an almost dazed expression on his face. “ Tell them,” Ryan pleaded, his voice rising. “Tell them we’re not who they think we are!” Walter, shaken but more composed, nodded grimly. 

When the doctors finally arrived, their expressions neutral but professional, Ryan wasted no time. 

“We—we’ve switched,” he blurted, gripping the sheets of his hospital bed with his trembling hands. “That’s not my grandfather. 

That’s me in his body. And—and I’m in his.” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Walter, in Ryan’s body, took a step forward. “It’s true,” he said. “I woke up in his body, and he woke up in mine. Something went wrong.” 

The doctors exchanged puzzled glances before one of them cleared his throat. “Mr. Holloway, you’re disoriented from the accident,” he started, but Ryan cut him off. 

“I know who I am!” he snapped, the exertion making his new body’s chest heave. 

“I don’t care what my name says on your charts. That’s my body standing right there.” He pointed a trembling finger at Walter. 

The medical team looked between them, skepticism etched onto their faces—until another doctor, flipping through a tablet, suddenly paled. He exhaled sharply. 

“My God,” he muttered, drawing the attention of his colleagues. Looking up, he hesitated before speaking. 

“We… we may have made a terrible mistake.” 

The air in the room thickened as he explained, voice cautious yet urgent. 

“During surgery, we relied on multiple factors to identify the bodies—facial structure, ID tags, personal effects. But their faces were swollen beyond recognition, and their medical files were mislabeled in the chaos. Their coats had been switched, leading to further confusion. We assumed the brain found closest to each body was the correct one.” He paused, gripping the tablet tighter. 

“But that assumption… was wrong.” Another doctor, looking equally unsettled, pulled up the brain scans. “We should’ve known,” she admitted, her voice tight with regret. 

“Walter’s brain, despite its age, exhibited an accelerated healing response, which is why it looked younger in the initial scans. Meanwhile, Ryan’s brain suffered significant trauma, causing inflammation and deterioration, making it appear older than it really was. 

We mistook those neurological differences for evidence of their respective ages and—” she hesitated, exhaling slowly, “—we placed the wrong brains in the wrong bodies.” 

The words hit like a sledgehammer. Ryan’s knees buckled, and he barely caught himself against the bed. 

“Fix it,” he gasped. “Switch us back.” The doctors exchanged grim looks before one of them finally spoke.

 “We can’t.” 

Walter and Ryan froze. The doctor continued, his voice heavy with finality. 

“The reconnection process was incredibly delicate. Your neural pathways have already begun adapting to their new hosts. Any attempt to reverse the procedure would result in severe, irreversible brain damage—possibly death.” He swallowed. 

“There’s no way to undo this.” Another doctor stepped forward, regret plain on her face. “We are deeply sorry,” she said, “but the swap is permanent.” 

The words sent a wave of cold dread through Ryan. His breath came in short gasps as reality crashed over him. He was trapped. This body—this slow, aching, unfamiliar form—was his for the rest of his life. Forever.

Ryan’s body sagged. Walter, too, felt the weight of those words, though the sting was dulled by the strange exhilaration running through him. Permanent. He would never go back. Walter realized that he would never feel that old body again. His mind warred between horror and an undeniable thrill.

The doctors exchanged uneasy glances before speaking again. “For now, we strongly advise keeping this a secret.”

Ryan’s head snapped up. “What?”

“If this gets out,” the doctor continued, “it could lead to medical lawsuits, ethical scandals, media chaos. The hospital would be ruined. Your lives would be turned upside down.” He glanced between them, his voice firm. “It’s best if you assume each other’s lives.”

Walter’s lips parted in shock. Ryan looked utterly stricken.

“As far as the world is concerned,” the doctor said, “you are Ryan Holloway.” He turned to Walter. “And you are Walter Holloway.” His gaze was unyielding. “That is how the hospital will refer to you, and that is how your families will know you.”

Ryan was visibly horrified. His whole life—his identity—had been stripped away in an instant. But Walter… Walter could feel the seed of something dangerous, something exhilarating taking root within him. He had been old, tired, and at the end of his road. But now? Now, he had everything ahead of him again.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Walter James Holloway felt truly alive.

The Initial Adjustment 

To help them adjust, they were referred to psychiatry. The psychologist assigned to their case, Dr. Evelyn Carter, was a woman of firm composure and measured words. She wasted no time in establishing the gravity of their situation. "For your mental and emotional well-being," she explained during their first session, "you must fully integrate into your new identities. There can be no doubt, no hesitation. From now on, Walter James Holloway is Ryan David Holloway. And Ryan David Holloway is Walter James Holloway."

Ryan sat stiffly in his chair, hands clenched into fists. His body, now weighed down by age, ached with every movement, and he felt suffocated by the reality that this was now his existence. Across from him, Walter sat in Ryan’s youthful body, leaning back with a relaxed ease that only made Ryan's fury burn hotter. "This is ridiculous," Ryan muttered. "You're asking me to pretend to be someone I’m not."

Dr. Carter’s gaze was steady. "I'm asking you to survive. If you refuse to accept this, your mind will reject your new body, leading to severe dissociation, depression, and possibly worse. The human psyche craves consistency. You must become Walter in every way possible. And you—" she turned to Walter, "—must embrace being Ryan."

Walter gave a slow nod, as if considering her words, but Ryan saw the glimmer of something else in his expression—excitement. He already knew Walter was relishing this, the chance to start over in a body full of strength and vitality. Ryan wanted to scream.

Dr. Carter, however, had no patience for resistance. She was relentless, her approach clinical and unforgiving. "You will commit to this," she said with an icy firmness. "Every hesitation, every denial, every refusal to accept your new identity will only make this harder. You are Walter. Period. If you cannot embrace that, you will never be able to function in the life that is now yours." She leaned forward, her piercing gaze locking onto Ryan’s weary eyes. "From this moment on, you will respond to ‘Walter.’ You will introduce yourself as Walter. If you hesitate, if you falter, we will start again until you get it right."

Ryan seethed with frustration, but there was no room for argument. Every day, Dr. Carter drilled it into him. Morning sessions were brutal. "Say it again," she ordered. Ryan’s voice was hoarse from repetition.

"I am Walter James Holloway. I am sixty-five years old."

"Louder."

Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I am Walter James Holloway," he repeated, each word tasting like poison.

"Again."

Meanwhile, Walter, in his youthful, powerful form, flourished under the same treatment. He practically beamed as he repeated his lines, sitting up straighter with every declaration. "I am Ryan David Holloway. I am twenty-six years old. I am young, strong, and full of life." His voice carried confidence—more than Ryan ever had.

Dr. Carter only reinforced this divide, encouraging Walter’s transition into Ryan’s life while pushing Ryan further into his new role. She arranged daily conversations where Ryan had to describe "his" past experiences as Walter—his first car, the long hours in the repair shop, his favorite cigar brand. "Make it real," she insisted when he hesitated. "Believe it. Because no one else will believe you if you don’t."

Dr. Carter took the exercises a step further, introducing direct role-play into their sessions. One morning, she placed two chairs in the middle of the room and gestured for them to sit. "We’re going to reinforce your identities with introductions," she announced. "Walter, introduce your grandson."

Ryan tensed. His throat tightened as he glanced at Walter, who sat across from him with an infuriatingly relaxed grin. Dr. Carter’s expectant gaze left him no choice. He swallowed hard. "This is my grandson, Ryan," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Louder. More confidence."

Ryan clenched his fists, forcing the words out again. "This is my grandson, Ryan David Holloway." The statement felt wrong, like a betrayal of everything he was.

Walter, meanwhile, sat up straight, puffing out his chest. "And this is my grandpa, Walter James Holloway," he said with a smug ease, gesturing toward Ryan. He even threw in a playful pat on Ryan’s knee. "He’s had a long life, worked hard as a mechanic, and now he’s enjoying retirement."

Ryan’s jaw clenched as he heard the words. Retirement. It was another nail in the coffin.

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly before moving to the next phase. She held up a photo of Ryan’s old body, shirtless at the gym, muscles defined and glistening with sweat. "Who is this?"

Walter smirked. "That’s me," he said proudly. "Ryan Holloway. I work out regularly, and I take pride in my physique." He flexed his arm slightly, as if to emphasize the truth of his statement.

Ryan wanted to throw the chair. Instead, he forced himself to mumble, "That’s my grandson."

Dr. Carter didn’t let him off easy. "Say it properly."

Ryan inhaled sharply through his nose. "That’s my grandson, Ryan David Holloway. He’s twenty-six years old, works as a physical therapist, and is in excellent shape."

Walter chuckled under his breath. "Thanks, Grandpa. Appreciate that."

Dr. Carter then held up another photo, this one of old Walter—his overweight, aging frame sitting on a lounge chair near the pool. "And who is this?"

Ryan felt sick. "That’s... me."

"Full sentence," Dr. Carter pressed.

"That’s me. I’m Walter James Holloway. I’m sixty-five years old, and I used to be a mechanic." The words made his stomach turn, but Dr. Carter simply nodded in approval.

Walter leaned back with a grin. "Yeah, that’s my grandpa," he said casually, glancing at the image. "He’s been through a lot, but he’s still kicking." He turned to Ryan with a smirk. "Ain’t that right, old man?"

Ryan ground his teeth. He didn’t respond.

The exercises continued—more questions designed to hammer their new identities into place. Dr. Carter would ask who was older, who was younger. Who was strong, who was weaker.

"Ryan, stand up and describe your daily fitness routine," she instructed.

Walter eagerly complied, launching into an enthusiastic monologue about "his" morning runs, weightlifting, and strict nutrition. He flexed his arms playfully, smirking at Ryan as if reveling in his newfound youth.

Then she turned to Ryan. "Walter, describe your typical day before the accident."

Ryan was forced to mutter about oil changes, cigar breaks, and back pain. Each time he faltered, Dr. Carter would correct him, forcing him to repeat the statement until it sounded natural. Each time, Walter grinned, enjoying every second of his new role. And every time Ryan looked in the mirror, the reality became harder to deny.

Dr. Carter intensified their conditioning by incorporating physical and sensory exercises. She had them touch and feel their bodies, comparing them to what they remembered before the accident.

"Ryan, describe how your skin feels. The texture, the muscle tone, everything."

Walter ran his hands along his arms, his biceps firm and strong. "My skin is smooth, my muscles are defined. I feel powerful, full of energy. It’s like I have endless stamina."

She turned to Ryan. "And you, Walter?"

Ryan hesitated before placing a hand on his stomach, feeling the softer flesh, the wrinkles on his hands. "My skin is looser, my muscles are weaker. My joints ache. My fingers feel stiff. I’m..." He swallowed hard. "I’m older."

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. "Good. Acknowledging these changes will help your mind accept them. Now, let’s work on movement."

She made them practice mannerisms. Ryan had to learn the slower, heavier gait of an aging man, the slight stoop, the way old Walter used to rub his lower back absentmindedly. Walter, meanwhile, had to master a youthful stride, the way Ryan used to bounce on the balls of his feet when excited, the casual confidence of a younger man.

Walter took to it with ease, exaggerating Ryan’s old habits at first but gradually settling into a natural flow. He walked with effortless energy, stretched his shoulders confidently, and even practiced grinning at his reflection the way Ryan used to. He was absorbing the role with glee, while Ryan struggled to let go of his former self.

Dr. Carter was relentless. "Again. Walter, you should be moving slower. You’ve had a long life, and your body has the weight of years. Show it."

Ryan sighed, shifting his posture to mimic an elderly man’s careful movements. "Like this?"

"Better. But I want it to be second nature. We’ll keep practicing."

Then came the hypnosis.

Dr. Carter dimmed the lights, her voice a steady, rhythmic pulse in the dimly lit room. "Close your eyes. Take slow, deep breaths. With every exhale, let go of who you were. With every inhale, become who you are meant to be."

The air grew thick with the weight of suggestion, their minds sinking deeper with every word. "You are stepping into a grand hall," Dr. Carter murmured, "a palace of memory, a mind palace where truth is revealed. Look around you. This place is yours. It has always been yours. Walk through its corridors, see the reflections of your life."

Ryan and Walter found themselves standing within the endless mirrored halls, their surroundings shifting like a dream. The polished floors reflected them perfectly, stretching endlessly into the distance. But something was wrong. The reflections weren’t right.

Ryan peered into the glass, and his heart pounded. His old body—his real body—stared back at him. The strong jawline, the youthful vigor, the sharp, defiant eyes. But as he watched, the image flickered, warping ever so slightly.

Dr. Carter’s voice was patient, inescapable. "You were always Walter, weren’t you?" she said, her tone like silk wrapping around his thoughts. "From the moment you were born, you were Walter James Holloway. You grew up fixing cars. You built a life, had a grandson. And that grandson... is Ryan David Holloway."

The new Walter shook his head, but his reflection wavered. The skin grew looser, lines forming where there had been none. His shoulders slumped, the once-defined muscles softening, weakening. His hands, resting at his sides, twitched as the veins became more pronounced, the skin weathered. He could feel it—the slow, inevitable transformation sinking into him, reshaping his very sense of self.

Dr. Carter then turned her attention to the new Ryan. "And you, Ryan. You are young, full of energy, full of potential. You’ve always been Ryan, always twenty-six. You were born into strength and health. That old life you remember? That was someone else’s story. Look at yourself. Accept what you see."

Walter stepped toward his reflection with a reverent gaze. He had expected to see his old, worn face. Instead, Ryan’s youthful form stared back at him, powerful and whole. His chest tightened with something dangerously close to relief.

The new Walter’s breath came in ragged gasps as the transformation continued. His reflection—the one that had been his true self—was fading. The gray hair took root. The skin sagged, wrinkles deepened. His back hunched slightly. The young man he had been was disappearing before his eyes, swallowed by the reality being woven around him.

The new Ryan, standing beside him, beamed at his own reflection. His body—no, Ryan’s body—stood tall and strong, exuding the confidence of youth. He touched his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, running a hand through thick, dark hair. "This is right," he said, the words coming naturally now. "This is how it has always been."

Dr. Carter’s voice wrapped around them both, sealing their fates. "There was no surgery mishap. There was no switch. Walter was, is, and always will be Walter. Ryan was, is, and always will be Ryan. It was meant to be this way. It has always been this way."

The old Ryan tried to speak, to protest, but the words dissolved before they reached his lips. His mind felt like sand slipping through his fingers. The past was distant, blurred, uncertain. And the mirror before him—the mirror that had once reflected the truth—now showed only the inescapable reality. He was Walter. He had always been Walter.

The old Walter, now fully embracing his new existence, straightened, stretching his arms as if testing the strength that belonged to him now. "That felt... good," he admitted, his voice filled with satisfaction.

Ryan blinked groggily, his head aching. He turned toward the mirror one last time, desperate to see something—anything—of his old self. But the face staring back at him was unfamiliar. Not just in appearance, but in identity.

Dr. Carter smiled. "Good. We’ll continue this tomorrow. We’re making progress."

Outside of sessions, Walter made it worse. He had fully embraced his role as the younger man and took every opportunity to taunt Ryan for his struggles. "C’mon, Grandpa," he’d say with a smirk when Ryan groaned as he lowered himself into a chair. "Takes a while to get used to the ol’ joints, huh?"

Ryan gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge him. But Walter didn’t stop. He took pleasure in watching Ryan fumble with his new limitations, chuckling when Ryan dropped something and struggled to bend down and pick it up. "Want me to get that for you?" he’d ask mockingly, flexing his arms for emphasis.

At mealtimes, Walter would take exaggerated bites of his food, sighing in delight. "Damn, this metabolism is something else," he’d say, patting his flat stomach. "I could eat a whole pizza and not feel a thing." He’d then glance at Ryan, whose plate was filled with doctor-recommended portions for an elderly man. "Better watch your sodium, though. Gotta be careful at your age."

The more Walter thrived, the more Ryan suffered. And worst of all, no one cared. No one believed he was suffering at all.

Beyond the psychological conditioning, they were also referred to rehabilitation medicine to help them adjust physically. Ryan despised it. Every exercise session was a brutal reminder of how weak and sluggish his body had become. He struggled with basic movements, his joints stiff, his muscles sore from even the lightest exertion. He used to love pushing his limits in the gym, but now? Now, simply standing from a chair felt like an ordeal. Worse, the cravings gnawed at him—a deep, incessant yearning for nicotine. Walter’s old habits had latched onto him like a vice. He found himself gritting his teeth, fingers twitching for a cigar he didn’t even want.

Walter, on the other hand, was thriving. He attacked every workout with an eagerness that left Ryan seething. He ran, he lifted, he moved with a joy that Ryan had once taken for granted. The burn of his muscles, the soreness after an intense session—Walter embraced it all. He reveled in the sensation of sweat rolling down his back, the musk of his own body after pushing it to the limit. He even took deep breaths after each session, enjoying the raw, earthy scent of exertion. "Damn, I missed this," he murmured more than once, flexing his arms in the mirror, watching the way his muscles tensed and released with effortless precision.

The divide between them grew wider with each passing day. The more Walter embraced his new identity, the more Ryan felt like he was fading away. And no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the reality was settling in: he was no longer Ryan David Holloway. He was Walter. And there was no way out.

The Request

One evening, Ryan sat on the edge of his hospital bed, his wrinkled hands gripping the stiff sheets, his body still aching from the trauma of the accident. The dim hospital lighting cast long shadows across the room, making it feel colder than it was. The door creaked open, and in stepped the new Ryan—his former body—tall, strong, and exuding a presence that made Ryan’s stomach twist. Walter, now a young man, moved with an effortless confidence that Ryan never had, his every step controlled and precise. He grinned, shutting the door behind him with an air of authority.

"Hey, Grandpa," Walter said smoothly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The way he said it—casual, natural—sent a spike of anger through Ryan’s chest.

Ryan clenched his jaw, refusing to respond right away. He had been waiting for this moment, wondering if Walter would slip up—if he would acknowledge the truth, even just for a second. "Grandpa," Ryan said pointedly, his voice rough and unfamiliar to his own ears. "You know who I really am."

Walter smirked, pushing himself off the wall and strolling closer. "I do," he said, his voice teasing. "You're my grandpa, Walter Holloway." He reached out and patted Ryan's knee in a patronizing gesture. "And I’m your grandson, Ryan. Took me a bit, but I think I’m finally getting used to it."

Ryan’s hands curled into fists. "Stop it," he hissed. "You know that’s not true." His chest tightened as he searched Walter’s face for any sign of recognition, of doubt, of something—anything—that would prove he wasn’t alone in this nightmare. But there was nothing. Only that infuriating grin.

Walter pulled up a chair, sitting across from him, his posture relaxed, completely at ease in his new body. "Why fight it, Grandpa?" he said with exaggerated patience. "You heard Dr. Carter. We have to accept who we are now.”

Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry as he stared at the man before him—his body, his youth, his entire life, now inhabited by someone else. The weight of his wrinkled hands resting on his lap only deepened the ache in his chest. He needed something—anything—to hold on to. A compromise. A semblance of his old identity.

"Grandpa," Ryan started, his voice low, hesitant. "What if… just when it’s just us… we still call each other by our real names? I don’t mean in front of the doctors or anyone else, just… in private." His tired eyes searched Ryan’s old handsome face, hoping—begging—for some kind of understanding. "I just—I need something to hold on to. Something real."

Walter tilted his head, considering the plea for a moment. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smirk. "Nah," he said simply.

Ryan stiffened. "What?"

Walter chuckled, stepping closer, his movements loose, confident, utterly at home in the body that should have been Ryan’s. "No can do, Grandpa. See, that’s the problem—you keep looking back, clinging to something that isn’t yours anymore." He placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make him feel the difference in their strength now. "You heard Dr. Carter. That part of your life is gone. And the sooner you accept it, the easier this will be for you."

Ryan's nails dug into his palms. "I am Ryan," he gritted out.

Walter gave a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Still not getting it, huh? Alright then, let me help you."

With that, he reached down and grabbed the hem of his hospital gown, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The hospital’s dim lighting cast shadows over his defined abs, his broad chest—the physique Ryan had worked years to maintain, now standing tall before him, stolen. Walter flexed his arms slightly, rolling his shoulders as if savoring the feeling of being young and powerful.

Ryan could only stare, his breath shallow, his insides twisting.

Walter smirked. "Take a good look, Grandpa," he said, running a hand over his chest before giving his bicep a slow, deliberate flex. "This is my body now. Not yours. Not ever again. You see, it doesn’t matter what you remember. What matters is what’s real. And this—" he gestured down at himself, at the sculpted muscles, the youthful skin, "—this is real. You? You’re just an old man now. An old man who needs to stop pretending."

Ryan felt something inside him crack.

Walter grabbed his shirt from where he had tossed it onto the bed but didn’t put it back on. Instead, he took a step closer, towering over Ryan. "You wanted a moment of honesty between us? Fine. Here’s some honesty: It’s over. There’s no going back. This body belongs to me now, and the sooner you let it go, the easier this will be." He patted Ryan’s knee mockingly. "So go ahead, Grandpa. Say goodbye. Otherwise, I’ll make you."

Ryan's vision blurred, his breath shuddering in his chest. Even his own grandfather or rather… grandson—even Walter—refused to give him a sliver of acknowledgment.

Walter stood in front of the full-length mirror, his—no, Ryan’s—body glistening under the soft light of the room. He ran his hands over his chest, feeling the firm ridges of muscles that now belonged to him. His reflection stared back, young, strong, vibrant. It was perfection.

He turned to Ryan, who was slumped in a chair, his shoulders hunched, looking every bit the frail old man he now was. Walter smirked, the corners of his lips curling upward in a cruel, knowing way.

"Strip," Walter commanded, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.

Ryan’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What? Why would I—"

"Because I said so," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. He took a step closer, his towering frame looming over Ryan. "You need to face reality, old man. Our reality. So strip. Now."

Ryan hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head, revealing the sagging, wrinkled skin of Walter’s old body. His stomach hung slightly, the muscles long gone, replaced by softness that spoke of years of neglect.

Walter’s eyes raked over him, his expression a mix of amusement and disdain. "Good," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Now the pants."

Ryan’s face flushed with humiliation, but he obeyed, awkwardly shimmying out of his pants until he was naked and exposed. His body was a stark contrast to Walter’s—young, powerful, arrogant.

Walter stepped back, his eyes never leaving Ryan as he began to strip as well. His movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the chiseled chest and abs that Ryan had spent years building. He kicked off his pants, standing tall and confident, his body on full display.

"Look at us," Walter said, spreading his arms wide as if to emphasize the difference. "Isn’t it perfect?"

Ryan couldn’t look away, his eyes darting between Walter’s body and his own. His shame was palpable, but there was something else there too—something darker, more primal. A flicker of arousal that he desperately tried to suppress.

Walter noticed, of course. His smirk widened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You like what you see, don’t you, Grandpa?"

Ryan’s breath hitched, his face turning a deep shade of red. "I—I don’t—"

"Don’t lie to me," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. "I can see it in your eyes. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?"

Ryan’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. His heart was pounding, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control.

Walter laughed, a low, dark chuckle that sent shivers down Ryan’s spine. "Admit it," he demanded, his voice firm. "Tell me who’s the grandpa and who’s the grandson now."

Ryan’s jaw tightened, his pride warring with the humiliation coursing through him. "You’re the grandson," he finally muttered, the words barely audible.

"Louder," Walter commanded, his eyes blazing with intensity.

"You’re the grandson," Ryan repeated, his voice trembling. "And I… I’m the grandpa."

Walter’s grin was triumphant, his chest swelling with satisfaction. "That’s right," he said, his tone dripping with superiority. "And this?" He gestured to his body, running a hand over his chest. "This is mine now. Every muscle, every inch of skin. Mine."

Walter stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he loomed over the frail, wrinkled man in front of him. "You’ve always been so jealous of me, haven’t you?" he taunted, his voice slow, deliberate, dripping with cruel amusement. "Even before all this, you wanted what I had. And now…" He trailed off, his hand reaching out with an almost mockingly gentle touch, his fingers brushing over Ryan’s soft, sagging chest, feeling the loose skin beneath his fingertips. "Now you’re stuck with this."

Ryan—no, the new Walter—flinched at the contact, his hands clenching uselessly in his lap, but he didn’t pull away. Ryan—the old Walter—chuckled darkly as he crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side as he took in the pitiful sight before him. The old man sat hunched and small, shoulders curled inward, looking up at him with a mixture of resentment, disbelief, and—most satisfying of all—helplessness.

"You know," Ryan mused, tapping his chin as if lost in thought, "I bet you’ve always been jealous of me."

Walter’s head snapped up, his aged face twisting in defiance. "What?" Ryan grinned, white teeth flashing against his youthful skin. "Come on, Grandpa. Don’t play dumb. You wanted this, didn’t you? My body, my strength, my youth." He spread his arms wide, stretching deliberately, rolling his shoulders to feel the strength coursing through his muscles. "Hell, you practically drooled every time I was at the gym. Always making comments—‘Damn, kid, you don’t know how lucky you are.’ Or, ‘If I had your body, I’d—’ Well, now you know. And let’s be honest, you weren’t just admiring it from a distance. You were longing for it, weren’t you? Watching me move, watching me live—all while being trapped in that pathetic old shell of yours."

He took a step closer, deliberately slow, letting his towering presence loom over Walter’s frail form. "I mean, look at me." He turned slightly, giving a mock flex, the defined muscles in his arms and chest shifting beneath his smooth, youthful skin. "Imagine how it must feel—to wake up every morning strong, invincible, without a single ache or pain. To have all the energy in the world, to be the one everyone listens to when you speak, to be the one people want to be around. That was me before, and now? Now, it’s still me. But you?" His smirk deepened as he tilted his head. "You're nothing more than an afterthought now. Just another old man waiting for the world to move on without him."

Walter’s face darkened, his lips twitching as if he wanted to speak, to lash out, but nothing came. The words—the truth—hung in the air between them, undeniable and crushing. Ryan leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing you’re beneath me now. Knowing I own the life that used to be yours. Knowing that, from now on, no one will ever look at you the way they used to look at me."

Walter’s face burned, his wrinkled hands twisting in the sheets beneath him. "That’s not—"

"Oh, don’t even try to deny it." Ryan cut him off, stepping closer, his voice thick with condescension. "You wished for this. I could see it in your eyes every time you groaned about your back, every time you huffed and puffed after going up the stairs. You wanted to be young again. To be me. And now, look at you." He let out a short, amused chuckle, shaking his head. "Karma’s funny, huh?"

Walter’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The heat in his face spread down his neck, shame curling around him like a vice. Ryan smirked, placing his hands on his hips, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. "Tell me, Grandpa, if you were in my shoes—if you swapped bodies with your grandson—wouldn’t you love it?" He let the question hang in the air, savoring the tension, his smirk widening as Walter stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.

"I mean, come on. Think about it. Really think about it. You know exactly what I’m talking about now, don’t you? Now that you’re the old man, you get it." Ryan took a slow step forward, his presence looming, his voice like velvet laced with poison. "Be honest with me, Grandpa. Wouldn’t you have enjoyed waking up one day in a body like this? No more aching knees, no more graying hair, no more struggling to even be noticed in a crowd. You spent years watching me, admiring me—hell, envying me. And now you know what it’s like to be on the other side of it. Doesn’t feel so great, does it?"

Walter looked away sharply, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration, but Ryan wasn’t finished. "Tell me, does it burn you up inside when you see me walking around, feeling amazing in this body? Do you hate it when I stretch, when I flex, when I live like I was meant for this?" He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned down just enough to meet Walter’s weary eyes. "Or worse—do you crave it? Do you secretly wish you could trade back, knowing damn well you never will? Do you miss your body? Or are you finally realizing that it was never yours to begin with?"

Walter looked away, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration.

Ryan leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Feels different when you're the one stuck in the rocking chair, huh? When you're the one struggling just to get up in the morning?" He let out a breath, deliberately warm against Walter’s ear, before straightening back up.

Walter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the sagging skin of his throat. His entire body tensed like a coiled spring, but there was nowhere to go, no escape from the torment.

Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms above his head. "Look, I get it. You’re jealous. And that’s okay. It’s natural. Anyone in your position would be jealous of me." He flexed his arm, rolling his shoulders as if relishing the movement, his eyes flickering toward Walter expectantly. And just as he predicted, Walter’s gaze betrayed him—darting, just for a moment, toward the strong biceps, the smooth skin, the sheer power that had once belonged to him.

Ryan caught it instantly and let out a low, knowing chuckle. "Yeah, I saw that. You can’t help it, can you?" He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied the old man before him. "I mean, look at me. I’m young. Strong. Alive." His voice softened, turning almost patronizing. "And you? Well… you’re just Walter now."

Walter squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to accept it.Ryan let the words settle before placing a firm, almost comforting hand on Walter’s frail shoulder. "But here’s the thing—you need to accept it. This is our reality now. There’s no going back. No second chances. This—" he gestured between them, "—is permanent. I’m Ryan. And you’re Walter. For good."

The Family Visit 

Eventually, the day of the family visit arrived, and Walter could feel his stomach twisting with unease. He sat stiffly in the hospital chair, his aged body aching from even the smallest movement. Across from him, Ryan stretched his youthful limbs with ease, barely able to contain his excitement. The roles they had been forced into were about to be cemented, and Walter dreaded every second of it.

When the door swung open, Daniel Holloway entered first—The old Ryan’s dad, and now Walter’s son. Though now Daniel had to see the old Ryan as his father, Walter. Behind him was Margaret, Daniel’s wife and Ryan’s mother. Then came Charles and Peter, Ryan’s younger brothers—though now, they were supposed to be his other grandsons. The sight of them was both familiar and alien, each face filled with relief and happiness.

"Dad!" Daniel greeted warmly, smiling at Walter with all the familiarity of a son addressing his father. Walter swallowed hard, his hands clenching against the hospital sheets. That greeting was meant for what used to be his grandfather—but not anymore. It was for him now.

"Grandpa!" Peter grinned, moving to Walter’s bedside. "It’s great to see you up. You gave us a real scare."

Walter flinched at the word. Grandpa. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. Daniel, his own father, was now looking at him as if HE were his father. It was suffocating.

Meanwhile, Ryan stood with an excited grin, spreading his arms wide. “Dad, Mom, Charles, Peter! Man, you have no idea how good it is to see you all.”

Margaret let out a relieved sigh and pulled Ryan into a tight embrace. “Oh, sweetheart, we were terrified,” she murmured. “I can’t believe you’re okay.”

Ryan leaned into her touch, relishing every second. “Of course I am, Mom. Strong as ever.” He flexed his arm playfully, making Charles and Peter chuckle.

Ryan basked in the attention, his new face lighting up as he embraced his mother—his former daughter-in-law —and patted his father—his former son—on the back. It was exhilarating. Thrilling. They truly believed he had always been their Ryan. They spoke to him as if he had always been their son, their brother. Every word of affection, every familial gesture, sent a pulse of euphoria through him. It was as if fate had always intended for him to be in this body.

Walter’s chest tightened as he watched his former body bask in the warmth of his family’s love. That was his mother embracing him. His brothers laughing with him. But now, they saw him as the grandfather—an old man, a relic of their past.

Walter also felt the crushing weight of despair. Even his own parents—who he was supposed to treat now as his own kids, looking at him with concern—saw him only as their dad, Walter. There was no recognition, no flicker of realization that something was horribly wrong.

Daniel turned back to Walter and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling, Dad?”

His breathing grew unsteady. He had to fix this. "Dad, listen to me," Walter rasped, voice shaking. "I’m not—I’m not your dad. It’s me, Ryan! That’s my body! He—he stole it! You have to believe me!"

A tense silence filled the room. The smiles faded. Ryan, standing beside their mother, let out an exasperated sigh and turned toward the nurses. "I told you this might happen. His memory’s been slipping ever since the accident."

“Oh, Grandpa, not this again.” He turned to the others with an exaggerated sigh. “The doctors said he’s been having these memory lapses. He keeps insisting he’s me.”

One of the nurses nodded sympathetically. "It’s common with head trauma at his age. Sometimes, patients get confused about who they are."

Margaret’s expression softened with concern. “Oh, Walter…” She kneeled beside him, taking his wrinkled hands into her own. “The doctors did say there might be confusion after everything you went through. But don’t worry, we’re here for you.”

Walter’s face burned. "No Mom! I’m not confused! I swear to you, I’m Ryan! That’s my body! That’s my life!"

Walter’s pulse pounded in his ears. “No! I’m telling you the truth! I’m your son, Ryan! That is my body!” He pointed a trembling finger at Ryan, who merely shook his head with amusement.

His desperation escalated, his voice cracking as he tried to force them to see the truth. But all they saw was an old man having a breakdown. Daniel frowned, concern deepening in his eyes. "Dad, please, calm down. You’re scaring the boys."

Daniel sighed and squeezed Walter’s shoulder. “Dad, please. I know this must be overwhelming, but you’re Walter Holloway. You’ve always been my father.”

Ryan leaned against the bed, arms crossed, his smirk growing wider. “Come on, Grandpa, you don’t want to confuse the kids, do you?” He turned to Charles and Peter, feigning sympathy. “It’s hard watching Grandpa struggle like this, huh?”

Charles gave an awkward smile. “Yeah… but the doctors said he just needs time, right?”

Walter’s hands trembled as he looked from face to face. No one believed him. Not his dad, not his mom, not his brothers. The truth was slipping through his fingers like sand, and Ryan was enjoying every second of it.

Ryan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Walter’s shoulder, leaning in slightly, his voice gentle but condescending. "Grandpa, you need to rest. You’re just confused. I know it’s hard, but you have to accept the truth."

Walter shook his head furiously. "You did this! You stole my life! You—"

Ryan clicked his tongue and turned to the others. "See what I mean? It’s like he’s stuck in some fantasy. I read about this—sometimes older folks cling to a delusion because reality is too much for them."

Walter gritted his teeth, shaking with humiliation. His own family. His own flesh and blood. They all thought he was a senile old man losing his grip on reality.

Ryan turned back, eyes gleaming with something cruel and victorious. "You’re not Ryan, Grandpa. I am. You’re Walter. Always have been. Always will be. And there’s no changing that."

Walter slumped back against the bed, defeated. His world had been stolen, and no one—not even his own family—would ever believe him.

Ryan took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough for only Walter to hear. “Face it, old man,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “This is your life now. You’re Grandpa. And I’m Ryan.” He patted Walter’s frail knee, just as he had been forced to do in their therapy sessions. “Better get used to it.”

Walter’s vision blurred with frustration and helplessness. Ryan had won. He had taken everything. And there was nothing Walter could do to stop it.

The Final Adjustment

Dr. Carter wasted no time intensifying their therapy sessions after the disastrous family visit. Walter’s outburst had only reinforced the doctor’s belief that he was suffering from a severe delusional episode, and Ryan made sure to milk every second of it.

At the start of their next session, Dr. Carter sat across from them with a patient but firm expression. “Walter, before we continue, I think there’s something you need to say to Ryan.”

Walter tensed, already dreading whatever was about to come next. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Carter tilted his head, as if speaking to a confused child. “You accused Ryan of something very serious in front of your family. You caused a scene, frightened your grandchildren, and distressed your son. Don’t you think you owe Ryan an apology?”

Walter’s stomach turned. His hands clenched against his thighs as he cast a hesitant glance at Ryan, who was lounging in his chair, arms crossed, a smug little smile playing on his lips.

Walter wanted to resist. He wanted to scream the truth again. But what good would it do? No one believed him. No one ever would. And the only way to stop the relentless humiliation was to play along.

“I…” Walter forced the words out, his throat dry. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

Ryan’s grin widened. “Sorry for what, Grandpa?”

Walter swallowed back his pride. “For accusing you… of stealing my body.”

Ryan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And why do you think you did that, huh?”

Dr. Carter nodded encouragingly. “Yes, Walter. Let’s explore that. What made you feel like Ryan had taken something from you?”

Walter’s jaw clenched. His pulse pounded in his temples. Ryan’s eyes were gleaming, waiting for him to break.

“I guess…” Walter exhaled shakily. “I was jealous.”

Ryan clicked his tongue. “Jealous?”

Walter stared at the floor. “Yes.”

“Jealous of what?” Ryan pressed.

Walter’s shoulders sagged. “Of… your body.”

Ryan let out a small, satisfied laugh. “Oh yeah?”

Walter shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to disappear. “Yeah.”

Ryan leaned back, tapping his fingers against his knee. “And what else? You jealous of my muscles? My youth? The fact that I get to live as Ryan while you’re just old man Walter?”

Walter felt the weight of every word pressing down on him. He forced himself to nod. “Yes.”

“Say it,” Ryan ordered. “Tell me what exactly you’re jealous of.”

Walter’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Your strength. Your body. Your youth.”

Ryan wasn’t done yet. He leaned in closer, his voice smooth, almost gentle, but dripping with cruel amusement. “Come on, old man. You jealous of the way I wake up every morning, full of energy, no aching joints, no stiff back? The way I can run without gasping for breath, the way I can eat anything I want without worrying about cholesterol or heartburn?” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Bet you miss that, huh?”

Walter clenched his fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight.

Ryan tilted his head, studying him like a predator toying with wounded prey. “Or maybe you’re jealous of how people see me. No one looks at me with pity. No one treats me like some fragile old man who’s past his prime. No one assumes I need help just getting out of a chair.” His smirk widened. “That must suck, huh? Going from being strong, being respected, to being… this.”

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep quiet, but the words pressed against his lips like poison waiting to spill.

Ryan wasn’t finished. “How about the way people talk to me? The way they listen when I speak, when I walk into a room, when I shake someone’s hand?” He flexed his fingers, letting the movement draw Walter’s gaze. “Bet you miss that, huh? Bet you hate looking in the mirror and seeing Walter Holloway staring back at you. The sagging skin, the graying hair, the belly that won’t go away no matter what you do.” He let out a fake sympathetic sigh. “Damn, that’s gotta sting.”

Walter swallowed thickly, his throat raw. He wanted to shut his eyes, to disappear, but it wouldn’t stop. It never stopped.

And then, for the first time, he spoke without being prompted.

“I’m jealous,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan’s smirk deepened. “What’s that, Grandpa?”

Walter’s fingers twitched, his nails pressing deeper into his palms. He exhaled shakily, his voice stronger this time. “I’m jealous… of how strong you are. How you can move so easily, how you can run and jump without thinking about it. I’m jealous of your energy, how you wake up feeling rested, how your body isn’t slowing you down.” The words spilled from his lips like a confession, each one tightening the grip around his chest.

Ryan folded his arms, nodding smugly. “Go on.”

Walter shut his eyes for a moment, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it worse, but the pressure was unbearable. He had to let it out. “I’m jealous of how people look at you. The respect you get. The admiration. I’m jealous that when you talk, people listen. I’m jealous that you don’t get treated like you’re fragile, like you’re in the way.” He inhaled shakily, his voice dropping to a hoarse murmur. “I’m jealous that you have your whole life ahead of you while mine is…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

Dr. Carter, who had been watching intently, leaned forward slightly, his expression warm with approval. “This is good, Walter. Acknowledging these emotions is important for your progress. But there’s something else you need to say.”

Walter’s stomach twisted. “What?”

Dr. Carter’s voice was steady, coaxing. “Despite your jealousy, despite everything you feel… you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you? You would rather be Walter Holloway. That’s who you are, and that’s who you want to be.”

Walter felt a lump lodge itself in his throat. His skin felt hot, prickling with shame, with exhaustion.

Ryan was watching him expectantly, his smirk lingering, waiting for him to break completely.

Walter’s jaw tightened. The weight pressing down on him was suffocating. He wanted it to stop. He wanted all of this to stop.

So he did the only thing he could.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Dr. Carter’s smile widened. “Say it, Walter.”

Walter’s lips parted, the words slow, shaky, forced. “I… I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Ryan’s smirk deepened.

Dr. Carter beamed. “Good. That’s very good.”

Walter stared at the floor, feeling the last of his resistance crumble. It was done. He had said what they wanted to hear.

Dr. Carter smiled approvingly at Walter’s supposed ‘progress.’ “Good, Walter. Acknowledging these feelings is an important step. Now, let’s reinforce this understanding with sensory exercises.”

Walter’s stomach churned. He knew what was coming. He had endured these exercises before, each one designed to strip him of whatever dignity he had left. A quick glance at Ryan confirmed his fears—his grandson, now towering over him in the body that once belonged to him, was already smirking, barely containing his amusement.

“Stand up,” Dr. Carter instructed, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. Walter pushed himself up slowly, his joints stiff, his movements sluggish, while Ryan rose effortlessly, his youthful body full of strength and energy. Walter barely had time to steady himself before Ryan took a deliberate step forward, his presence overwhelming.

“Face each other,” Dr. Carter continued.

Ryan wasted no time closing the gap between them, his muscular chest nearly brushing against Walter’s frail one. Walter could feel the heat radiating from his former body, his skin tingling with the stark contrast between them.

“Walter, touch Ryan’s face,” Dr. Carter directed. “Feel the difference.”

Walter’s fingers trembled as he reached up, brushing against Ryan’s jawline. The skin was firm, the bone structure sharp and defined—nothing like the sagging, soft flesh that now hung from his own face.

Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And what do you feel?”

Walter swallowed hard. “Strength,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan chuckled. “Damn right,” he said, flexing his jaw for emphasis. “Feels solid, doesn’t it? Not like that loose mess you’ve got now.”

Walter’s face burned, but Dr. Carter wasn’t finished. “Now, move to his shoulders.”

Walter obeyed, his hands hesitantly trailing down to Ryan’s broad shoulders. They were powerful, firm with well-developed muscle. His grip tightened slightly as he traced the structure, feeling the undeniable strength beneath his fingertips.

“Compare it to your own,” Dr. Carter ordered.

Walter pulled back slowly and reached for his own shoulders, wincing at the stark contrast. His hands met soft, sagging skin, the once-solid mass now reduced to frailty. Before he could react, Ryan’s hands followed suit, gripping Walter’s shoulders with an exaggerated squeeze.

“Man, this is like grabbing a sack of dough,” Ryan quipped, kneading Walter’s flesh mockingly. “No muscle left, huh? Just… soft.”

Dr. Carter ignored the taunt. “Now, Walter, his arms.”

Walter’s hands hesitantly wrapped around Ryan’s biceps. They were thick, hard, brimming with power. Ryan flexed with a smirk, his muscle bulging beneath Walter’s touch.

“Give it a squeeze,” Ryan encouraged. “Go on, Grandpa. Feel what real strength is like.”

Walter did as instructed, though the action only deepened his humiliation. The sheer power in Ryan’s arms was undeniable. Then, before Walter could react, Ryan reached for his arms, gripping them in return.

“Wow,” Ryan mused, squeezing the loose skin. “There’s just… nothing here. No definition, no strength. Just… flab.” He gave Walter’s arm a light shake, watching as the skin wobbled pathetically. “Man, that’s depressing.”

Walter clenched his teeth, his body stiff with shame, but the session was far from over. Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension. “His chest, Walter.”

Walter’s hands hesitated before settling on Ryan’s chest. It was firm, solid, each muscle defined and sculpted. He swallowed hard, already dreading the next instruction.

“Now your own.”

Walter pulled his hands away and pressed them against his own chest. His fingers sank into soft flesh, the skin loose and yielding beneath his touch. Ryan wasted no time mirroring the action, pressing a hand against Walter’s chest before bursting into laughter.

“Wow. It’s like feeling an old couch cushion,” Ryan taunted, giving a light squeeze. “No muscle. No tone. Just sagging.”

Walter’s humiliation deepened, but Dr. Carter continued. “His abdomen, Walter.”

Walter’s hands trailed down Ryan’s torso, brushing against the ridges of his six-pack, the muscles firm and unyielding. The contrast was unbearable.

“Now your own.”

Walter forced himself to touch his own stomach, feeling the soft, excess flesh pooling beneath his fingertips. Ryan, ever the tormentor, pressed a firm hand against Walter’s belly and gave it a condescending jiggle.

“Damn,” Ryan laughed. “What happened, old man? You used to have abs—now you’ve got this?” He patted Walter’s stomach mockingly. “Guess you don’t need to worry about sit-ups anymore, huh?”

Walter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the shame, but there was no escape.

Dr. Carter continued, “his legs.”

Walter’s hands slid down to Ryan’s thighs, feeling the sheer power in the muscle. His legs were strong, lean, built for movement. Ryan shifted slightly under Walter’s touch, flexing his quadriceps just to emphasize the contrast.

“And your own,” Dr. Carter prompted.

Walter obeyed, his hands falling to his own thighs. They were thin, weak, lacking the firmness they once had. Ryan reached down, gripping Walter’s thigh in return, his fingers pressing into the soft, aging flesh.

“These legs are useless,” Ryan scoffed, shaking his head. “No wonder you walk like you’re about to fall over.”

Walter’s head hung low. The session had stripped him down piece by piece, leaving him raw, exposed, and utterly powerless. Ryan, meanwhile, stood tall, his smirk one of pure, unfiltered satisfaction.

Dr. Carter nodded, seemingly satisfied with the exercise so far. “Now, we’re going to take this a step further. I want both of you to smell each other. Start with the armpits.”

Walter’s eyes widened in horror. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Dr. Carter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Smell is a powerful sense—it can help ground you in reality. Ryan, go first.”

Ryan smirked, raising his arm and flexing slightly to expose his armpit. “Go ahead, Grandpa. Take a whiff.”

Walter hesitated, his stomach churning at the thought. But under Dr. Carter’s watchful gaze, he leaned in, his nose brushing against Ryan’s armpit. The scent hit him immediately—musky, masculine, and undeniably Ryan. It was intoxicating, and Walter couldn’t help but feel a pang of arousal.

“Who’s musk does that belong to, Walter?” Dr. Carter asked.

“Ryan’s,” Walter admitted, his face burning with shame.

“Good. Now, Ryan, smell Walter.”

Ryan grinned, raising Walter’s arm and pressing his nose against the older man’s armpit. He took a deep breath, the scent filling his nostrils. It was musty, the smell of age and neglect, and Ryan wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Man, that’s just… gross,” Ryan said, pulling away with a grimace. “Smells like old sweat and decay.”

Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the heavy silence, calm and clinical as ever. “Now, Walter, Ryan, I want you to take this exercise one step further than before. I want you to explore the differences between your bodies in their most… intimate form.”

Walter’s breath hitched, his stomach twisting into knots. “What?” he choked out, his voice barely audible. He could feel Ryan’s gaze burning into him, smug and expectant.

“You heard the doctor, Grandpa,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Time to get up close and personal.”

Dr. Carter nodded, her expression unchanged. “You will touch each other’s genitals. This is an essential part of understanding the physical disparities between you and accepting them.”

Walter’s heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what was coming, and the dread coiled tightly in his gut. He glanced up at Ryan, who was already smirking, his youthful arrogance shining through. Ryan’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, and Walter could see the faint bulge in his pants—a cruel reminder of the vitality that now belonged to his grandson.

“Stand closer,” Dr. Carter instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Walter took a shaky step forward, his frail body trembling as Ryan closed the gap between them with ease. The warmth of Ryan’s body radiated against Walter’s, the contrast between their physical states almost unbearable.

“Walter,” Dr. Carter began, “reach out and touch Ryan’s waistband. Feel the difference in your bodies’ structure.”

“Go on, Grandpa,” Ryan taunted, his voice laced with mockery. “Touch it. Feel what a real man has.”

Walter’s hands trembled as he hesitantly reached for Ryan’s hips. His fingers brushed against the fabric of his grandson’s pants, feeling the firmness of the muscles beneath. Ryan shifted slightly, intentionally pressing his hips forward, and Walter’s fingers accidentally grazed the bulge that was unmistakably there. Walter jerked his hand back as if burned, his face flushing with humiliation.

“What’s the matter, Grandpa?” Ryan teased, his voice dripping with mockery. “Scared of a little contact? Or maybe you’re just jealous?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Walter’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll make this easy for you.”

Before Walter could react, Ryan grabbed his hand and placed it firmly on his own crotch. Walter’s fingers instinctively curled around the hard, throbbing length beneath the fabric. He tried to pull away, but Ryan held him in place, his grip strong and unrelenting. “Feel that?” Ryan whispered, his voice low and taunting. “That’s what strength feels like. That’s what youth feels like. Bet you haven’t felt anything like that in years, huh?”

Walter’s face burned, his humiliation intensifying with every passing second. He could feel the heat of Ryan’s arousal through the fabric, the undeniable proof of his grandson’s virility. It was a cruel reminder of everything he had lost—the firmness, the energy, the life that had once been his.

“That’s it,” Ryan encouraged, his voice low and taunting. “Feel how big it is.”

Walter’s fingers trembled as he wrapped them around Ryan’s shaft, the girth filling his hand in a way that made his own seem laughable in comparison. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the pulse of life that seemed to throb with every beat of Ryan’s heart.

Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension, steady and unyielding. “Now, Walter, it’s your turn. Let Ryan touch you.”

Walter’s stomach churned, his mind screaming in protest. But he knew there was no escape. Walter’s breath hitched again as Ryan’s hand closed around him, the difference between them painfully obvious. Ryan’s grip was firm, confident, his fingers easily wrapping around Walter’s small, soft member.

“Wow,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with mockery. “It’s like… nothing. Just a little nub.” He gave a light squeeze, watching as Walter’s face flushed deeper with shame. “Guess you really have lost everything, huh?”

Walter’s face burned with shame, his body stiff under Ryan’s touch. He could feel the warmth of his grandson’s hand, the contrast between their bodies even more pronounced now. Ryan gave a light squeeze, his fingers exploring with a mocking curiosity.

“Nothing to work with here,” Ryan continued, his voice laced with cruel satisfaction. “Just… flaccid and lifeless. Like the rest of you.”

Ryan’s hand began to move, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s cock with a deliberate, mocking slowness. “Feels like I’m touching a little worm,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “No muscle, no hardness. Just… limp.”

Walter’s breath came in shallow gasps, his humiliation and jealousy intertwining in a way that made his head spin. He tightened his grip on Ryan’s cock, his fingers sliding up and down the thick, hard shaft. He could feel the power in it, the way it seemed to pulse with life, mocking his own inadequacy.

“That’s right,” Ryan said, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. “Feel it. Feel how much better I am than you.”

Walter’s hand moved faster, his grip tightening as he tried to block out the taunts. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the task at hand, he couldn’t escape the stark contrast between them. Ryan’s cock was everything his wasn’t—big, strong, alive.

Ryan’s own hand moved with a deliberate slowness, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s small, soft cock with a mocking precision. “It’s almost cute,” he said, his voice filled with amusement. “How pathetic it is.”

Ryan’s breathing grew heavier, his smirk widening as he watched Walter struggle. “That’s it, Grandpa,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Keep going. Let’s see who finishes first.”

But then, without warning, Ryan’s body tensed, his smirk widening into a grin of pure triumph. “Here it comes,” he said, his voice low and filled with a mix of arrogance and excitement.

Walter’s eyes flew open just in time to see Ryan’s cock pulse, a thick stream of cum shooting out and hitting him square in the face. The warmth of it was almost suffocating, the sheer volume of it a stark reminder of Ryan’s virility. Walter froze, his hand still gripping Ryan’s cock as the younger man’s cum continued to spurt out, coating his face and dripping down onto his chest.

Walter’s own cock twitched in Ryan’s hand, a small, pitiful spurt of cum barely managing to escape. Ryan glanced down, his smirk widening as he took in the stark contrast between them. “That’s it?” he taunted, his voice filled with amusement. “That’s all you’ve got? Man, you really are pathetic.”

Walter’s face burned with humiliation, his body trembling as he tried to process the sheer difference between them. Ryan’s cum was still warm on his face, a bitter reminder of his own inadequacy. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely even think as the weight of Ryan’s dominance pressed down on him.

Dr. Carter nodded in approval. “Very good. Now, let’s proceed with hypnosis while you’re still euphoric. I want you both to sit down and listen to my voice.” They weren’t even allowed to clean themselves. 

Walter obeyed, already feeling lightheaded from the session. He barely reacted as Dr. Carter began speaking in a low, rhythmic voice, guiding him deeper into relaxation.

Dr. Carter’s voice deepened, slow and steady, like a distant pulse guiding them into the depths of their minds. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Let go of everything else. Picture yourselves stepping into a vast space, one that belongs to both of you.”

Walter felt himself sinking, drifting into the doctor’s words, his senses blurring as the weight of the session pressed against him.

Dr. Carter’s voice became a thread weaving through his mind. “You are in a grand hall,” he continued. “A palace of mirrors, stretching endlessly in all directions. There is no ceiling, no walls—only reflections, endless and pure.”

The vision took shape.

Walter found himself standing in an enormous, empty chamber. The floor was smooth and black, almost liquid in appearance, reflecting light that had no source. Tall, ornate mirrors lined the space in every direction, their silvered surfaces pristine, infinite, inescapable.

He wasn’t alone.

Ryan stood beside him, just as Dr. Carter had described, both of them facing the mirrors that surrounded them.

Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but insistent. “Tell me, Walter… what do you see?”

Walter turned toward the nearest mirror, his breath catching in his throat.

Staring back at him wasn’t his wrinkled, aging face.

It was Ryan.

His reflection was young. Strong. The way he had once been.

A jolt of longing struck him like a knife between the ribs.

Ryan exhaled sharply beside him, amusement laced in his voice. “Hah. Would you look at that.”

Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And if you look down at yourself, Walter… what do you see?”

Walter hesitated.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze.

His heart lurched.

He wasn’t looking at withered hands, spotted with age. His body—his mental body—wasn’t frail or weak.

It was Ryan’s.

The hands were young, strong, his shoulders broad, his posture straight. His chest solid, his legs full of power.

For a single, intoxicating moment, hope flared within him. Maybe this was the proof he needed. Maybe, if even his mind rejected this body, there was still a chance—

Dr. Carter turned his attention to Ryan. “And you, Ryan? What do you see?”

Ryan smirked. “Same thing. My reflection looks like Walter. And when I look down?” He flexed his fingers experimentally. “Old. Obese. Weak.”

Walter’s stomach twisted.

Dr. Carter nodded. “Good. That is your self-perception. The mind’s final grasp on the confusion. But that confusion will fade. The mind cannot fight the truth.”

The words slithered into Walter’s thoughts, sinking deeper.

“The reflections are truth,” Dr. Carter murmured. “The mind knows which body it belongs to.”

Walter turned his gaze back to the mirror.

His breath caught.

The image was… shifting.

The firm jawline softened. Wrinkles bled into the smooth skin. His chest lost its shape, sagging under the weight of years. His shoulders hunched, his legs losing definition. The reflection aged before his eyes.

His pulse pounded.

“No,” he whispered.

But the mirrors did not lie.

Across from him, Ryan’s reflection changed, too—but in the opposite way. The tired, aging body in his mirror straightened. Muscles formed beneath once-loose skin. His shoulders broadened. His stance grew confident, filled with youth.

Ryan chuckled softly, watching the change unfold.

Dr. Carter’s voice remained unwavering. “The reflections have settled. But now, the mind must align.”

Walter looked down, desperate—

His body still looked young. His hands were still Ryan’s hands. His chest still solid, his legs still strong.

The reflection was wrong.

It had to be wrong.

Ryan hummed thoughtfully, inspecting himself in the mirror. “Yeah… this is looking a lot better, huh?” He turned his head slightly, watching the light catch his sharp jawline. “Starting to feel natural.”

Walter’s breath grew shallow. “No…”

Dr. Carter’s tone became more commanding. “The mind must not fight the truth.”

The walls of mirrors shimmered.

A pull deep within Walter’s chest made his skin crawl. A sinking sensation washed over him, like he was being submerged, like something was being taken—

And then—

His hands.

His chest.

His legs.

They weren’t young anymore.

His own body—his mental body—had changed. The frail arms, the wrinkled skin, the weakened muscles—

It was all his again.

Walter gasped sharply, stumbling back.

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “No, no, no—”

Ryan’s laughter was quiet, smug.

Walter turned, wide-eyed, to see Ryan inspecting his own reflection. And this time, when Ryan looked down at himself—

He saw youth. Strength. Power.

And when he smirked, it wasn’t an illusion. It was real.

His body.

His mind.

It was over.

“You are Walter Holloway,” Dr. Carter’s voice droned. “You have always been Walter Holloway. You are an aging man, a father, a grandfather. And Ryan is your grandson. That is the truth. That is reality.”

Walter’s head swam. His body felt heavy. The words seeped into his mind, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.

Dr. Carter’s voice softened. “Tell me, Walter. Who are you?”

Walter’s heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to scream. To resist.

But as he looked back at the reflection—at the undeniable image staring back at him—his throat closed.

“I…”

Ryan exhaled, dragging out the moment, savoring it.

Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but firm. “Say it.”

Walter swallowed hard, every ounce of fight draining from his limbs.

His lips trembled.

His voice barely above a whisper.

“I am Walter Holloway.”

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. “And who is Ryan?”

Walter clenched his fists, but his reflection only showed old, frail hands curling in on themselves.

He looked at Ryan.

Ryan—young, smirking, victorious.

Walter’s head lowered in submission.

“My grandson.”

Ryan let out a slow breath, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “That’s right.”

Dr. Carter smiled. “Very good. And tell me, Walter—despite everything, despite the jealousy, despite the past… would you have it any other way?”

Walter hesitated.

The mirrors had spoken.

The body.

The mind.

The truth.

He exhaled shakily.

“…No.”

Dr. Carter’s voice was a final, steady command. “Then accept it.”

Walter’s shoulders sagged.

His body.

His reflection.

His fate.

“…I accept it. I wouldn't have it any other way ”

Ryan grinned.

And Walter Holloway knew, with bone-deep certainty, that there was no going back.

The Conclusion

After weeks of relentless therapy, psychological conditioning, and medical evaluations, the doctors finally deemed Ryan and Walter fully adjusted to their "true" identities. There were no more arguments, no more desperate pleas, no more resistance—at least, not outwardly. Walter had long since realized that fighting was useless. He had been backed into a corner, stripped of everything, and molded into what they wanted him to be. The final signatures were scrawled onto discharge papers, the last stamp of approval sealing their fates. With that, the hospital doors were thrown open, allowing them to step back into the world—not as themselves, but as the people the system had forced them to become.

As they prepared to leave, the contrast between them was stark. Walter—now in Ryan’s youthful, athletic body—was practically glowing with excitement, while Ryan—trapped in Walter’s aging, weakened frame—moved stiffly, weighed down by both the ill-fitting clothes and the unbearable reality of his situation.

Dressing that morning had been its own form of torture for Walter. The thick fabric of the slacks chafed against his legs, and the button-up shirt felt foreign, like a costume draped over someone he no longer recognized. The cardigan smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale detergent, a scent that clung to him like an accusation. The orthopedic shoes were stiff and heavy, dragging his steps down even further. Each layer of clothing was a reminder of what had been taken from him.

Ryan, on the other hand, had never felt better. He relished the way Ryan’s well-fitted tank top hugged his torso, how the jeans sat comfortably on his hips like they had always belonged to him. But the best part—the part that made it all feel real—was the scent. With a satisfied smirk, he rolled on Walter’s deodorant, letting the crisp, masculine smell envelop him. Then, with slow deliberation, he reached for Walter’s cologne, giving himself a generous spritz before inhaling deeply.

“Ahh,” Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms in satisfaction. “Now this smells like me.”

When it was finally time to leave, Ryan snatched the car keys and twirled them between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll drive,” he said, shooting Walter a knowing glance. “Considering the last time you were behind the wheel, we both ended up in the hospital, I’d say it’s for the best.” The words were lighthearted, but the smugness in his tone made Walter’s jaw tighten.

Walter said nothing. What could he say? He simply followed Ryan out of the hospital, his slow, weary steps a bitter contrast to Ryan’s confident, youthful stride. Ryan moved like he owned the world—because, in a way, he did. Walter, burdened by age, weight, and the cruel truth of his new reality, shuffled behind him, feeling smaller with every step.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Ryan adjusted the mirrors, the seat, the steering wheel—everything to fit his new, larger frame.

Walter sank into the passenger seat, feeling uncomfortably out of place in a car that had once been his. The interior, the familiar scent, the worn leather—all reminders of a life that no longer belonged to him.

The sun bore down through the windshield, and Ryan exhaled dramatically. “Damn, it’s hot.” With a smirk, he grabbed his tank top and pulled it off in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the dashboard before buckling his seatbelt. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, the ridges of his abs shifting as he settled in. Walter forced his gaze forward, his gut twisting at the sight of his former body, now so casually on display.

Ryan drummed his fingers on the wheel, then shot Walter another grin. “Ready to go, Gramps?”

Walter swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had no choice but to nod. The drive home felt longer than ever.

When they arrived home, Ryan stepped through the door with effortless ease, his posture relaxed, his smile easy—exactly how the old Ryan used to be. He greeted his family with a familiar charm, embracing them with warmth and speaking with the natural confidence of a young man who had his entire life ahead of him. They welcomed him with open arms, laughing at his jokes, asking about his recovery, completely unaware of the horrifying truth behind his stolen identity. 

Meanwhile, Walter stood awkwardly at the threshold, his movements slower, his presence smaller. The moment their eyes landed on him, everything changed. His family’s smiles faltered just slightly, their expressions shifting into something softer—gentle, but laced with a quiet pity. They spoke to him in lowered tones, carefully enunciating their words as if he might not understand. A hesitant pat on the shoulder, a brief exchange of pleasantries—it was clear they saw him as an old man who needed patience, not as the person he truly was. Every glance that lingered too long, every concerned look exchanged behind his back only deepened the pit in his stomach. He had come home, and yet, for the first time in his life, he had never felt more out of place.

The transition was swift and brutal. The old Walter stepped seamlessly into Ryan’s life, assuming every aspect of his former grandson’s existence as if he had always belonged there. He moved into Ryan’s bedroom, effortlessly adjusting to the space—the unmade bed, the posters on the walls, the faint scent of cologne still lingering in the air. It took him no time at all to settle into the familiar routine: early morning workouts at the gym, cracking jokes with Ryan’s friends, slipping into easy, flirtatious conversations with women who had once been off-limits. He thrived in this body, this life, indulging in every sensation and pleasure that came with youth.

Meanwhile, Walter was forced into a role he had never imagined for himself—that of an aging, powerless retiree. His world shrank overnight, confined to the quiet, unremarkable existence of an old man whose presence barely registered to those around him. He was no longer included in conversations the way he once had been; his opinions carried less weight, his presence went unnoticed. His body, once strong and agile, now ached with every movement, reminding him constantly of what he had lost.

But the most painful losses weren’t physical. They were the pieces of his identity that were stripped away, one by one, until there was nothing left of the man he had once been. His phone—his direct connection to the world he knew—was surrendered, replaced with a simple device meant for seniors, its contents erased. His bank accounts, his credit cards, the very name attached to them. His clothes were replaced with drab, practical attire suited for an elderly man, his favorite belongings distributed without a second thought. With every item he relinquished, the reality of his new existence settled in deeper, suffocating him.

The nights were the worst. Lying alone in his unfamiliar bed, Walter would hear the sounds coming from his old bedroom—the laughter, the music, the muffled voices. And then, sometimes, the unmistakable sounds of passion, of intimacy, of a body that had once been his, now used for pleasures he could no longer experience. A sharp, ugly jealousy burned within him, twisting his stomach into knots, but he swallowed it down. This was reality. This was how things were meant to be. Walter was Ryan now, and he, the old Ryan, was nothing more than an old man. And so, he forced himself to close his eyes, to let go of the bitterness, to accept the life that had been decided for him.

Now, back in the privacy of Ryan’s—his—room, Ryan stood shirtless in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the body that was now his. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over his skin. He ran his hands over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his fingers. He was perfect. Every inch of him.

He turned to the side, flexing his biceps, watching as the muscle tensed and bulged. He reached down, cupping the firmness of his ass, squeezing it experimentally. A shiver of pleasure ran through him. This body… it was electric. Every touch felt amplified, every sensation more intense than he remembered.

His hands drifted lower, tracing the defined lines of his abdomen, until his fingers dipped below the waistband of his sweatpants. He let out a low groan as he took himself in hand, feeling the heat and hardness of his new body. It had been years—decades, really—since he’d felt like this. Young. Hungry. Alive.

He began to stroke himself slowly, his eyes locked on his reflection. His breath quickened as he watched his face flush, his lips part in pleasure. He couldn’t look away. The sight of himself—his youthful self—was intoxicating. Every movement, every twitch of muscle, every bead of sweat rolling down his skin was a reminder of what he’d gained.

His hand moved faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps now. He let his free hand roam over his chest, tweaking a nipple, feeling the sharp jolt of pleasure that shot through him. He was close—so close. His head fell back, a low moan escaping his lips as he reached the edge.

And then he was there, his body shuddering with release, his hand still moving as he spilled onto his stomach. He stood there for a moment, panting, his heart racing, his mind buzzing with satisfaction.

When he finally opened his eyes and opened his selfie camera, he couldn’t help but grin. This was his body now. His new life. And he was going to enjoy every damn second of it.

Ryan flourished in his stolen youth, embracing every ounce of vitality and strength that came with it. At home, he rarely bothered with a shirt, his toned physique constantly on display as he stretched, flexed, and moved with the effortless confidence of a man in his prime. Every movement seemed designed to remind Walter of what he had lost, of the body that once belonged to him but now obeyed another. Ryan's reflection had become a source of pride, and he ensured that his new grandfather—his former self—saw exactly what he had become.

He took to Ryan’s life as if it had always been his own, stepping seamlessly into friendships, relationships, and professional pursuits. His charm made the transition effortless. No one questioned the shift in demeanor, the newfound confidence and ease with which he navigated the world. Even in love, he thrived. The woman the old Ryan had once longed for but could never quite win over was now his. He had everything the old Ryan had struggled for, and he had taken it without consequence. Every success, every moment of pleasure, was a reminder that this was his life now, and no one—not even the man who had once lived it—could change that.

Meanwhile, Walter withered under the weight of his new reality. He was no longer seen as the strong, capable man he had once been. Now, he was an afterthought—an aging, pitiful figure trapped in a body that betrayed him at every turn. His protests were dismissed as the confused ramblings of a senile old man, his desperation met with sympathetic nods and condescending reassurances. He was humored, not heard. The fight drained out of him with each passing day, his words fading into silence as he realized the futility of it all. He was powerless, forced to watch his old body, his old life, thrive without him.

Eventually, Walter stopped fighting. There was no point anymore. The world had already moved on, and he had been left behind. He no longer corrected people when they called him Walter. He no longer tried to reclaim what had been stolen. He simply accepted it. And with that acceptance, the last remnants of his old self faded away. For all intents and purposes, he was Walter Holloway.

https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXetnQg1GJNopG4fBsKFeJQmKSQHdGOH5rVqxdbiVZTEUrk3NmzvlBE_qid0DNp_F797AUaoptTbMZ__sivOcgt9dhmeyulsY1gA6HJo_AYU3L7BUaAg1VlFT0HsP-k1GowhELtwLA?key=kgQC7utVG18iSUuBehAZym-C

A full year passed since the accident, since their minds had been wrenched from their rightful places and forced into new vessels. The family gathered once again, a mirror image of the last time—except everything had changed. Ryan played the role of grandson with ease, laughing, joking, exuding the boundless energy of youth. Walter sat in the background, the quiet, aging patriarch. Something inside him had shifted as well. The resistance had vanished, replaced by something resembling contentment—or at least resignation.

For a fleeting moment, a thought crept into his mind. It had been a year since we were out of our minds. A year since fate—or something else—had rewritten their lives. But he pushed the thought away, willing himself to believe what he needed to believe. He was, is, and always would be Walter Holloway. And the man across the room, the one who had once been his grandfather, was, is, and always would be Ryan.

The End.

[avelera]

Some Viktor (Arcane) Musings:

The thing is, I think Viktor must have told Jayce about his illness at some point in S1 before Viktor collapsed and ended up in the hospital

The reason being that it's literally impossible to ignore how much Viktor's health deteriorates in the 6-7 years between 1.03 and 1.04. There's no way he could not give Jayce some clue of what's going on with him.

But, for my own purpose and that of the fics I write, my thought was that Viktor maybe... downplayed the severity.

For example, my take is that if you have this fissure illness, you generally don't live past 30 in the undercity and Viktor knows this. He must have had some sense of a timeline, because his headlong rush to secure a legacy indicates the he knew he probably wasn't going to die of old age.

This, I think, he would be upfront with Jayce about. That they have to advance Hextech to the point where it's making breakthroughs in disciplines other than weightlessness and teleportation if Viktor has any chance of living a long life. Jayce would be on board with this fully, I think. Magic can do anything so if they're fast, and dedicated, chances are they can find something that will also improve biology too.

But, I think Viktor lied or played down how short of a time he actually had. Like, he told Jayce he probably wouldn't die of old age without Hextech intervention, and Jayce took that and like any sheltered, naive Piltie from a good family he thought, "This is awful, Viktor might never see 80!" Thinking that Viktor might, without intervention, only live to see, like... 60.

I also headcanon that once you start coughing up blood, it's a bit like TB, you don't have much time after that. So in 1.02/1.03, Viktor is driven to make a legacy for himself knowing he doesn't have a lot of time, but he might even still be fooling himself to think he's got more time than he does because of his move to Piltover. He has cleaner air here, better nutrition, better sun exposure, an easier life, etc. If the life expectancy in the underground for this disease is 25-30 or less, why should he maybe see 40 in Piltover?

But then... tragedy strikes. He starts coughing blood sometime during the time skip. His health rapidly deteriorates, and he doesn't tell Jayce that this means he's probably only got a few months to a few years left. He basically allows Jayce to keep living with the illusion that Viktor has limited time, because that would be unavoidable to realize just by looking at him, but still maybe decades remaining.

What compounds the problem here is that Viktor also tends to obfuscate his need for rapid intervention by posing them as the needs of the undercity which goes straight over Jayce's head. He tells Jayce they need to focus on new uses for Hextech to help people in the undercity now, it can't wait, they're running out of time, and goddammit Viktor, stop hiding your needs behind altruism, just be selfish, just tell Jayce that you're not talking about the undercity, you're talking about yourself and he would have dropped everything to help you!

Because this is Viktor's biggest flaw: he lies to himself and he lies to Jayce about why he's pursuing science at such a breakneck pace, and I don't even think he knows he's doing it. He's become so accustomed to the idea that he's not allowed to be selfish, not allowed to pose his own desperate desire to live as a priority, that he keeps fucking couching it in the needs of others so Jayce has no way to know just how desperate Viktor really is because Viktor doesn't admit it even to himself.

And this becomes a bigger problem writ large when Viktor creates his cult to "cure" other people because he can't fucking function if he's not posing his self-serving desires as things that also help the group. Babygirl, what is wrong with you?

So now instead of just perfecting himself in very scientifically troubling ways, he feels the need to spread around the cure that he made for himself to others to justify it, even if it doesn't fit them and in fact is horrifying to give the same solution to a bunch of people and fix things they never asked to be fixed.

[nemisuki]

Love the Chef

Crush AU | A short oneshot of the blonde trying to assassinate her through his cooking skills. And it somehow leading to a massive realization - thank god for noodles, laughs and sparks of love?

᧔o᧓ || katsuki bakugo x f!reader, she/her pronouns, no manga spoilers, pure fluff, open ending, aged up to third years, realization moment, reader down bad fr, bkg a softie, silly moments, short oneshot, kdrama coded, mainly reader POV, 850 word count 

“Agh- how could you eat stuff like this?!”

She flinches as the spicy noodles hit the surface of her tongue. The seasoned aroma entering her lungs and creeping its way up.

Causing her eyes to water the more she chews yet this is only her third spoonful.

Y/N wanted to prove him wrong for once.

That she could handle the spice.

But her taste buds went against her wishes.

Immediately understanding she overestimated her own limits - she quickly taps out and pushes the bowl of noodles across the table.

Not wanting to be near that monstrosity he cooked up in the kitchen. He must be psychotic to eat such things, that dish could kill!

“Okay okay you win!” she says, practically sweating as her body begins reacting to the poison known as Bakugos noodles.

Who the hell could eat such spice and not react?!

Accepting her loss, she grabs the glass of milk that the blonde poured out for her earlier.

As if he knew she would lose.

Chugging the cold liquid with urgency, letting it sit in her mouth as a makeshift antidote for the stinging pain on her tongue.

If things couldn’t get worse, it somehow does, as she feels her nose grow runny.

The combination of the spice and her tears - leads to this tragedy of a look on her.

A disappointed pout on her face as she holds the glass that’s now half full.

She doesn’t dare look in his direction.

Not wanting to see the look of triumph on his face, that smug grin that annoys her to bits.

That is until she hears laughter.

A sound so unfamiliar that she peeks in his direction.

She can see the way he holds his stomach - his eyes squinting with delight.

Multiple chuckles exiting his mouth, finding the whole situation amusing.

In an instant, warmth completely overtakes her body.

And she doesn’t know if it’s from the spicy noodles or the sight of him.

She has never seen him laugh this hard till now and is frozen in place, not daring to look away from this bizarre turn of events.

“Hah! I told you idiot, as if you can beat me in a challenge of spice!”

He covers his mouth with his hand, stifling the laughs threatening to escape.

“Y-You look so stupid!” he looks away to not wheeze at the sight of her. The way simple noodles could have her on the verge of a breakdown was peak comedy to him.

She is unable to respond, her mind completely forgetting about the aches of pain on her tongue.

Her eyes fixated on the new sight before her - his enjoyment being the source of her fast heartbeat and heated face.

It was just the two of them in the dining hall of the UA dorms but that's all ruined as she hears the sound of the elevator doors open. Footsteps exiting as whoever it is, begins approaching the lobby.

Without much thinking, she grabs a plastic plate and shields the side profile of his face. Her body moving on pure instinct as if protecting something worth value.

She hides him from passersby who are too engrossed in their private conversations to notice the duo at the table.

And she feels an odd sense of relief.

“What the hell are you doing?” he mumbles, his brows furrowing with confusion, peeking over the plate to see their classmates leaving the building.

Spotting nothing out of the ordinary, he looks back at her with a calculating look. Expecting her to explain the odd reaction that came out of nowhere.

Wait what-

Realization dawns upon her and she can feel the rapid increase of suspense and her jitters.

Why did she do that?

Now embarrassed, she quickly lowers the plate, averting her gaze, “ah I just….”

Thoughts swirl around her mind for a moment but the conclusion remains the same.

She’s glad no one else saw his smile. For some reason, wanting to keep the sight to herself, to relish in this new experience.

Her eyes begin widening as she connects the dots.

Oh.

“Oi you good nerd?” he tilts his head, both eyeing her down and completely oblivious to her inner turmoil.

Her eyes land back on his face, the smile no longer present as he's back to his usual self.

At that moment... Y/N could only wish he’d start smiling again.

"I-I need to blow my nose!"

She practically jumps out of her seat, running to the kitchen, hands pressed against her face.

Heat radiating off her face so intensely that she wondered if she had caught a fever.

The only sensible answer to this whole thing was so simple but nonetheless sudden.

Feeling like a love struck fool, she leaves him ultimately dumbfounded.

Yet in his mind - he's already planning what to cook for her next, secretly enjoying the banter between them.

Assuming the reason for her unexplainable actions is simply from the food he prepared.

He stares at her from afar, the sight of her splashing cold water on her face, has him involuntarily forming a smile at her ridiculous actions.

"What an idiot."

✦ ⎯⎯⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ masterlist || taglist || intro || socials ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⎯⎯ ✦

a/n ||| this small fic is inspired by a scene from the anime 'Sounds of Life' which I highly recommend. It's so underrated and I get sad everytime bc theres no S3! for u guys I included the exact scene below if ur curious (from s2 ep 2) and I love them so much omg. tags ||| @leleyro ໒꒰ྀི ´๑  ̫๑`  ꒱ྀིა

[star-crossed-fates]

Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 9: I Set the World on Fire and Called It Mourning

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different from in-game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

You’re sparring with Nina in the training room at the Hunter’s Association, blades clashing in a blur of rhythmic chaos. She’s grinning, eyes alight with mischief as she darts in and out of range like a mosquito on espresso.

The training swords may be blunt, but Nina’s wielding hers like she’s trying to settle an old grudge. “You’re sluggish today. Been distracted? Someone brooding and beautiful keeping you up late?”

You duck under her swing. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your desperation.”

Nina lets out a bark of laughter, stepping back to reset. “Ooooh, the claws come out. Bet you practice your hair flips in the mirror before sparring.”

With a burst of momentum, you vault up, flipping clean over her head. You land with a thud, fling your hair back like a soap opera villain, and bellow dramatically, “The mirror is but a portal to my own magnificence! Tremble before it!”

Nina lets out a scandalized wheeze, spinning to face you with the expression of someone who just found out her cereal was spiked with vodka.

“Okay. First of all? Rude. Second—are you trying to seduce me or duel me?”

You smirk. “Why not both?”

“So. Tell me. Have you sinned yet?” She points her sword at you dramatically. “You know. The horizontal bone zone. The astral tango. The forbidden handshake.”

“NINA.”

She advances, devilish grin growing. “The passion pit. The soul smush. The cha-cha with the curtains drawn.”

“What?!”

Her smile could power a small village. “C’mon! Don’t play coy. I’ve seen the way you look at him. And the way he looks at you like he’s mentally undressing your entire genetic code.”

She taps the flat of her sword against her chin thoughtfully. “Does he bite? Does he growl? Does he chant eldritch poetry into your clavicle while unbuttoning his shirt at the speed of sin?”

Your sword drops to your side like it’s given up. “This is harassment.”

“Just blink twice if he’s got demon stamina. I need to know. For science. For the archives. For my sanity. Is he proportionate?! I need answers. That man looks like a walking Greek tragedy with bonus abs. Don’t be selfish.”

“I will walk into traffic.”

She winks. “Fine, fine. Just answer me this: on a scale of ‘gentle caress’ to ‘I blacked out and woke up fluent in ancient languages,’ how was it?”

The rapid-fire questions cause you to misstep for the first time all match. In your hesitation, Nina strikes. As her blade finds your chest, the sky forgets how to stand still. Blinding pain splits you open. Your spine arches, breath trapped, as if an unseen hand grips all your tendons and yanks. It isn’t the sting of blunted steel. It’s something buried that’s clawing its way back up. Your knees buckle, and you fall as you clutch at your chest, gasping.

The training room wavers, reality’s couplings soften, and its edges liquefy. Nina’s voice fades as the present slips from your grasp.

Time has unspooled without mercy, a slow bleed of years dissolving into one another. How much, you cannot say. You’ve spent centuries, perhaps eons, adrift in a sea of hollow hours, where even the echoes have forgotten their names.

Philos lies like a gaping, rotting wound. It has become a dream bled dry by your two hands. The cities sleep in shattered reverence, their proud spires bowed like penitent saints, draped in vines like mourning veils. The wind stirs the bones of a planet, carrying with it the scent of forgotten history.

You do not grieve. Grief is a ritual for the innocent, and you buried yours beneath the first body. What remains is a memory scorched clean of mercy. Philos is gone, its name smeared in the language of ruin. And you? You were the last one to speak it.

Now, only the animals haunt these broken places—creatures with moon-glass eyes and no memory of fire. They do not flinch from you.

Perhaps they mistake you for a ghost. Perhaps you are.

You lie in the black cathedral, altar to your tragedy, where he lingers as a god-shaped absence carved into every stone. In the breathless hush of that forsaken sanctuary, days bleed into weeks, as still and silent as the tombs beneath. You sleep through the turning of leaves, the thawing of frost, the birth and death of bloom like a ghost in a house that once knew love.

Seasons vanish while you chase echoes of his voice through your mind. He calls your name in dreams, a shadow stitched into your skin, never close enough to touch but never far enough to forget.

Stillness becomes you. Patience becomes penance. But death, cruel thing, forgets your name. You do not hunger. You do not thirst. The body that carries you is no more than a monument of nerves and bone.

You have tried—oh, how you’ve tried—to tear yourself from time’s grip. You’ve thrown your body to the mercy of stone and sky, cast yourself from peaks where gods once breathed thunder. You feel the flesh give way, bones fracture, and sinew undone, but when you wake, the wound is gone. Your body is pristine once more, as though the earth rewrote you in secret.

The mountains turned you blue with cold, but not gone. The deserts blistered your skin, but not your soul. Even the oceans held you like a lover and let you go. You have wept in every language of loss, begged for mercy in the form of oblivion.

The answer is always no.

Death has abandoned you. Your body is a prisoner to its own pulse. So you wait, and wait, caught in a cruel purgatory like a breath held forever.

Whatever once animated this shell—joy, terror, ache—has turned to decay. Your eyelids are drawn like curtains over a stage long abandoned, the actors gone, the lights cold, the audience dust. Not even sorrow lingers.

Only the void remains, watching itself.

Sometimes, in the stillness of those long, endless nights, there is a warm breeze where there should be none that carries his voice. It is a dream only in the way thunder is a whisper. This is the elegy of fate, a collision sewn into the fabric of the cosmos, reaching through time like roots seeking the grave they once bloomed from.

You are a fallen sigil folded in a crescent of grief. Wings rest slack, tail wrapped around you like the memory of warmth you no longer care to seek.

Time slips its noose again. How long has it been? It does not matter anymore. The ground is patient, the air reverent, as if all of nature is holding vigil. You think perhaps the world itself waits in mourning for you to dissolve into the earth and become another forgotten god beneath the dust.

The organ waits in silence, its keys untouched, a graveyard of chords once alive beneath your hands. You stare, hollow-eyed, remembering when your voice could wake the sky.

Those days are gone. Now, your voice has wandered so far from you, it feels as foreign as the name you no longer answer to. The song you once sang for him remains unfinished, like the life you never lived, the love that never reached its final note.

You breathe in the ruinous cold, and at last your voice breaks the silence. The final verse of the Requiem slips from your lips, like a wound that sings as it splits.

“The ashes fall, the stars grow cold,

Beneath the wings of fire’s hold.

By shadows bound, by light betrayed,

A lover’s soul, by sorrow swayed.”

As the final verse dissolves, so does the illusion—of joy, of survival, of self. What’s left behind is not a life, but the outline of one. Your hands find the place where your heart remembers him, before time made a mausoleum of it.

All around you, the quiet tightens, heavy as earth on a coffin lid. There is only one act left to perform, a final plea cast into the void. You’ve tried to unmake yourself through the very thread that once made you whole, but like the earth, it has rejected you.

Your hands do not move, but your soul reaches into the chamber where your strength lies tangled with his. It is a strange communion, fractured but alive, like stars buried beneath the ocean.

As if pulled from the depths, the power explodes in a radiant fury—a swirling dance of dark and light. The sword, a living extension of that ancient, tangled power, slices through flesh and bone with a finality that shatters the stillness.

The pain is immediate, a ferocious torrent of fire and ice crashing through your veins. Your soul unravels, like petals torn from a wilted flower, drifting away, scattered by an unseen breath.

The earth trembles with a dragon’s cry in the distance. It is not just grief; it is a soul stretched to breaking, a heart shattered across lifetimes. The ground beneath you shivers as if the planet mourns his loss, echoing his grief with every tremor.

“I will find you, Sy.”

For the first time in eons, the corners of your lips tremble upward. This is the last gift you will ever give yourself. The world becomes a smear, and you are adrift in the void.

As the darkness claims you, you know—at last—the weight of peace settling where sorrow once ruled.

You blink as the world lurches back into place around you, but it lands crooked.

“Anira?” Nina’s voice cuts through the ringing in your ears.

You cough, the motion wringing pain from deep inside your chest, and press a trembling hand to where the blade struck. “I’m fine, Nina. Just a little… winded.”

She looks at you like she sees the fracture lines beneath your skin. You rise on unsteady feet, every breath a serrated knife being twisted behind your sternum, and still, you swallow it.

The air tastes of memory burnt along its edges, and you try to breathe it away, excusing yourself with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

Nina surveys you for a beat too long, brows knit, her sword hanging loose in her hand. “Yeah… go cool off. You look like you saw a ghost or something.”

You make it to the showers on muscle memory alone, barely registering the weight of the door as it closes behind you. The silence bends around you, leaving nothing but the sound of your own undoing.

Your fingers fumble at your clothes, clumsy with tremor and dread. Beneath your ribs, the ache drones in a mournful thrum. No mark mars the skin, yet the agony suspends there, as if every breath brushes a razor-edge buried lifetimes ago.

Stepping beneath the scalding stream, you let it sear across your skin like atonement. The reverberation of eons spent alone hums through you like a forgotten dirge. Pressing your palm against the wall, you try to swallow the scream balling in your throat.

Still, the anguish persists.

Your fist snaps forward in an abrupt, helpless motion. The tile cracks beneath your knuckles with a brittle shatter, hairline fractures spidering out like timelines split open. The impact hews skin from bone, crimson threading down your wrist like unwelcome truth.

The copper bite of blood floods your mouth before you realize the pressure of your teeth clasped down on your lip. You sought death out, chasing its elusive shadow across every crumbling horizon. You wandered the edges of the world, where life twisted and bent but never broke. You can still feel it, the absence of finality, the hollow space that never filled, no matter how deep you dug.

Tears spill from your eyes before you can summon the strength to deny them. Between the rivulets of scalding water, they are indistinguishable to anyone but yourself. You grind your teeth, jaw locked so tightly it aches, trying to convince yourself it’s only the steam peeling at your edges.

Until a ragged sob cleaves through you and your knees buckle. You crumple against the wall, sliding down until your descent is halted by the floor. Your knees tuck tight to your chest, your body folding inwards—not neatly or gracefully, but like broken wings curling instinctively around a heart that has long since split its sutures.

It feels as though your essence continues to carry the memory of every eon spent wandering through silence, hands outstretched for a home that never came.

You bury your face in the fragile sanctuary of your arms and let the dam break. First, a tremor. Then a quake. The sobs tear free in shuddering waves, the kind of weeping that does not belong to this life but to all the lives before it.

A mourning that tastes of lost centuries, of empty skies, of goodbyes you have never spoken and still carry like splinters beneath your skin.

The water pelts you in endless, numbing sheets, sliding over your trembling frame as you remain curled at the bottom of the stall. You can’t bring yourself to move. You barely register the way your skin has gone pale and pruned, the way your body quivers with a cold that feels more rooted in your marrow than on your flesh.

Somewhere, distantly, you’re aware of Nina hammering on the door, but the sound feels like it’s filtering through a heavy sea. You’re floating deeper, deeper, deeper, the call of the world above losing all meaning.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re not sure you’re still stitched properly into your body. Actually, you’re not sure of anything at all.

The next thing you’re aware of is a voice lacing into the static.

“Anira?”

For a breath, you think it’s just another echo conjured by your unlacing mind until the shower curtain shifts aside. Sylus stands there, broad-shouldered and furious with worry, the bathroom light shearing across his vivid red eyes.

He takes one look at you and swears under his breath. The water is off in the next second, Sylus reaching past you with swift, decisive movements. Silence falls except for the ragged sounds of your breathing.

Sylus drops into a crouch, voice still taut with urgency but touched now with the bruised hush of someone afraid to break you further. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You reach for motion, but your body curls tighter, cradling a sorrow it cannot bear to set down. He must sense it because he shifts closer, patience wreathed into every line of him. One hand braces lightly against the back of your head, shielding you from the worst of the cold tile. The other hovers briefly, then rests warm and solid against your shoulder.

His touch is an anchor. Painfully, you drag yourself back down into the shivering, aching vessel of your body. The tremble in your limbs intensifies, but you manage to uncurl the smallest amount. A fractured sob tears out as you finally lurch forward, scrambling for him.

He catches you instantly, pulling you into his chest, and his arms lock around you. With a sweep of his hand, his Evol flares to life, and tendrils of black and crimson energy slither. A towel floats over, summoned from across the room, and he wraps it around you with surprising gentleness. He rubs careful circles along your back and arms, trying to entice warmth back into you.

You burrow closer without thinking, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt, your body seeking out the steady beat of him.

He doesn’t ask you to explain. He doesn’t demand anything at all. He just stays there, burning like a lighthouse through the wreckage.

It takes time for you to come back enough to register anything beyond the rise and fall of Sylus’s chest against your cheek.

You feel him shift, hear the low murmur of his voice cutting through the fog, but it’s not meant for you. You pry your eyes open just enough to catch the blurred outline of Nina, hovering anxiously at the threshold of the bathroom. She nods rapidly and vanishes down the hall.

You remain slumped against him, your legs unsteady when he finally coaxes you upright. His Evol flares again, wisps moving like extensions of his will, plucking your discarded clothes from the floor.

Sylus helps you dress with methodical, careful movements. He steadies you with a hand splayed across your spine, grounding you each time you threaten to slip back into the undertow.

Nina returns with your things clutched to her chest. Her eyes are wide and worried, but she doesn’t comment while passing them over to Sylus. He thanks her with a clipped nod and threads his fingers through yours. You follow where he leads, your body moving on instinct, your mind somewhere half-lost between then and now.

The halls are mercifully empty. Somewhere in the haze, you’re aware of Sylus pressing a kiss to the back of your hand before tugging you faster toward the exit. The air outside is cool, the sky caught between late afternoon and the first yawning stretch of evening. He helps you into the passenger seat of his car, turning on the seat warmer and buckling you in.

Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he drapes it over you before cranking the heat full blast. You sink into the seat, shivering under the cocoon of his coat.

The door clicks shut, and with a ripple of scarlet mist, Sylus materializes behind the wheel, urgency woven into every sharp movement as he merges into the city’s restless flow.

For all the hours you’ve drifted in his orbit, you’ve never once seen him hurry—not when bullets cut the air, not when Wanderers tore the ground apart. Seeing it now is like glimpsing a ripple in a reflection that was supposed to be still.

Your voice breaks the quiet, barely tethered to the present. “…Why were you there?”

He spares a glance at you, his mouth flattening into a line. “Nina called me from your phone and said something was wrong. I was in the car before she even finished the sentence.”

You blink slowly. “I’m sorry…” you whisper, guilt bubbling faintly at the edges of your numbness. “It’s barely dusk. You—you should be sleeping.”

At that, Sylus makes an incredulous noise in the back of his throat. “Anira. If you think I give a shit about sleep when you’re hurting, you don’t know me at all,” he scolds with tender reproach.

Your lip wobbles at the sincerity braided into his timbre. You are breaking along fault lines time buried. Without meaning to, words start tumbling from your mouth in broken fragments, hitched between sobs you can’t fully smother.

“I was alone…” you whisper. “For so long. Eons. I—” Each breath shivers loose from your chest, as if the grief is a beast made of storm and teeth, clawing its way up your throat. “I couldn’t… couldn’t bear it anymore. I killed myself.”

Sylus reaches over, gently tightening his fingers around your uninjured hand, a barely there tremble in the strength of his grip.

“There was a church… in the ruin of Philos.” The name slips out so naturally you don’t even realize the significance, or the way Sylus stiffens. “I waited for something that never came. I kept waiting. And waiting…”

A fresh wave of sobs wells up, but you fight to speak through them. Sylus drives faster, weaving through the lattice of the city like he’s racing against something neither of you can see.

The rest of the drive blurs. You must fall asleep at some point or drift close enough that you don’t remember the arrival, because the next thing you know, Sylus is gathering you up into his arms.

You fold against him, body pliant with exhaustion. He carries you into the penthouse, the distant sound of the elevator, the soft chime of the doors.

Somewhere nearby, you hear Luke’s concerned voice, but Sylus is already talking. “Get the chef. Tell him to make some tea.”

He brings you to the bedroom. You blink, disoriented, as he helps you shed your clothes and change into a thick sweater, loose pants, and socks that are too big.

Stillness betrays you; a shudder coils through your frame, spun from the silence where you begged the stars to remember you, and they did not.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing, and the words fall out of you before you can catch them. “I killed them all.”

His eyes sharpen as he crouches in front of you, hands braced lightly on your knees. “Who?”

A bright, blood-edged fury coils through your veins. “Everyone,” you snarl. “I killed everyone. They took something from me, and I made them pay in blood.”

The shadows in Sylus’s expression deepen. He helps you gently to your feet and leads you to the living room. You sink into the couch, a pile of blankets already waiting.

Luke appears from the kitchen with a steaming mug of tea and hands it to you. The ceramic is warm against your fingers, grounding you just enough to breathe without sobbing.

Sylus rises and murmurs something to Kieran, voice pitched too low for you to fully catch. You watch him as he talks—tall, composed, dangerous, and tender all at once.

You remember the words you said right before you shattered whatever life you’d once clung to.

I’ll find you, Sy.

Your breath catches in your throat. You stare at Sylus’s back, at the familiar cut of his shoulders, the way he stands like he’s spent lifetimes carrying things too heavy to name.

Testing, you murmur, “Sy?”

Sylus turns immediately. Not sharply. Not confused. Just… immediately, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He meets your eyes with that same grave calm he always wears. For a breathless second, he even starts to answer as if nothing is strange about it at all. Then you see it. The subtle catch in his breath. The way his hand flexes where it rests against the back of the couch.

“…Why did you call me that?” He asks, and you can hear the forced neutrality in his tone.

You don’t blink or look away. “Why did you answer to it?”

The weight of the moment sinks between you. You curl tighter around the cup, as if it might shield you from the inevitable.

Somewhere inside, something fragile and half-forgotten stirs.

The way he looked at you that first night. The way he always leaned closer when you were hurting. You think about the dream, about the planet you should not know, and the dragon you promised to find.

You were sure then that even if the stars burned out, even if the worlds turned to dust, you would find your way back to him.

Maybe you already have.

Chapter Masterlist 

A03 [Cross-posted] 

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home, @redseablooming, @morrigan87, @babyx91

Take care everyone and enjoy! ☺️

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! -17

Character : Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: It's just a business marriage. Bucky thought it would be easy until he encountered the stepsister of his fiancée. She turned his world upside down.

Warning: Tragedy, Angst, Manipulation, Intimidation

A/N: I know we hate Victoria, but this is the saddest chapter I have ever written. I can't stop typing the angst. 😭

The Malicious Daughter Is Back! Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || Support : Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Everything changed so quickly. One moment, Jonathan, Genevieve, and Victoria were standing on a cloud, looking down at the people beneath them. Now, they were falling from the sky, landing in the quicksand, ready to trap their feet.

The bankruptcy of Celestial Enterprises happened too fast. Investors and shareholders pulled their money from the company, causing a rapid downfall.

To save the company, many assets were sold, including the house they used as their primary residence. The house built by Ophelia—the one thing you thought would be impossible to get—was now yours. Bucky delivered the great news and handed you the house key.

Without hesitation, you drove to your childhood home. Though you only lived there for a while, it held precious memories of you and your mother.

Standing at the white door, you inserted the key and turned it. The moment you walked in, the emptiness hit you. Looking around the house, you realize there was no trace of your life with Ophelia back then.

Genevieve had obviously changed the house's decoration. You walked around the first and second floors and then to your room. It was apparent your step-mom hated you. The bedroom, once your sanctuary where you could be alone without seeing Genevieve and Victoria’s faces, was now a storage place.

“I hope you're happy now. You have ruined our lives,” Victoria suddenly made her entrance.

You smirked. “Fucking deserved it. You people did it first to me.”

Victoria was taken aback. “You don't even care about your own dad?”

“Care? That man didn't deserve pity from me the moment he married his mistress. He fucking killed my mother,” you retorted.

That was the last straw. Victoria hated it when you called Genevieve a mistress. “I will not let you do this to me!” she yelled, pointing her finger at you.

You saw her frantic, paranoid, and utterly different from the elegant persona she usually maintained. You chuckled, “It must be difficult for you seeing me win.”

“Fuck you,” Victoria spat as she slapped you hard across the face.

You responded by grabbing her hair, yanking it fiercely. “You bitch.”

The two of you erupted into a full-blown fight. Nails scratched at each other's skin, wishing they were sharp like knives. Hair was pulled, kicks were exchanged, and all the pent-up resentment and hatred came pouring out in a chaotic clash.

It was clear from the beginning who would win. You quickly overpowered her. Without any desire to prolong the fight, you landed a solid punch to her stomach, causing her to crumple to the ground.

“Urgh. Fuck you,” Victoria growled, clutching her stomach in pain.

You huffed, sitting down on the floor. Victoria refused to look at you, unable to accept that she had lost.

Both of you sat there, catching your breath. A moment of silence between siblings who had nearly torn each other apart.

“I always hated you,” Victoria said suddenly, covering her eyes with her arm.

“The feeling’s mutual,” you replied, hissing as you touched the fresh scratches on your skin.

“I hate that I always did my best but was still compared to you,” she admitted. “The sin of the daughter from the mistress.”

You stood still, your expression unreadable, but a storm of emotions brewed inside. You crossed your arms, a subconscious gesture to shield yourself from the raw pain in her words.

“Even though I was the smartest at school, it was never enough to satisfy my mother,” Victoria continued, her voice trembling.

Growing up, she always knew she had to be better than you. That's what Genevieve has told her. She wants to make her mother proud of her. And the recognition from Jonathan.

“What made it worse was that you didn’t even try to compete, but all eyes were always on you. They always saw me as the mole in your life,” Victoria said, her voice breaking.

When she left her old school and entered the new one where you studied, she was greeted by judging eyes. The status of being a ‘mistress’s daughter’ haunted her. Everyone saw her as the villain compared to you, the victim.

In truth, you and Victoria were both victims of the adultery. Both of you were innocent.

“As a child, you listened to your mom. But growing up, you could’ve made your own choices,” you said quietly.

“You could’ve realized what you did to me was wrong. But you didn’t stop,” you added.

“And then we’d become good step-siblings?” Victoria scoffed.

You sighed, a hint of sadness in your eyes. “As a teacher, I’ve met stepmothers and stepfathers who worried about a kid not related by blood but saw them as their own. And step-siblings who worked multiple jobs because they wanted their younger siblings to get the best education.”

Victoria stayed quiet, her face a mix of anger and regret.

“Yes. We could’ve,” you said softly.

Another silence fell, but it was broken as Victoria slowly stood up without saying anything. Before she left, you told her, “You could’ve made your own choice. Remember that.”

She didn't reply or look at you. She kept walking until she arrived at the entrance door. Her hand hung in the air before she pulled the handle.

Victoria turned and looked around the grand entrance. She remembered the first time she set foot in this house, feeling like a beggar turned into a princess.

It wasn't a prince who found her glass slipper, but her dad, picking her up in his expensive car and making her a princess.

She thought her life would have a happy ending. But no. It turned out she was the evil step-sister, and her mother was the evil step-mom. Just like the characters in Cinderella.

If only she had never hated you, if only she had never listened to Genevieve’s words. Could you and she have become real sisters who talked to each other, laughed, cried, and went shopping together?

Tears welled up in her eyes. Victoria scoffed, “Idiot,” she whispered to herself.

She looked at the family portrait of Jonathan, Genevieve, and herself. The three of them looked like a perfect family, but it was just an empty smile. Her own father was pushing her into a marriage with a man known for his violence.

Her mother, who she always counted on, couldn't object. She would rather send her daughter to marry a psycho to save face.

Her parents didn't fight for her at all, unlike you, who objected to Jonathan and Genevieve’s wedding. You caused chaos that made Jonathan send you away so you wouldn't ruin his second wedding. But then Cassandra appeared and humiliated the couple.

She had always been jealous of you for not giving up. Everyone, including herself, laughed when you vowed to take down the company.

But who had the last laugh now? It was you. You won. You got what was supposed to be yours.

Looking back, her life was much simpler and happier when they still lived in an apartment.

She removed her heels, climbed on the antique table, raised her hand, and tore down the family portrait. With her heels, she ripped the picture apart.

The perfect family was gone. No more.

After being satisfied with her work, she felt the chains were broken.

Victoria put on her shoes and left the house. After that day, nobody knew where she went. Even Genevieve couldn't contact her.

Without the bride, the wedding wouldn't happen. That meant the only lifeline to save Celestial Enterprises was gone.

It was official. The white flag was raised, and the company was finally sold. The buyer was Patrick.

All of this could have happened because Victoria left. Sometimes, you wondered where she could have gone. Each time you looked out the window or at the sky, you whispered, “Good luck...sister.”

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Author Note: Hey friends,

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[the-kr8tor]

Katy…. For the 1 year anniversary

Garlic cloves and 💧

Vampire hobie and some angst

Vampire hobie and a human where other vampires find out hes in love with a human (maybe they cause him to purposely goes mad, to where he will attack and be the cause for rs death. Possibly?)

Then when he snaps out of it, he realize what hes done. To the person he fell in love with (can totally see him trying to make R into a vampire while sobbing choking out apologies while trying to get them back) 😭

I dont know i thought youd like this possibly, you have full control over the ending or how anything goes or could go. Some of its just a small ideas to give your brain maybe to help give you ideas for how you want to go. But i know you love angst and you are amazing at it

First thing i requested for your Apothecary. Do whatever you want with this idea. Just knew itd give a lot of angst potential for our favorite punk

Hehehhehe vampire! Hobie angst 👀 thank you for requesting, bestie!!

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except her clothing), TW death, CW blood and gore, CW violence, vampire AU, Angst.

Katy's one year celebration 🎉

Blood coats his tongue like a thin film of gore and death. It sticks to his fangs, red dripping off his unhinged maw where his fellow immortals’ crimson flows out like your own blood spilling from the numerous bites marring your precious skin. Skin he used to hold and love, skin that is now littered with specks of rubies as if a constellation of stars has touched you in your dying breath.

He heaves in place, adrenaline coursing through his veins like the raging rapids. Sharp claws still red and dripping, rage filled eyes roaming around the violence he did not start but had to finish.

Hobie never thought that he'd be betrayed by his immortal kind that he has spent centuries with. Vampires they used to call friends, even family. He never thought that being called upon by a trusted friend would result in you lying in your own pool of blood in the same house he left you, in the same dress he last saw you in, in the same floors he danced on with you holding on to him as he glides you around the home he once built for you.

Home, it doesn't look like it now. The oak walls that you've painstakingly painted that resemble tree branches stretching across the abode like a warm embrace are now coated in every shade of red. Numerous portraits of your life with him now lay scattered by his feet, glass crunching under his footsteps like dry autumn leaves. The pretty candles that you always light on the same hour every night are nothing but wax melted upon the ashen skin of fellow vampires. His hands are coated in the same ashes, grey amidst dark red, dark red among his skin, skin that he thought he has washed away from a millennia of sin— skin that he thought was worthy of your sacred touch.

As he walks closer to your limp body, his eyes bore into the river of red left in your wake. His expression is akin to an empty, apocalyptic look— dangerous, yet, a tragedy lies underneath his wine red eyes. He's starting to hate his eyes now that you lay in a pool of the same colour. You used to tell him that his eyes were like the purest of crimson, similar to a stirling ruby no king or emperor could ever possess. With your words he vowed to keep you close to him until your skin has etched into his own, until his own ribs rip apart to embrace you and take you into his very being. Now that he gingerly holds you close to his chest, he should've done that to protect you better, now it's too late as you gasp, fending off death itself from taking your soul before you could say goodbye.

Your eyes no longer show the light he once admired, light akin to the sun that would burn and turn him into ash— but he could not stop looking at them, even if it could possibly be his demise, because it'll be worth it to feel the righteous sun kiss his skin once again.

“‘m sorry,” Hobie cried as his tears from his own blood dripped down across your cold cheeks. “I can still fix this.” With a shaky inhale, he feels mortal when your freezing hand taps his long dead heart. You don't speak nor blink at him. He wishes you could but with your life seeping out of you, it's impossible for you to do so. He feels it, how your life is being drained from the numerous bites along your body. He also wishes he doesn't feel you slip away. “Please, l–let me bring you back.”

With your last strength, you curl your lips to a soft, weak smile. Hand weakly gripping his shirt, mouth mouthing the words— “not your fault.”

Hobie chokes on a sob, shaking his head, he cannot, will not let you go. You're the only person who truly knows him, the only person who has seen the real him that he hasn't shown to anyone since he was turned. He loves you, and he'll continue to love you until his dying breath, whenever that may be. Ten years from now, twenty, a hundred— he'd love you until he steps out of the shadows and back into the light of the sun that reminds him of your eyes.

He feels your heart slow down, the blood rushing out of your veins are like drums in his ears. Opening his jaw, fangs in full show, you let out your very last mortal breath.

But he's too late, you have no blood left, drained until the last drop. No spark of life left to be brought back to earth with. Without a flicker of light, there's no embers to set fire to. Yet, he still tries in despair. Teeth sinking into you, a hungry bear to a corpse of a rabbit, he bites and sips into nothingness. Not even a glimmer, a hope lighting a fire in you brought by the kiss of death— nothing, absolutely nothing can bring you back to life. He cries, sobs wracking his body, a hurricane of emotions flooding through him that he has never felt in his immortal life until now.

Calling your name, he cradles your cold body, hand behind your head, lips upon your neck. He doesn't bite this time, he knows better. But if it does work, will you hate him for it?

The door creaks open, a familiar face he just saw a few hours ago enters the sheer violence Hobie left in his vengeance. His face contorts into sorrow but it quickly turns contorts to disappointment.

“You should've listened.” He utters, mouth dripping with venomous words. “Was she worth it? Breaking our law?”

Hobie slowly glances at the man without leaving your side. His once pure ruby eyes have turned into a flurry of bright red fury. “She was.” His claws dig into your lifeless body, lips shaking from sheer anger.

“I still cannot understand you.” He scoffs, “and you even tried to turn her. You're a fucking disgrace.”

Hobie slowly brings you back down, carefully laying you and closing your lifeless eyes. He looks at the man, someone he used to call a friend, someone he once trusted. Vampire blood and ash coats his very being, staining his soul, but they don't compare to your blood on his hands.

“Then I'll make you understand.” With a pounce, Hobie will drench his hands in more ichor until it's enough for him.

[st4rgiirll]

no one wants to talk to lance

— an awkward episode where netflix tries to focus on an underperforming driver. they follow him around the paddock—except no one will interview, partner, or even sit next to him. it’s comedy and tragedy at once.

this is a little angsty but it gets better!!

all credits are in my masterlist!! <33

the netflix production team huddled around their monitors in the aston martin garage, watching lance stroll methodically adjust his racing gloves for the seventh time in three minutes. they'd been filming for three hours and had captured approximately nothing except various shots of people suddenly remembering urgent appointments elsewhere.

"maybe we can make this work," sarah, the lead producer, whispered into her headset. "you know, like a nature documentary. 'here we observe the stroll in his natural habitat...'"

lance looked up hopefully as fernando alonso entered the garage. his teammate had to talk to him, right?

"fernando! i was thinking about your feedback on my racing li—"

"lo siento," fernando cut in smoothly, already backing away. "i have to... how you say... practice my signature smile in the mirror. el plan requires perfect teeth." he vanished with the speed and grace of a man who'd spent decades perfecting the art of tactical retreats.

the netflix cameras zoomed in on lance's face, catching what the crew had started calling "the billionaire's son blues" – a unique mixture of confusion, hurt, and the dawning realization that maybe money couldn't buy everything.

in the paddock cafeteria, lance approached the drivers' table with his lunch tray. max verstappen suddenly developed an intense interest in his water bottle label. lewis hamilton received an apparently urgent call from his dog. charles leclerc began speaking in such rapid monégasque that he started hiccupping.

"i brought some canadian maple syrup," lance offered hopefully, holding up a bottle that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.

the entire table evacuated so quickly it left tire marks on the floor.

"this is actually fascinating," pete the cameraman whispered. "it's like watching wealth become a forcefield of awkwardness."

back in the garage, lawrence stroll's voice boomed through the team radio: "why isn't anyone talking to my son? don't they know who owns this team?"

three mechanics immediately dove behind a stack of tires. a fourth pretended to be a mannequin displaying racing suits.

the media pen proved even more challenging. journalists who normally fought like piranha over driver quotes suddenly became deeply absorbed in their shoelaces. one reporter began interviewing his own reflection in a window rather than approach lance.

"i've been working really hard on my qualifying pace," lance said to the empty space where journalists should have been. "and dad only bought me three new simulators this week..."

sebastian vettel, who had stopped by as an environmental consultant, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of pity and amusement. he approached lance, because seb was fundamentally unable to ignore suffering, even if it came wrapped in privilege and designer racing suits.

"lance, sometimes in life—" seb began, before being tragically interrupted by a mysterious smoke bomb that appeared from nowhere. when the air cleared, only seb's "save the bees" cap remained.

the netflix crew followed lance to a strategy meeting, where the entire engineering team had apparently decided to communicate exclusively through interpretive dance rather than speak directly to him.

"i think i'm really connecting with the team," lance said optimistically to the camera, as behind him an engineer moonwalked away with impressive speed.

in the paddock, things reached new levels of absurd. daniel ricciardo, passing by, tried to maintain his trademark smile while actively contorting his body to avoid being in the same shot as lance. he ended up looking like a honey badger attempting yoga.

"we could focus on his journey," sarah suggested desperately to her team. "you know, the challenges of being a... um..."

"rich kid whose dad bought him a whole f1 team?" offered jimmy the sound guy, who was immediately sent to cover the tire warmers instead.

lando norris and oscar piastri speed-walked past, engaged in what appeared to be an intense conversation about invisible butterflies. lance tried to join in.

"hey guys, i saw some butterflies at my private ranch in switzerland—"

lando and oscar achieved speeds that would have impressed adrian newey.

by late afternoon, the situation had become almost surreal. lance had managed to clear entire sections of the paddock just by walking toward them. even the catering staff had developed an elaborate warning system involving coded messages about pasta varieties to alert others of his approach.

"i think people are starting to see the real me," lance said to the camera, standing alone in what had been, moments earlier, a packed briefing room.

toto wolff walked past, saw lance, and immediately pretended to receive a call about porpoising regulations in his non-existent second phone.

"at least the cameras like me," lance added hopefully.

the netflix crew exchanged glances. they had enough footage for either the world's first silent f1 documentary or a masterclass in social avoidance techniques.

as the sun set over the track, lance made one final attempt at human connection. he approached christian horner, who was mid-dramatic monologue about team politics.

"christian, i was wondering about your thoughts on—"

"oh look, it's time for my daily rivalry with toto," christian announced to no one in particular, speed-walking away with remarkable agility for a team principal.

the netflix producers finally called it a day. sarah looked at her watch and sighed. "well, we can always title the episode 'silver spoons and silent rooms.'"

as they packed up their equipment, they noticed lance standing by his father's empty office, still adjusting his gloves.

"you know what's weird?" he said to the camera one last time. "i think dad's going to buy netflix next week."

behind him, pierre gasly performed a perfect somersault into a nearby motorhome to avoid being in frame.

little did lance know, they were all planning a secret birthday party for lance. they wouldnt speak to the boy because some people have an unhealthy habit of blurting surprises and secrets.

[wildberryfrosting]

More appreciation for Tails having a creepy, unsettling husband that he absolutely adores

SPEAK YOUR TRUTH!!!!!! tails can have a terrifyingly possessive husband and a lowkey toxic relationship as a treat... maybe even three?

i think shadow would be the most possessive of him, to the point where he may become furious if another man even so much as pays tails attention, and that's like super delicious yummy yummy to me. absolutely in love with the idea of him having this deep seated urge to just keep him to himself. he's already jealous enough of silver and sonic and the fact that having to share tails with them, he doesn't need the competition. he IS the ultimate lifeform after all, why does tails need anyone else?

personally i've always found it more fun to play around with the idea of silver or sonic being freaks too, like those boys have experienced so much loss and tragedy in their lives and they're way too chill about it. maybe something about getting with tails finally awakens all that grief and makes them realize they don't wanna lose him and so they go to any lengths to keep him to themselves. sonic is much more touchy-feely and just loves getting and giving attention from and to tails, his little hedgie tail wagging every time their bodies are close in proximity.

silver is the kinda guy to show affection through grand gestures like gifts and presents so i can see that being a rapid decline from just bringing tails new tools every day to straight up bringing home the heads of his rivals. he's probably the worst one ngl have you seen what he's been through?

unlike shadow i feel like they'd be more inclined to work in a pair to achieve that- at least at first, when the feelings start growing stronger they'd probably turn on each other too, scrapping vicious and bloody for that boy. shadow stays out of it because he's above such nonsense but he still watches in hopes they might kill each other lol.

tails is just blissfully unaware of it all for the most part but in the scenario where he does become aware he'd probably end up being scared of them. not that he could do anything about it. if he runs, they'll catch him. if he hides, they'll find him.

he's destined just to be the cute little wife for these three bastards.

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Payneland Didn't Know They Were Dating AU Update: aka, surprise! Chapter 3!

Basically: thank all of y'all for the outpouring of love on this fic. I was very much not expecting it and my friends got to deal with me rambling in the discord chat about how excited/overwhelmed I was (very positively, of course). As a result, here's the follow-up. I couldn't resist :)

Edwin learned about the Big Bang only after he escaped Hell. It seemed an almost religious concept, that the universe had begun from a single burst of light, exploding outward at such rapid speeds that it could never be caught up to. That humanity would never, ever reach the outskirts of the universe, never be able to touch the edges, not because the Earth was at the center of the universe, but because the universe would expand on forever, past any human comprehension.

For the longest time, that was what being in love with Charles Rowland was like.

A burst of light. A divine spark. The universe comes into being, life summoned forth from the ether and never quite able to be caught up to. A constant failure to reach for the edges.

Charles Rowland’s love is as big as the fucking universe, and Edwin would never find his way to its edges. He would forever be dwarfed at the center, a remnant of a time long gone, doomed to never expand at the same rate.

But then Charles shatters all of that. He tells Edwin that he has never been a satellite. That Charles is not the universe. He's not too grand to ever love Edwin back.

(The follow-up to realizing the boy you love has loved you back all along.)

Also, lookie! I also have a playlist for this fic! (Songs are in order, for ease of listening!)

@tragedy-machine @idliketobeatree @wordsinhaled @nix-nihili @anything-thats-rock-and-roll

@tumblerislovetumblerislife @plentyghosts @dear-monday @deadb0ydetectives @sparklypurplefool

@immacaria @mostly-functional @arisprite @wikipediagreen

@catboy-cabin @frogsondeckchairs @shadowflame84 @adventures-in-mangaland

@spacegirlsgang

[pink-tonic]

Lock

Description: After a sudden death at Akademi High, the students are given a short break. Once they come back, everything seems normal, but that isn't fully the case.

The leader of the Newspaper Club and childhood friend of Ayato Aishi, (Y/N) (L/N), is trying to get to the bottom of the death and putting a stop to any future tragedies.

But with the added obstacles of admirers and strained relationships, will he be able to complete this goal before anyone else is killed?

(Ayato Aishi, Taeko Yamada, and various male rivals x male reader)

Warnings: Yandere themes (Stalking, obsessiveness, Killing, unhealthy relationships), death, sexual harassment, bullying, graphic depictions of violence, and mentions of blood

(These themes won't be present in every chapter, but I'll make sure to put a warning before the start if they do show up)

Additional Notes: To get something out the way, I DON'T support Yandere Dev at all. I find his actions to be horrible, but I just didn't have the heart to trash this story. This is my most planned story, and I just don't want to get rid of it because of someone's actions. I hope you understand.

This story has an alternating POV between (Y/N) and Ayato. Each chapter will have a newspaper or a knife emoji. The newspaper is for your POV and the knife is for Ayato's POV

Chapters

Prologue📰

Prologue🔪

The First Day📰

Day One🔪

A Week In📰

Week One🔪

Come Get Your Paper!📰

Set the Plan Into Motion🔪

The False Letter📰

Can This Be Called a Success?🔪

What to Do?📰

New Week and a New Face📰

Time to go Back🔪

It Haunts Me📰

Moving On🔪

Hostage Mission🔪

Odd📰

What's the Hold Up?🔪

A New Week and a New Treat🔪

Answer to the Problem🔪

Outcome🔪

Did You Hear?📰

A New Week and New Drama🔪

I'm Not Made for That!📰

The Plan is Happening Now?🔪

This is How You Do It🔪

Another Letter?📰

Give Him This🔪

In Love?📰

Failure🔪

A New Week, a New Oddity📰

Stalker Stalking Another Stalker🔪

Picture Perfect for Me🔪

The Feeling That Stays📰

What's Going On?📰

Do What You Have to Do🔪

It's Over🔪

Guilt📰

A New Week and a New Realization🔪

Eye-Catching📰

No Explanation🔪

Missing📰

Who Needed You Anyway?🔪

Swim to Your Heart's Content🔪

Too Much📰

Realization🔪

New Week and a New Nurse📰

A New Start?🔪

Pushing the Line🔪

Interesting...📰

Watch Your Back, Kana🔪

A Break Would be Nice📰

What to Do?🔪

Where is He...?📰

Suspicious📰

Murmurs🔪

Pick-up🔪

A New Week and a New Teacher📰

Getting a Little Too Close, Aren't We?🔪

How Could it be You?📰

The Plan is Set📰

Your Fate is in my hands🔪

The Awaited Downfall📰

A New Week, New Trouble📰

Another Plan Must be Made🔪

A Little Change Never Hurt Nobody🔪

You're Oddly Sweet📰

A Step in the Right Direction🔪

Drama Kings📰

The Night of a Dozen Delinquents🔪

Peaceful Night is Gone📰

New Week, New Student📰

Last One... Right?🔪

Four is One Too Many📰

Dirty Tricks do Get You Somewhere📰

Day Off With You📰

New Week, New Renovations📰

Rapid Research🔪

Watcher📰

Forgotten Saikou🔪

Make You Look Good📰

One Last Time🔪

M.I.A🔪

The Decision📰

We Have It📰

Is This the Right Decision?🔪

Over Before it Even Started?📰

[not-glorfindel-stop-asking]

Helloooo my lovely elf with sexy brown hair!

I see you've recovered well after the horrors that my dear friend @ghost-of-morrowbright introduced you to.

Just checking on you, that is all.

Might I offer you some jalebi?

(not me having a foodgasm simply looking at them)

Your faithful admirer,

iwanderbeacuseimlost

Ah! A most delightful greeting from a most delightful admirer!

Firstly, allow me to assure you that I have indeed recovered—barely—from the shocking revelations bestowed upon me but I assure you, @ghost-of-morrowbright was not the cause of my distress. My constitution remains fragile, but my spirit endures. (I am very brave, you see.)

Now, as for the jalebi—I must confess, I was entirely unfamiliar with such an exquisite creation until Eredin, ever the picture of boundless curiosity and enthusiasm, nearly leapt at the opportunity to educate me. Truly, I believe I have not seen such passion in his eyes since Glorfindel’s ill-fated attempt at color-coordinated robes.

With eyes brighter than Vilya’s sapphire and curls still recovering from their glorious flight during the recent jousting mishap (a tragedy we do not speak of—he claims he still hears the neighing of that victorious horse in his nightmares), Eredin declared with the utmost seriousness:

"Ah, jalebi! A treat most divine! Sweet, syrupy spirals of joy sent from the heavens themselves!"

Naturally, I was intrigued. Before I could inquire further, however, my diligent scribe proceeded to devour three pieces in rapid succession. Three. I barely blinked, and the plate was half empty. He assures me it was all in the name of 'research.' I remain skeptical.

I must confess, I watched in equal parts fascination and concern as Eredin—glowing with sugar-fueled determination—proclaimed his undying devotion to this delicacy. "I am a fan," he insisted between bites, eyes wide with the realization that the syrup had indeed bested him.

(He did survive the sugar rush. Barely. I am told his hands only stopped trembling after a lengthy nap and a strong cup of tea.)

Nonetheless, Eredin asked me to convey his sincerest gratitude. Truly, you have brought him immense joy.

Your kindness brings warmth to this cold, chaotic world. You and your jalebi have lifted our spirits.

I remain your ever-charmed elf, —Lindir Still not a twink, now intrigued by jalebi

[starlightiing]

For your prompt game: “deep breath. Let’s get your heart calmed down.” With galex pls !!

HELLO Anon, I was particularly inspired this morning. I'm going to toss this onto AO3 Later but I didn't want to make you wait. Thank you so much for sending me in a prompt!

Title: One Moment

Rating/Triggers: G - but TW for panic attacks.

Pairing: George Russell/Alex Albon

The frantic knock on his hotel room door is what wakes Alex at one in the morning. His mind is swirled up in a fog of confusion and it takes him a moment to realize just what that incessant banging from the other side of the room actually is. He rubs at his eyes to clear away the waking blur, and then tosses his sheets aside to stumble onto his feet. 

The walk from his bed to the door is anything but steady. His feet refuse to cooperate and knock him off balance a time or two, but he finally makes it over to the door with no major tragedy and hastily flips the lock so he can open it.

As soon as his eyes rest on one very distraught George Russell, clarity comes rushing to him and suddenly he’s not just been woken up at one in the morning with a distinct lack of consciousness. No - suddenly he is very awake, very aware, and very concerned.

“George? Hey, what’s wrong?” He asks, pulling the door fully open to invite George inside. It takes a moment, but George does finally get the hint and shuffles into the room. The door hits the strike with a soft ‘click’ that startles George slightly, and Alex thinks he’s never seen him look so small before. “George?”

“Sorry, I know it’s late.”

“No, no, no, it’s fine. Why don’t you come sit down?” Alex gestures to the bed with one hand, while the other finds George’s shoulder and rubs soothing circles into the fabric of his shirt. He can feel George trembling slightly beneath his touch, and something inside of his chest just seizes up. This is so unlike George - the mere thought of what could be causing him such distress makes a burst of hot anxiety release in Alex’s stomach. George, much to Alex’s surprise, follows the suggestion and makes his way slowly over to Alex’s bed. He sits down in such a delicate manner, barely disturbing the mattress at all, and immediately curls in on himself like he’s either cold or scared. Alex hurts to think it’s likely the latter.

Slowly, Alex takes a seat down next to George on the bed. His approach is less gentle, and the mattress has a few things to say about it in response. This doesn’t seem to bother George at all, who won’t even look in Alex’s general direction for longer than a second. Alex sighs and reaches over to lay his hand on George’s knee.

“You want to tell me what’s bothering you? Or do you just want me to distract you?”

“Uh,” George hums, and Alex watches his eyebrows twitch as he ponders, “maybe just a distraction for now.”

Not exactly the answer Alex is hoping for, but this isn’t about him. This is about George, and what George needs. So that is exactly what Alex will give him. “Okay. But before I turn into your personal entertainer, I want to get you to relax a little bit. Think we can do that?”

“Yeah. Yeah that’s fine.”

“Good. Start with a deep breath, let’s get your heart calmed down before anything else.” Alex is acutely aware that George is showing symptoms of panic. The only reason he knows is because he’s lived it personally, numerous times before in the past. The most important part of tackling panic is managing breathing and heart rate - the rest always seems to fall back into place once vitals are steady. Gently, he takes one of George’s hands and uncurls his fingers from the clenched fist they’ve settled into. He presses his index and middle fingers to the radial artery in George’s wrist, and he’s not at all surprised to feel just how rapid-fire his pulse is. “Maybe two or three deep breaths. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Okay, breathe in nice and deep for four seconds, follow my lead,” Alex closes his eyes and inhales deeply, listening in for George to do the same. It’s a bit choppy and he can’t last the full four seconds, but it’s a hell of a start. “Now out for four, keep following me.” George exhales a bit too harshly, getting all of his air out two seconds too early, but the first few breaths are never perfect. He’s trying, and that’s the most important thing. “Good. We’ll do it again, but try to slow down a little.”

Alex leads the deep breath again, listening in on George. He still doesn’t quite make it to four, but it’s a smoother breath and it lasts longer than the first. It’s working. He exhales, and much to his surprise, George is able to sustain the full four seconds on that one.

“Excellent, last one.” Inhale, and George breathes with him down to the second, matched perfectly. “And out. Brilliant.”

George’s heart rate has considerably calmed, much to Alex’s relief. It isn’t near a normal resting rate yet, but it isn’t skyrocketing up into numbers they should only see behind the wheel of a formula one car, at least. And, to top it off, George isn’t even trembling anymore. Overall, a shocking success.

“There we go, mate. Feeling better?” Alex asks, sliding his fingers back from George’s wrist now that he’s satisfied with the results of their breathing session. 

“Yeah, actually. Still a bit frazzled, but I can think clearly now.” George’s voice sounds more confident as he replies, too. Confident and strong, like it hadn’t been meek and trembling mere minutes ago. There’s color back on his face and his eyes are clear and focused. Alex can sigh in relief now, George is safe.

“Good. Still up for a distraction, then?”

“Only if you have one up your sleeve.”

Alex smirks then, exuding all of the mischievous energy he’s certain George is used to from him. It ignites a smile on George’s face as well, amused and highly accusatory. “I have an idea, yeah.”

“Yeah, your smirk says it all. Dare I ask?”

Alex takes this moment to catch George off guard, leaning forward and bumping their noses together with an affectionate nuzzle. His hands come up to cradle George’s cheeks with the utmost delicacy, and then he bites the bullet and he kisses him. 

It’s soft, it’s gentle, and it lingers for only a few seconds at the most. It’s enough to cause George’s eyelids to flutter shut and provoke the tiniest of whimpers from the back of his throat, which in turn sends shivers up Alex’s arms and down his back, leaving goosebumps in their wake. It’s funny, really, how kissing George for the hundredth time elicits the same response from Alex’s body that it gave the very first time. He pulls back slowly from the kiss, already smiling as George opens his eyes back up, and oh, he’s absolutely smug.

“Thought the goal was to keep my heart rate down, Alex?” comes the very predictable accusation from George, which makes Alex chuckle heartily.

“Hey, a distraction is a distraction. If this isn’t to your standard, I’m sure I can find other more boring ways to distract your mind.”

“No, no,” George insists, hooking his index finger into the hem of Alex’s collar and tugging them closer together. “This’ll do just fine.”

They’ll talk in the morning, Alex thinks, because he can’t simply let George’s panic go like it never existed in the first place.

But now? Now is for them, and for them only, and Alex is more than happy to take care of George in the best ways he knows how.

[architectpoet]

Rook!Pharosh 💀🐦‍⬛ Lore

(Long-form, detailed explanation, an altered version of his original canon to fit into the dragon age/veilguard setting):

Originally from Minrathous, Pharosh has lived a well traveled life due to a series of familial tragedies/events. At 18, he’d been living his life doing less than noble jobs but still helping those in need. He had a complicated “reputation” if he even had one, and people were weary when he met a young elf mage named Godwin.

The pair grow close, Godwin having to meet in secret given his family have been enslaved by an old Venatori family for generations, and his father would be furious. Godwin had grown feelings for Pharosh in the year they’d gotten to know each other, but they weren’t entirely reciprocated. If given more time, maybe, but time wasn’t on their side.

The duo get found out, and taken by Venatori. Godwins family conduct blood magic rituals to heighten their abilities to better serve their Magister, they are brutal and gruesome. Godwin supposedly was making an improvised plan to get them to escape, but Pharosh makes his own escape attempt and gets badly wounded. Taking away any chance they had at escape. Godwin, terrified and believing there’s no other way, chooses to take the lead in the ritual. Betraying and killing Pharosh. In the aftermath, Godwin takes Pharosh’s body to a secret location, taking with him a book that includes an ancient blood magic ritual that had been long forgotten.

The rituals purpose is to puppeteer a spirit or incorporeal being into a physical body, the host acting as an anchor to give them life. Commonly used for manipulation, spycraft, or political plays by the corrupt. In Godwins case, he is using this spell as a way to keep Pharosh alive and to gradually restore his body. The spell is altered, using a mixture of others to start the restoration process, but permanently binding them together. In the original spell, in order to break control the host must be killed. In this case, if Pharosh is to fully be restored, the same must happen.

Godwin realizes he’s being chased by Venatori soon after the ritual, forced to abandon Pharosh to wake up in his broken and painful state. Pharosh awakes in the Necropolis, wandering around until he’s discovered by the Watchers, who take him in. From there he stays in recovery and studies with the Mourn Watch as a way to find closure over his own circumstances, learning to harness the necrotic abilities that expel directly from his body. So while most mages would have to cast the necrotic spell Pharosh can just do it, but it has to be in short intervals.

Given the liminal state of his body, any prolonged or extreme use of his necrotic ability will cause rapid decay as a consequence, anytime he does use it the visual cue is the skeleton beneath glowing green, the teeth, jaw, and fingertips being the most visible.

As a companion, Pharosh’s special ability would include him being able make parts of his body spectral, reaching into walls with hidden levers of buttons to open up new pathways or complete puzzles.

Pharosh doesn’t necessarily have a set faction, but he primarily works with the Mourn Watch and Shadow Dragons. He mostly does work outside of the Necropolis, assisting wherever he can you can usually find him protecting others against armies of undead or hauntings.

In the time between his ressurection and the present, Pharosh found and took in a young human girl named Frankie. Taking on the responsibility of caring for her after being left behind by her family and village due to a supposed “curse”. He never expected to be a parent but takes the job in stride, figuring out ways to travel safely now that he wasn’t alone. By the time of the game, Pharosh’s work had become more dangerous, forcing him to send his daughter to stay with his sister, a Grey Warden, to better protect her.

The Main Theme:

Pharosh, rather than choosing to dedicate his life to revenge against Godwin, wanted to make a life for himself that he felt was worth saving. He “stalled” and refused to confront Godwin. Even though Godwin only went through with the ritual to restore him, and is anticipating his eventual demise, Pharosh is uncomfortable with the idea of being made an executioner and decided of fate. He’d rather choose to pass on his own terms, slowly, as the necrotic energy makes him weaker/sicker. But, in his time with the team he comes to terms with his own guilt and shame, accepting that he has every right to feel anger and rage towards his situation, Pharosh lets himself get the closure, that justice.

As a companion, his two endings are either keeping Godwin locked in his tomb forever, or killing Godwin and Pharosh being fully restored and freed. (The last one is his canon)

While in most cases, allowing your companion to become set on revenge is considered a bad ending, Pharosh is the sort where that anger is controlled, and well thought out. It’s deserved.

So many words! Thanks for reading lol, wanted to have it all in one set post for anybody new coming in 🙏

[the-penguin-of-baskervilles]

Chapter 15

Summary: Lloyd takes things too far in his threat against Deputy Russell and has to change tactics mid-stream. Princess and Zach decide to push back against Detective Roth's allegations.

Word Count: 3,936

Masterlist

Warnings: Mention of drug trafficking, murder, legal proceedings, spy/intelligence agencies, corruption, stalking, violence, threatening, and discussion of criminal behavior. Minor foul language. Only appropriate for 18+ readers. No minors. 

The Princess & the Lawyer Chapter 15

Lloyd stood at the stove stirring a noxious mixture of gasoline and aluminum hydroxide. Pungent fumes hung thick in the air, forcing him to cover his mouth and nose with a bandanna. 

The screen door slammed, and familiar footsteps echoed through the hall. 

“Ugh! What is that stench? Did a gas line rupture?”

Elliot’s voice rang through the house before he came around the corner into the kitchen. 

His bright-eyed appearance was in sharp contrast with Lloyd’s sleep-deprived state. Knowing his cousin had been left in charge of their captive all night, Lloyd couldn’t help but draw the obvious conclusion. Elliot’s excessive cheerfulness was derived from a more potent source than caffeine - he was smoking ice again. 

“I followed your instructions and made a copy of Carl’s phone,” Elliot said, buzzing with excitement. “Guess what? Sheriff Holbrook’s texts are still on there, tucked away in some encrypted app. We could use it as leverage!” 

Lloyd shook his head. “No. We can’t deviate from the plan. Did Russell agree to a meeting time?”

“Eleven o'clock at High Meadows.”  

“Not a bad choice. Lots of entrances and exits,” Lloyd said. “I’m almost finished here. There’s water cooler jugs filled with this stuff piled up on the back deck. Bring your truck around and start loading them for me, will you?” 

“Sure thing, man.” 

Elliot bounded down the hall and Lloyd rubbed his tired eyes. He desperately needed some sleep unless he planned on asking Elliot for a bump of meth to keep him going. Lloyd shut off the stove, checked the final batch of chemicals, and rinsed his spoon in the sink. He stuck his head outside to inform Elliot he was going to bed and headed up the stairs. 

Just as he lay down, his phone rang. 

“Hello?” 

“Mr. Hansen? This is Judy Lange from the HOA. I wanted to let you know that the association swimming pool has been fixed and approved for reopening on Monday. Should I leave your keys in the mailbox for your house sitter, or wait until you’re back?” 

Mrs. Lange didn’t actually hold an official position with the Homeowners Association. Her husband had campaigned for the post out of pure spite. His single-minded crusade against Della Collins’ window box planters and their “busy-looking” Ultra Star Petunias earned him a landslide victory in the election. He’d passed a statute banning all multicolored blossoms from public spaces and after his triumph, lost interest in executing the duties of his office. 

Despite her eccentric husband, Lloyd found Mrs. Lange to be a reasonable person. Her annoying habit of speaking at a million words per minute was made up for by impeccable manners and a sharp sense of humor. Even Mrs. Collins, who was still torqued at Mr. Lange a year later, couldn’t resist her charms. 

After his brain finally managed to process her rapid fire words, Lloyd grunted. 

“The mailbox is fine. I’ll text my friend and let her know to pick them up.” 

“Excellent. I apologize for calling you at such a time, Lloyd.” 

Mrs. Lange’s voice carried a hint of horror, as if she’d just realized she had contacted someone in the midst of a family tragedy. Lloyd didn’t view the situation as such, but he recognized the apologetic shift in her tone as she launched into a long winded explanation. 

“With everything going on, I am sure now is a terrible time for you… I just didn’t want to forget. You’re the most frequent patron of our athletic facilities. Well, usually the only patron to be frank. Mrs. Collins isn’t getting around like she used to after her knee surgery. Anyways, I’ll personally take those keys to your friend so they’re ready when you get back. And if there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to reach out.” 

She really meant it, Lloyd thought, his lips twisting into a bitter smile. If only she knew what the man who he was supposed to be grieving had done to him. 

“Thanks, Judy. I appreciate it.” 

“Of course, darling. I’ll see you around.” 

Already half asleep, Lloyd hung up the phone. His last thought was that he needed to call you. Hearing from Judy reminded him of home, and of you. It had been days since your last talk and that was far too long. Before the meeting with Russell, Lloyd promised himself he’d make time for a conversation. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You stalked back and forth in front of Zach’s desk, breathing hard, your fists clenched in frustration. 

“I can’t believe his nerve! Can you believe this? Can you?!” 

“Uh-huh.” 

Zach grunted and continued tapping on his keyboard.

“He has the audacity to accuse us of leaking information to the media, without a shred of evidence? It’s unprofessional!”

Zach nodded, seemingly absorbed in his work. 

“I spent so much time building them a database and now no one can use it. The whole process was exhausting and tedious and… are you even listening to me?” 

“Yes. Roth is an infuriating bastard. I knew it from the start, and you thought he was cute.”

“I did not!”

“Did so,” Zach said. 

“Did not.”

“Let’s not lose sight of our most important objective here.”

“Yes, let’s not. What is that objective, again?” you asked. 

“Getting back in Roth’s good graces and thereby, restoring our access to information and resources.”

“I’m sorry, were we just in the same room? About twenty minutes ago, when Roth kicked us to the curb and Bishop had a melt down?”

“We’re not going to let our hard work go to waste. There’s more than one key for every lock, you know?”

“Uh… that’s not how locks work.”

“It is when you know how to pick locks,” Zach quipped. 

“I haven’t even told you about my conversation with Mr. Liu!” 

He resumed typing, his attention focused on the monitor. “No sister?”

“Well, that’s a very anticlimactic way of putting it, but yes. He’s certain that Julia didn’t have a sister.” 

“That’s the conclusion I ended up at too.”

“Should we tell Roth?”

“I’d rather clear our names first,” Zach said.

“How?”

“Look at this.”

Zach pivoted his monitor to show you the screen. 

You stared at a map of Arlington with a route highlighted in purple. Squinting, you noted the web address of a popular running app called PacePal. The account’s username was generic and the profile picture was an image of a man's athletic shoes. 

“What am I looking at?” 

Zach smirked. “This PacePal profile belongs to Peter Shaw. The account photo is of the same running shoes he’s wearing in the Twitter he shared last year of himself finishing the Miami Marathon.” 

“Okay, not to make myself look like an idiot, but who is Peter Shaw?”

“A very tenacious investigative reporter with Rolling Stone Magazine. He’s also the only person who knows the real identity of the leaker, and thanks to his lax attitude toward social media security, we know where Mr. Shaw will be at two o’clock this afternoon.” 

“So, if I’m hearing you correctly, we’re going to give Detective Roth a taste of his own medicine?” 

“I intend to serve him a fresh plate of crow as soon as humanly possible,” Zach said. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Ruthless much?” 

“I didn’t pull in that jackass Lattimer without a damn good reason. We’re onto something with Julia’s supposed sister and if we don’t keep pushing the trail will go cold. What do you say, Princess? Shall we go put Shaw on notice?” 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Lloyd called you when he woke, but reached your voicemail instead of you. He sent a text instead and dove into the shower to scrub off the lingering stench of gasoline that clung to his skin. 

None of the clothes he’d packed suited the character he wanted to portray tonight, so he rummaged through Joe’s closet in search of better options. In the back, he discovered a garment bag containing the winning ensemble: a navy suit with wide lapels, bootcut trousers, and a matching waistcoat. It screamed 1970’s gaudy at the top of its lungs. 

To complete the look, Lloyd installed the hair extensions he’d sent Elliot to acquire from a beauty supply store two towns over. Cutting the remaining extensions into three-inch pieces, he applied them carefully across his jaw, smirking as he remembered April's suggestion that he should grow a beard. The overall effect was a cross between Jerry Garcia and Medusa on a bad hair day. 

For accessories, Lloyd raided Joe’s dresser. He added rings, a gold chain necklace, and a pair of lightly tinted orange sunglasses. The oversized frames elevated the look from vintage inspired to unmistakably costume like - a perfect fit for the character he was putting on. He slapped on a strongly scented aftershave he found in Joe’s medicine cabinet and instantly regretted it when his eyes watered from the fumes. 

Resisting the urge to wash it off, he turned his attention to more practical matters. Joe’s gun cabinet yielded a wide assortment of armaments. He owned weapons from every firearms manufacturer on the market in the past fifty years. Lloyd wasn’t keen to give a hopped up meth addict a gun, but circumstances demanded it. He picked up a Winchester Renegade and checked the ammunition.

“Hey, Elliot! How’s your aim these days?” 

Elliot turned around from his task of cleaning up the kitchen and did a double take of Lloyd’s outfit. 

“Better than most people’s. What are you wearing, dude? Are we going to make a drug deal or audition for Saturday Night Fever?” 

Lloyd snorted at the question and held out the Winchester Renegade. 

“I need you to watch my back while I’m meeting with Russell. Just in case things don’t go according to plan.” 

“Understood. I’m the second shooter on the grassy knoll,” Elliot said. 

They took back roads to the meeting spot. By the time they reached their destination, Elliot’s old truck was covered in mud from the unpaved roads that cut through the vast Idaho landscape. They were deep in the countryside, hidden from prying eyes of passersby on the highway by miles of barren hills. 

High Meadows had once been a thriving venue for team roping and barrel racing events. Now, the clay earth he remembered as being meticulously groomed played host to an invasion of dandelions and scotch thistle. The red aluminum roof over the pavilion had faded to a dull rust color and the cedar panel fencing that encircled the space was bent with age and broken in several places. 

He helped Elliot unload the water cooler jugs filled with the gelled fuel that he’d spent the morning cooking. Lloyd marked out a circle, about twenty feet in diameter, in the middle of the arena and cut a small trench into the ground. With Elliot’s help he poured the viscous mixture into the trough and raked the displaced dirt back into place. 

They hid their equipment in the bed of Elliot’s truck and moved the vehicle into a ravine near the main access road to High Meadows. 

Lloyd turned to his cousin. “Go take up position on that hill over there.”

He pointed to a spot beyond the dilapidated grandstands. “It has the best vantage point. Also, there’s a thermal scope in your backpack in case the night vision doesn’t cut it.” 

Elliot slung his backpack over his shoulder and disappeared into the hills. Lloyd took his position in the arena as the sun settled behind the horizon. He lay down on one of the risers in the grandstands, propped his feet up, and dozed until the sun went down. Suddenly, the crackle of the Bluetooth in his ear brought Lloyd back to the present as Elliot’s voice broke him from semi-unconscious. 

“Russell is pulling in,” Elliot said. 

“I see the headlights,” Lloyd confirmed.

The beams of Russell’s headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the arena. Lloyd leaned casually against a pillar on the far side. The position gave him plenty of time to observe Russell as he approached. The deputy was clearly spooked - he’d worn a bulletproof vest over his khaki uniform. 

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Lloyd called out in greeting. 

Russell stepped into the arena, his eyes scanning the space, trying to assess the situation.

“Who are you?” 

“Didn’t Carl tell you? We’re the Canadians,” Lloyd said, flashing a mischievous grin.

Russell’s eyebrows furrowed. 

“Now, let’s get down to business!” Lloyd clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Don’t look so tense, Luke. I’m here to make you rich, and myself even richer. You see, I came here to shake down a former associate, but the trouble is this jackass died before I could get to him. So, I found a locally connected businessman and squeezed until he spilled your name.” 

The deputy’s nostrils flared, a warning sign Lloyd waved off dismissively. 

“Don’t worry about it. I took care of him.” 

“What do you mean you ‘took care of him’?” Russell demanded. 

“I took him for a swim in Redfish Lake, the kind you don’t come back from,” Lloyd said, punctuating that statement with a wink. 

Russell’s shock was palpable. Lloyd gave him a beat to recover, but when he just got a blank stare in response, he shifted tactics and threw his arms out in exaggerated frustration. 

“Oh, come on! Be fucking for real, bro. Do you have two brain cells left rattling around in that ugly mug, pig? I got rid of your dealer because, number one, he’s a snitch and I don’t fuck with snitches. Number two, getting rid of Carl gives you the opportunity to set up a more reliable distribution system. Isn’t that nice? An open playing field with no territorial disputes from the locals? You can thank me now, or later.” 

Russell hesitated. Lloyd didn’t let the silence linger. 

“Okay, then. You’ll thank me later. Look, about-” 

“You really killed Carl?”

Lloyd sighed. “Would I lie to you? Me? I have a reputation to uphold, Deputy.” 

“You’re a fucking psychopath, that’s what you are,” Russell said, edging backwards.

“Hey! We’re not done talking business!” Lloyd yelled after the man as he turned away.

“Yes we are. Go to hell!” 

“Don’t walk away from me, pig! This isn’t the kind of conversation you can just walk away from!”

Lloyd’s voice echoed through the pavilion, ringing with anger.

Russell glanced over his shoulder.

“Oh, Luke… My number one rule is simple: I don’t fuck with snitches. Rule number two? Dirty cops who know your face are bad business. You see, they always end up being snitches. It’s like different flavors of the same ice cream. Triple chocolate fudge or brownie delight, who can tell ‘em apart?” 

As Russell’s hand went for his gun, Lloyd flipped open his lighter and tossed it on the ground. The carefully prepared mixture of gasoline ignited instantly, shooting up and forming a wall of fire that raced around to encircle them. 

Taken by surprise, Deputy Russell instinctively moved away from the searing heat of the flames an action that inadvertently drew him closer to Lloyd. 

“Isn’t this nice? I find it rather cozy, like stepping into a bubble of security.”

Lloyd chuckled, his smile twisted with madness.

“This is how you conduct business?” Russell hissed, eyes glinting with shocked desperation as the flames continued to roar around them. 

“I find it refocuses the attention when a deal starts getting off track.” 

“What the hell do you want?!” 

“I’ve made myself very clear, Russell. You need to work on your attention span. Here’s the deal: we become business partners… or you become a victim of what I like to call ‘spontaneous human combustion.’” 

“Spontaneous,” the deputy muttered, looking at the flames.

“I never really plan on cremating anyone,” Lloyd said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world to discuss incinerating your business associates. “Every time I’ve actually gone through with this, the whole thing happens so fast, it really does look spontaneous. Now, Deputy… What do you say? Ready to make a deal?” 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

You sat beside Zach on a park bench, trying to make the most of the slight shade of a tree that offered a tiny bit of respite from the blistering August heat. The sound of approaching footfalls was a major relief. Five more minutes out here and you would have melted. You glanced up to see Peter Shaw, a man of average height with close cropped dark hair, nearing your bench. 

Zach stood up and moved to the center of the path, blocking access to the parking lot. 

“Peter Shaw. I’m Zach Hightower and this is Y/N. I assume you know who I am?”

The journalist stopped a few feet away from Zach. He was dripping with sweat, but still had the energy to offer a cocky smirk. He glanced in your direction and arched an eyebrow. 

“The investigative duo. Where’s Hansen? Isn’t he usually your partner?” 

“I read your article this morning. It was very interesting,” Zach said. 

“Thanks. What part did you enjoy the most?” 

“I thought it was very well researched. You even knew where the recent evidence was being stored. That was a very… interesting… detail to include in the article.” 

Peter shrugged. “I take pride in my work.” 

“The other little thing that jumped out and grabbed me was about the evidence collected in the Nguyen case twenty years ago. Your source criticized the chain of custody related to Shun Nguyen’s cell phone. That was extremely specific.” 

Shaw’s grin turned from smug to sly. “I always make sure my sources have a keen eye for detail. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“One more thing. The criticism you leveled at the State Police for handling the digital evidence from that cell phone? Well, it went over my head, but I’ve got a guy who’s a genius with that kind of thing. When I showed him the article he said you’d need to consult with an expert in digital forensics to break down those kinds of technical concepts as clearly as you did.”

“Actually, I’m just that good,” Peter said, crossing his arms. 

“You have a degree in English and absolutely no background in tech. You’re not that good… but I believe your source is. The level of insight they gave you left their fingerprints all over that article, Shaw. Your man’s days are numbered. If you were as good as you think you are, his head wouldn’t be heading for the chopping block.” 

The journalist snorted. “Do you run, Mr. Hightower?”

“Only when someone’s shooting at me. Why?”

“Just wondering if you get any other forms of exercise, besides jumping to conclusions.” 

“It’s more of a step-by-step chain of logic that links together quite nicely. You really are a good writer, Shaw - very organized. That made it much easier to fill in the blanks. Does the name Leo McKenzie ring a bell?”

The blood drained from Shaw’s face, turning his lips white. Zach grinned.

“Good talking to you, Pete. Thanks for your time! Come on, Princess, let’s go.” 

“You’re way off base, Hightower,” he called after you.

Zach gave him a cheerful wave. “Hey, Pete, since you’ve undoubtedly got my number, why don’t you give me a call next time you need a source? I can teach you how to cover your tracks so you don’t keep burning through informants.” 

Then he lengthened his stride, forcing you into a jog as you tried to keep up. Once you were in the privacy of his vehicle, you gaped at him. 

“Are you crazy? Did you just invite that sleazebag to call you?”

“Sure. He’s made more progress on this case than anyone else. We can’t ignore that.” 

“How did you know who his source was? Did you guess?”

“Deduction isn’t guessing and that look on his face was all the confirmation I needed.” 

“We should tell Detective Roth.”

“No. Let him figure it out on his own. He won’t believe anything we tell him at the moment.” 

“But the security of the investigation is at stake!” 

“Not for long. Shaw will contact his source and alert them that we’re onto them. I want to give Detective Roth the chance to redeem himself. Also, if he can’t find a mole in his own department, I’m not sure I want to work with him.”

“Right. Hey, where are we going?” 

Zach turned onto an unfamiliar exit, one that headed away from his office.

“I’ve got to make another stop. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.” 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Elliot drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You really freaked him out."

"Mmmhh."

"He's going to send those drugs up in flames."

The insight was spot on. Deputy Russell’s wavering commitment to the sale was becoming more evident as dawn broke. He had raced back to the security of the Sheriff’s Offices after meeting with “the Canadians” and spent the rest of the night holed up there. Through the front window, Lloyd watched his shadow move behind the blinds. 

The silhouette moved from left to right, and then crossed back again, from right to left. Russell was already a paranoid bastard and introducing a real threat to his life may have been a step too far. His restless actions raised a red flag in Lloyd’s assessment of the situation. Watching him through binoculars from their high vantage point in the parking lot of the White Rivers campsite, Lloyd decided it was time to ease the pressure and give Russell an escape hatch. 

He was too spooked to hand the drugs over directly to the Canadians. After the ring of fire incident Russell was probably more likely to shoot Lloyd if he ever saw him again instead of cooperating with him. 

“We’re going to plan B,” Lloyd said. “Give me a burner phone.” 

He held out a hand and Elliot pressed a device into his palm. Lloyd dialed and watched through the binoculars as the blinds of the Sheriff’s office raised. He couldn’t see anyone, but he knew Russell was somewhere inside. 

The call connected. 

“Hello? Who is this?” 

Lloyd spoke hoarsely. “Hello. Deputy Luke Russell?” 

“This is he.” Russell sounded suspicious. 

"This is Agent Ambrosio of the ATF. Do you have a moment to speak with me? Somewhere private would be best if possible."

"Yeah, yeah. I can do that," Russell said.

There was feedback as he moved, the the sound of a door closing. He must have gone to his office. 

“Okay. I can talk now.” 

"Russell, I'm calling about your boss, Sheriff Holbrook. Are you aware of the case against him?"

"Uh… you mean that thing from last year?"

"Eighteen months ago," Lloyd clarified. "The federal investigation into Holbrook's involvement with the drug trade has continued, which is why I'm reaching out. We need your cooperation."

"What can I do to help you, agent?” 

"We have everything that we need to make an arrest. This is a courtesy call, Deputy. We're moving on him tomorrow morning. Do you understand?"

"Oh… Wow… Okay, is there anything I can do?" Russell asked.

"We're still organizing things. Holbrook is constantly armed, and we're aware of how high-risk this operation will be. I’d be more comfortable with the situation I’m sending my men into if we had your cooperation.” 

“Absolutely. Whatever you need, sir.” 

Lloyd’s mouth curved into a smile. Pushing too hard may have been the right play after all. His prey had just swallowed the bait without noticing the hook that pierced his lip along with it. 

Game. Set. Match. 

All that was left to do was reel in his catch. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Next - Part XVI

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