#thought he must still be out there Not fucked up.....

[cyberphuck]

"Becky!"

"Becky!!"

"BECKAAAAAAAAYY!!!"

She startled out of her trance, turning away from the window. Outside, more cars were pulling up despite the pouring rain; she could see two girls from Drill in reflective vests directing traffic.

"Becky." Natalie half-fell into her, grabbing at her arm. "They said they want you upstairs." She was giggling, her face flushed. “It’s time for you to become a maaaaaan—“

“Stop,” Becky laughed, shoving her away. 

She let Natalie lead the way toward the stairs to the tower, squeezing past dozens of chattering students. The halls here were narrow and badly ventilated, and the addition of so many bodies— some of them still wet from the rain— had turned the air unpleasantly swampy and hot. The wispy curls of hair at her temples were already stuck to her skin with sweat. She was thankful they’d decided not to go with the wig this year.

”Coming through!” Natalie screamed cheerfully over the din. “Cast member coming through!”

Most of the people back here were from the drama club, though there were a few members of the YSCA and a handful of museum volunteers. All of them were too busy laughing, singing, or shouting over one another to take any notice of Becky and Natalie. The season finale of *Dream Brothers* had aired earlier that night and there were a lot of cries of “Brother! To me!!” And “Dance again, dance again my darling!” Sarah Hernan was doing the splits while explaining how simple she found it to do the splits. 

“Timberwolves!”

“Becky! BECKY!!”

“Timberwolves!”

“Becky, Tim said Adam’s looking for you!”

“Dance again, dance again, dance again, dance again—“

“TIMBERWOLVES! AWOOOOOOO!!”

As one, the churning mass of teenage excitement halted and threw their heads back. “AWOOOOOOOOO!!”

”Alright, Timberwolves, if you’re a cast member it’s time to get upstairs for dress!” Mrs. Flutie, wearing a sign around her neck that read ‘TRAITOR,’ shook a noisemaker that made a sound like a very distressed cow. “If you are not part of the run you *must* go downstairs to the banquet hall! Rebecca, there you are.”

”River Coast!” That sounded like Patrick, one of the stagehands. “River Coast! RI-VER COAST!”

The rest of the students took up the chant as Becky and Natalie finally made it to the stairwell, slipping in behind Mrs. Flutie. 

“River Coast! River coast!”

”That is where we learn the most!”

”—Better than those dicks at Shoaks!”

“—ANDREW’S MOM IS FUCKING GROSS!”

*”Patrick Flaxmann!”*

”Quicker than the Bastard’s ghost!”

Becky turned to look over her shoulder, but Natalie seized her by the wrist and pulled her onward.

The stairs were dark, spiraling upward so tightly that there was no room for a handrail, let alone any useful kind of light fixture. The arrow slits in the outer wall served more as ventilation than illumination, and as she and Natalie were now on the wrong side of the building to see the parking lot, there was nothing beyond those tiny windows but blackness. 

”Someone said Adam was looking for me?” Becky said into the gloom. It was strange— she knew the entire museum was buzzing like a kicked beehive tonight, but inside the stairwell it all felt muffled and far away, almost not really real. 

“Stephanie said Tim said,” Natalie replied. From behind, her high blond ponytail swayed back and forth and Becky was reminded of a happy golden retriever. “But if it was important he’d have gotten Mrs. Flutie, or one of the pages.”

”Did anyone say where he was?”

”Why?” Natalie leered over her shoulder. “Rebeccaaaaaa?”

Becky could feel her face getting hot. “It’s not,” she spluttered, feeling awkward and a little annoyed at how weird Natalie could get when she was on one of her event-highs. Last year at Iverfete she’d giggled about horse penises more and more loudly until one of the staff had come to shush her, and Becky had thought she was going to die of embarrassment. 

Horse penises. Because none of them had ever seen a real one— a man’s one. Probably. And Becky would never see a man’s one— not that she wanted to!— if Natalie kept getting weird every time a boy even looked at her.

”It’s not a thing,” Becky managed, swatting Natalie away again. “His mom has a cabin up in Whitemount and they all go every year over break. We were talking about maybe, his mom could ask my mom if I could go with them.”

Natalie stopped to leer at her again, this time close enough that Becky could see the glint of her braces in the dark. “Oh, you two alone? What are you gonna doooooo?”

”Go skiing,” Becky snapped, her patience fraying. ”God, Natalie, it isn’t like that.”

That got Natalie to lean back a little. “So-rry. Geez.” 

She turned to resume her climb up the stairs. The little bubble of affronted silence that squirted up between them was kind of worse than the teasing had been, but Becky forced herself not to apologize for it, even if just to break the tension. You didn’t have to apologize if you didn’t do anything wrong, she told herself firmly. Natalie would just have to stop being weird about stuff.

The yellow light from the ancient incandescent bulbs at the top of the stairs were like a cartoon doorway into heaven. Becky let out a breath, realizing she’d hunched her shoulders together, and tried to shake it out. Then she heard a voice in the hallway above say, “Hey, Nat. Seen Rebecca?”

Whatever happened to stars that turned them into black holes was happening to Becky’s stomach, making her feel both like she couldn’t breathe, and that she was breathing too much. It made her feel like she was in trouble for something; she glanced at Natalie’s ponytail and reminded herself that she didn’t have to apologize for not doing anything wrong. 

“Yeah, right there,” Natalie said. She reached the top of the stairs and stepped out of the way. “We’re supposed to be getting dressed,” she pointed out sullenly. 

“I won’t make you guys late. I just wanna talk to her for a sec.”

”Okay.” Natalie’s voice was like three minutes after sitting on the wet bleachers— irritated but resigned— and Becky cringed. 

She heard Natalie walk off, tennis shoes squeaking on the linoleum. After a moment, Adam appeared in the doorway, blocking out most of the light. “Hey.”

”Hi,” Becky said, the black hole in her stomach making the word come out wavery. 

It was hard to see his face because of the light behind him, but Adam was cute. Like, pretty cute. He wore glasses, but cool ones, and there was the faintest reflection in the lenses as he looked down at her. “I talked to my mom about Whitemount,” he began. 

”I haven’t seen my mom yet, but she’s here,” Becky said.

”Yeah, mine is too. She said you might be able to come, usually my cousin comes but he might not this year.” 

“‘Kay,” Becky said. She climbed the last three stairs, coming up close to him. He smelled a little spicy, like boys’ bodywash, and the damp-shirt smell that everyone had after coming in from the rain. She looked, not at his eyes, but at his upper lip, at the way it was shaped.

He crooked a little smile. “Have fun killing Richard.”

Becky chuckled. “I don’t kill Richard. Jessica and Stephen kill Richard, and then I kill *them.”*

“Stab-stab-stab,” Adam grinned, motioning.

“Yeah. Stab-stab-stab,” Becky agreed, and her feet were carrying her away.

"backstage at a live event" is perhaps my favourite human collective emotion ive ever experienced. From running through the creepy empty school hallways before a theatre show, to the staff only breakroom at a convention or event where youre running a stall, to the bridal suite getting ready before your bestie walks down the isle.

Theres a little wall between the guys who are 'in on it' with you, whatever it is, and your audience or customers or guests or just all those people who are *not* in on it. Youve got a wallkie talkie, or a backstage pass, or an exhibitor badge, and youve never felt more alive

[asapeveryday]

noctuary pt.4 - p.b x tlou au

noc·​tu·​ary ˈnäkchəˌwerē

: a collection of a single night's events, thoughts or dreams

--read pt.3 here

pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader

AU: The Last of Us 2 x Wbb crossover

warnings: recreational drug use, mentions of smut in convo (but nothing happens at all lmao sorry)

synopsis: you meet her on the brink of giving up. she’s suspicious, too nice, too charismatic. you know you should be on guard, but you’ve got nowhere to go, and she’s eager to have nobody to be.

notes: this one's a little nika centric (sorry i luv her) but also because i wanted this chapter to really focus more on friendship, or really the beginning of it. having friends is important, but in this world i cant imagine it to be easy.

FRIENDSHIP ISN'T something foreign to you. You know the feeling of someone steady behind you, ready to defend. You can recall the comfortable brush of an arm slung around your shoulder. The lack of fear to speak your mind.

You wouldn't have survived back home without a friend. Everyone needed one, one person they could count on to clean their bruises after a beating, to argue in their favour regardless of the consequences. You haven't felt that solidarity in a long time time.

Paige is not your friend. This is something you tell yourself over and over, despite the way your walls come crumbling down when she's near you. You chalk your past weakness up to circumstance, it was only natural for you to willingly trust the girl who saved you and took care of you.

But you weren't hurt anymore, your wound, after a month or so in Jackson, had been reduced to a scar, a long stretching divet along the skin of your shin.

You decided there was no more reason to fold under her pressure.

--

"OH MY FUCKING GOD, it is hot." Nika groans, wiping her bare forehead with the back of her gloved hand.

"Want some water?" Kk, the girl with half-up twists asks her with amusement, holding out a grimy-looking steel bucket. The water inside is brown and murky.

"You're disgusting." Nika sneers, whipping her head away while Kk laughs, dumping the water all over the stable.

"This'll be you soon." Kk grins. "If you keep pissing Geno off, you'll be on horseshit duty."

“Geno loves me.” Nika snorts, shaking her head.

“Not if he swings by and sees how much work you’ve done.” Kk jeers in return. “Better hurry it up.”

Nika just grumbles, putting her body into it as she rakes fallen hay from the floor of the stable, a little bit away from Kk, who’s washing out each individual stall.

You’re outside of the stables, brushing off Sue. The horse’s brown coat is shedding thanks to the summer heat. You’ve luckily been placed on grooming duty.

“I wanna patrol.” Nika whines from her corner of the stable. “I’m tired of doing barn work.”

“Girl, don’t complain.” Kk rolls her eyes. “At least you’re not cleaning horse shit.”

“Yeah, well I can smell it.” Nika frowns.

“Join the club.” Kk kisses her teeth, splashing another bucket of water onto the stalls.

“Newbie’s got it easy.” Nika mutters under her breath, jutting her head in your direction. You hear the little comment, and it makes you tense. Kk mumbles something in return that you don’t catch, and suddenly you wish you weren’t assigned barn work at all.

It’s quiet for a bit till you hear the crunch of boots on gravel. Nika stands by you, watching has you brush off layers of hair from Sue’s coat.

“Must be nice.” She says. You just half-look at her, unsure what to say. She steps a little closer.

“You tired of barn work?” She asks. You don’t turn to meet her stare, still as sharp as the day you first met her.

“Not really.” You mumble.

“No?” She raises a perfectly shaped brow. “You’ve been here for like, a month. How many jobs have you worked?”

“One.” You say. Dawn had suggested working with the horses--hoove maintenance, grooming, braiding, bathing. You took the opportunity and stuck with it. The horses were spontaneous creatures, but they calmed beneath your touch. It gave you a little sense of purpose.

She nods, still staring at you intensely. “Planning on trying anything else?”

Her questions have an edge to them today. She and the other girl, Kk, tried their best to start conversations with you when you first came. They were energetic in a way that freaked you out a bit, so you hardly felt comfortable with their prying questions.

You didn't want personal relationships with any of them, you really didn't care to be friends at all. After a while the questions became occasional, and slightly dipped with malice. Playful malice, but malice nonetheless.

Like talking to you was predictable, like talking to a toddler.

“Maybe.” You shrug after some thought, swiping more hair off of the horse. The shaggy mops pool at your feet.

“Like?”

You meet her stare for a moment before looking back at your work. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe something in the greenhouse.”

“Think you could grow us some more pot?” She chuckles, and you let a sliver of a smile show.

“You know, the rest of us consider barn work punishment work.” She continues.

When you don’t respond, she keeps going. “But you like it a lot, huh? There’s so many other things you could do.”

You shed her another glance.

“The barn sucks.” Kk’s voice chimes in, now beside Nika, who’s in front of you now, watching. “It’s far from all the fun stuff. Smells like shit. Is filled with shit.”

“It’s okay.” You say.

“It sucks.” Kk frowns.

“About the pot.” Nika cuts back in. “You smoke?”

“Sometimes.” You mutter. It seems Paige hadn’t recounted everything about your three day trip with her.

“You do?” Kk exclaims, obviously surprised. Her and Nika share a look.

You finally turn to stare at both of them.

“Is it that surprising?”

“No…we just…” Kk trails off, glancing at Nika for help.

“You brought back all that shit and you haven’t even touched it.” Nika frowns. “It’s kinda shitty of us that we didn’t offer.”

“It’s fine.” You wave it off, returning to your grooming. “Not a big deal."

“So,” Kk hums. “You wake up, eat, come here to work. What else do you do?”

“Go back home.” You say. “Help out wherever Dawn or Geno ask me to.”

“And?” Nika probes.

“That’s it.” You say curtly, growing tired of the interrogation.

“You some lone wolf?” Kk asks, half laughing. It doesn’t seem belittling, moreso unsure.

Before you can think of a response, Nika cuts in. “You talk to Paige?”

You frown at this, unable to hold it back. She’d shown up to your house for check-ins a few times, but you made sure every conversation was shorter and shorter. Then you stopped answering the door, or you stayed at the barn longer. You hadn’t seen her in a few weeks.

“Not really.” You settle.

“Has she not checked up on you?” Nika frowns. “That’s not like her.”

“She did, the first few weeks.” You nod. “But I started working here more, doing little jobs around. Don’t see her much.”

“And how are the clothes?” Nika asks, eyeing your denim shorts and white tank, flannel unbuttoned and wrapped around your waist.

“They’re great.” You smile. “Thanks for that.”

“D’you like the posters I gave you?” Kk butts in.

“I don’t know who Lebron James is.” You hum. “But it adds something to the room.”

Nika laughs aloud at this, Kk just shakes her head with a smile.

“You know, I feel like I never see you around, Other than when we’re at the barn.” Nika says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She hums. “S’weird cus I feel like I see everyone.”

It's hard not to buckle under her stare. This game of twenty questions is unnerving. You'd been pretty isolated since you came here, intentionally, of course. You assumed nobody noticed.

“Hm.” Is all you say.

“You really always doing little jobs?” She continues.

You nod.

“She likes being busy. Let a girl live.” Kk snorts, turning to walk back into the barn.

“Just asking.” Nika frowns, but she looks at you further, like she’s figuring something out. She follows after Kk soon after.

You try not to look at her for the rest of the day.

-

SHE SHOWS UP at your door the next evening, a light jacket thrown over her crinkled t-shirt and muddy jeans.

“Nika.” You gape, eyes wide. You weren’t expecting her.

“Newbie.” She grins, white teeth glinting. “Get dressed.”

“For?”

“We’re going out, obviously.”

“I’m okay,” you begin, but she cuts you off sternly.

“Not a question. We’re going.”

“Where?” You frown. “With who?”

“Just some friends.” She shrugs. “Around.”

You frown at her. “I’m really okay.”

“I’m sure you’re okay.” She looks you up and down. “Didn't ask if you were, though. I told you to get changed.”

You open your mouth, then close it. She's pushy, big brown eyes prying you open, one hand on your front door. You consider shutting it in her face when she shoves it open further.

"Not sure what to wear?" She asks, stepping inside your house uninvited with a smile. "Don't worry, I can help."

"Nika, I'm not going anywhere." You say seriously, shutting the door and following close behind her as she glances around your house.

"You haven't decorated much yet." She quirks a brow.

"Yeah." You swallow tersely. You couldn't bring yourself to, you had no idea where to start. And the house still didn't feel like it belonged to you.

"Haven't gotten around to it." Is what you settle for.

She just shrugs, turning to walk down the stairs that lead to your bedroom. Despite your frustration, you follow.

She's already prying open your closet when you step into your bedroom, brows strewn in focus as she takes things off of their hangers and throws them onto your messy bed.

"You know, if you don't like any of these you can always trade them out for something else." She hums, holding a flannel and tank top together in thought.

"They're fine." You mutter, still annoyed at her presence.

"Clothes weren't much of a concern where you're from eh?" She asks you.

Clothes were assigned. There weren't many choices. You got what you got, that was it.

"Some of us had bigger things to worry about." You practically spit, foregoing your usual curt responses.

Her eyes narrow, though something satisfied glints in that pungent stare.

"Nobody is living easy out here, princess." She cocks her head. "Just because we have the liberty of being picky with our clothes doesn't mean we aren't roughing it out like everyone else."

"You realize how stupid that sounds, right?" You scoff.

"Okay, yeah." She snorts in return. "I get it, Jackson is probably a breeze compared to wherever it is you're from. But it's all born from blood. People worked their asses off, and people died to get us all the shit we have."

You hold her stare now, teeth clenched.

"People died so we could think about what to wear on a free night out, where our friends aren't on patrol risking their lives. So wear whatever the fuck you want, and if you dont like it, trade it out."

You understand where she's coming from. Point noted, not that you'll admit it. Instead you walk over to the closet and slightly shove past her to eye the contents inside.

"I don't need you to pick for me." You frown, finding an outfit that's thin enough for the warm weather without being too exposing.

Nika grins from behind you satisfied with your choice. In fact, she holds that triumphant grin even as you shoo her away so you can change, and eventually join her in your bare living room.

"What?" You snap, noticing her expression.

"Nothing." She shrugs, walking through the ground floor. "Just happy to see I was right."

"About?"

"You." She hums.

"What does that mean?" You glare.

"You're finally showing some spunk." Nika shrugs. "Some of the others were thinking you were...well, they thought you were donezo."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Donezo. Burnt out. Gave up. You know, some people can't handle shit. They break down, go all mushy." She continues. "They come here to live a new life, but they don't really live. Don't have a personality anymore."

"So why are you making me hang out with these people who think I'm donezo?" You cross your arms, offended. Going out was seeming like a worse and worse idea by the minute.

"Paige made it sound like you weren't." Nika hums. "And I believed her, even though you seemed like a total bot everyday at the barn. Braiding your horsies' hair and giving one-word responses."

There it is again, Paige being brought up, and the sizzle of vulnerability that comes with it.

"Just didn't wanna talk to you." You say seriously, but Nika laughs anyways.

"She's been asking about you, by the way." Nika grins. "Everyone has. We're all curious about you."

"Not much to be curious about." You frown.

"Bitch, you're kidding." She laughs. "Paige dipped for three days and came back with a chick our age, who has a sliced open leg and a backpack full of high-quality weed."

You try not to crack a smile.

"And then she's never out, only leaves the house to work or eat. Doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't smoke the shit she brought, never holds conversation. And Paige defends her mysterious ass every time someone says she's lost it." Nika adds.

"Okay, okay."

"And then today at the barn, you were getting snippy with me." Nika points a finger at you, still smiling like she's won a fight.

"Kk didn't notice, but I did. You were bugged. I finally thought, hey, maybe this chick is actually breathing. So I came over to see for myself if I was right."

"And?"

"And I was. I am." She smiles, hands on her hips now.

"So...there's no need for me to go out anymore?" You ask.

"Oh, that part is for real." She snorts. "Especially now that you wanna be sassy. We gotta show everyone you're not brain-dead."

"I'm not sassy." You grumble, following her as she begins to walk to your front door.

"You are," Nika hums, "just like Paige said you are."

You turn to shut the door before she can see the way your lips quirk upward.

--

THE THEATRE stands out so starkly compared to the rest of the town. The sky is dimming, string lights illuminated, streets growing more and more bare as you and Nika walk.

You pass by the bar, which seems to be filling up. You can hear talking and music, and the clinking of glasses as you pass. Up ahead are more flashing lights, the ones that belong to the theatre's flashy billboards.

"Are we watching a movie?" You ask.

"Not today." She grins. "The theatre has a different purpose after hours."

"Like what?"

Nika just shakes her head. You follow her as you step beneath the short ceiling of the entrance, past the deserted ticket box and into the building by a door that says employees only. It's darker inside the theatre, the floors are fuzzed over with dirty red velvet carpeting, the decor rusted gold.

"C'mon." Nika bumps your shoulder, motioning you to keep going. She pulls out a flashlight as you walk, pointing the white light at the big fancy numbers that differentiate every corridor.

"What the heck are we doing, Nika?" You ask, eyeing the darkness around you.

"Here, this one." She says, pointing her light at the corridor that reads 5 in big blocky letters above. She turns into the dark space, pushing open rusty doors as she walks. You follow close behind.

What follows past the doors is a sight to behold. The room is massive, covered in more velvet carpeting, a huge damaged screen like the kind people once watched tv on. Across from the screen lay hundreds of rows of seats, curving around the tv and sprawling through the perimeter of the room. There are little lanes between columns of the seats, steps for you and Nika to scale.

You can see a group of people sitting at the seats at the very top.

"Muhl! You're late." Someone jeers, laughing as Nika scales the steps before shimmying past a few seats and plopping down in one.

"Oh, and you brought newbie!" Kk smiles, nodding at you. Everyone looks at you expectantly. Paige sends you a little grin, motioning you to sit by her.

You decide to sit one row below her, beside Nika, so you both turn around to face the other girls.

"How you been?" Paige asks genuinely, blue eyes stuck on yours.

"Good." You shrug, and she waits for you to go on, shoulders sinking when you turn away slightly. The curt response makes the other girls share a glance. It's a quick one, but you feel it.

"So, what we celebrating?" Aubrey chimes in beside Paige.

"Geno's making P and I take a break from patrol." Ice hums. "Thank fucking god, because I am tired."

"Not our fault we're the best." Paige shrugs, smiling as she pulls out a plastic baggy from her short's pocket.

"Fuuuuuuck yes." Kk howls, causing the others to chuckle. The noises echo through the dim light of the theatre.

Paige opens the bag, gingerly taking out a pre-rolled joint and placing it between her lips. "All thanks to our newbie, who's got us stocked for a good few months." She says, jutting her head in your direction.

The others turn their stares to you in acknowledgment, Nika slaps your back.

"Nika." Paige mumbles, joint still between her lips. "Lighter?"

"Oh, shoot." She curses, tapping her pockets. "I forgot it."

Paige groans, taking the joint out of her mouth. "Jana?"

Jana takes one out, but it doesn't emit so much as a little flame. The group deflates.

"How does nobody have a lighter on them?" Kk groans.

"Nika, you always bring yours." Aubrey huffs.

"Okay, well don't rely on me so damn much." Nika rolls her eyes.

"I have one." You interject, pulling out a lighter from the pocket of your bottoms. You always had one on you.

The group is quiet, all eyes on you again. Paige just grins, placing the joint between her lips once more.

Nika is the first to break. "You're the best out of all of us." She sighs dramatically, shoving your shoulder. The others sing your praises, ruffling your hair and flicking your arm.

Paige leans forward a little, closer to you, breaking your surprise from the group's reaction and bringing your focus to her. Her eyes are wide, expecting, pink lips wrapped around the joint. A silver chain slips from beneath her t-shirt, dangling from her neck.

She's waiting. You flick on the lighter, bringing the flame to the tip of her joint. You hold her gaze all the way through, watching how the orange light brightens her face.

Finally she pulls away, leaning back into the theatre seat with her legs spread, two fingers reaching for the joint. You watch her chest rise, and fall as she pulls the joint away, tilting her head back so that all you see is her neck, the sharp lines of her jaw, and the plume of smoke that she exhales.

You look away from the sight of her before she can catch you gawking.

"Give it here." Nika says, holding her fingers out. Paige clicks her tongue, eyebrows raised.

"You forgot the lighter, so no." She says, meeting your eye once more. She leans forward again, arm outstreched.

She calls your name like a question, the joint glowing from one end, her brow raised in wait.

It's too easy to take it from her, to take everything she gives--no questions asked. So instead you shift in your seat, mumbling, "No thanks."

The girls around you deflate, shooting glances they pretend you can't see. She holds her look on you, carefully searching your face. You do your best not to give anything up. She shrugs, and hands the joint to Ice.

You watch as it gets passed from person to person, ignoring the feeling of Paige's eyes on you. The girls talk about trivial things, arguments with neighbourhood kids and easy kills while out on patrol.

Finally the blunt reaches Nika, who giddily holds in the hit before blowing it out, careful not to breath in your face.

"How bout you, newbie?" She grins. "Best kill?"

The girls eye you expectantly again, sharing looks between them. you can see what Nika meant earlier, they think you've given up. What's worse is you haven't given them reason to think otherwise.

Paige had been fending for you before Jackson, and hadn't stopped even when you reached safety. The thought is flattering but infuriating. If there was a time to sever ties, it was now.

"Give me that." You tut, unsheathing your usual demenor, the snip behind your words, the attitude.

You lean towards Nika, snatching the joint from her loosened fingers. She gives it up easily, smile rising on her lips at the tone of your voice.

As you lean back into your seat, you feel like the girls seated above lean back with you, following your movements, noting the change. You bring the joint to your lips, breathing in and feeling the smoke fill you with satisfaction before you exhale slowly, clouding your vison for a moment.

"My best kill," you mumble, savouring the last of the smoke on your lips, "was a few years back. I was on a job with a bigger group, kept having this bad feeling cus we hadn't ran into anything a few hours in. Of course, nobody listened to me." You snort, the sting of being disregarded still fresh.

"Caught the stalker early, before any of them noticed. Shot it twice with a crossbow. Once here," You say, bringing a finger to your forehead, "and once here." You finish, trailing that finger to the bare skin of your chest, just below your collarbone, over your heart.

They watch the way your finger travels down like they're hypnotized, dead silent.

Nika is the first to break from the spell of your simple words, eyes glinting triumphantly. You cock your head at her, and she nods. Damage done.

Paige is next, clearing her throat as she looks away from the finger on your chest, covering her mouth with a closed hand as she glances at her friends.

The rest--Kk, Ice, and Aubrey, nod in delayed understanding. Your story was simple, and consice, but they could gather enough information about you from that alone to grasp your capability.

"I hate crossbows." Kk finally says. "Heavy as shit."

"Long reload time." Aubrey nods, glancing at you carefully. "Gotta be fast to land two on a close target."

"I was fast." You hum, taking another hit and blowing it with a little smile. "I think I still am."

Wordlessly you raise your arm, offering the joint to back Paige, one seat above you. She takes it, fingertips brushing yours.

"What were you guys transporting?" Ice asks.

"I don't remember." You shrug. "Guns, probably. That's what it usually was."

"And where's your squad at now?" Kk chimes in. "You said you were in a group?"

You scoff. "Got into a fight with one of them. After that, I was only allowed to do jobs alone."

"Shit." She huffs.

"So, when Paige found you, you were on the job, delivering weed." Nika says.

"That's what I thought." You shrug. "Got set up, though. One of my old..." You almost say friends, but catch yourself. "..colleagues, fucked with my info. Changed the address, had one of her connections wait there for me."

They seem really intrigued by your story, heads cocked forward eyes wide despite the joint.

"So that's your favourite kill." Ice hums. "You're the type that kills em' like a robot, I bet."

"For sure." Kk laughs. "I thought she was gonna go crazy, talking bout' some blood all over her n' whatever."

Paige exhales smoke from your peripheral vision, passing the joint to Ice again. You can feel her bullet-eyes aimed at you.

"She's not messy like you." Paige says, a slight grin playing on her face. "She likes her kills clean."

You finally turn to meet her stare, brows furrowed slightly.

"How would you know?" You ask, even though she's right. It's the first you've properly spoken to her in ages. It irks you that she just comments about you like that, like she knows you deeper than the few days of weakness you shared with her.

"Cus' I've seen you when it gets messy." She hums. Her voice is low and matter-of-fact, calm and confident.

The girls surrounding you turn to share more glances, more unspoken words at Paige's comment. You feel your face burn at the unintended double meaning, but also at her seriousness.

"D'you miss it?" Nika cuts in, saving you from the situation. "Your old community. Was there anything better than Jackson?"

"No." You respond immediately. "Everything there was worse. I got used to it, I lived there for most of my life. They work us like dogs, leave us with nothing. Here, at least you work and get to live a little."

"Damn." Aubrey sighs. "Scuse' me for saying this, but I thought you were pretty fucking miserable over here."

"We was really asking Paige if she brought you here, or dragged you." Kk laughs.

You grin a little too, hiding it beneath your palm as you rub your face for a moment.

"Best thing here?" Ice asks you.

You think for a moment. "Having my own space. Horses. Decent food." You say.

"Of course she says the horses." Nika snorts, eyeing Kk who shakes her head in amusement.

"Did you guys not have separate housing?" Ice gawks.

"Nope. We got smushed into these sweaty-ass bunks. It was hell."

"Sheesh." Aubrey huffs. "How'd you guys hookup?"

"Literally everywhere else." You laugh. "On the job, mostly. Nobody watches you out there. It's easy to sneak away from the group and...take a break."

"No wonder you at home all the time." Kk smiles. "I'd be a homebody too, if I never had my own room before."

"You hiding someone in there?" Nika raises a cheeky brow. "Maybe she's taking extra advantage of her new hookup spot. Don't gotta fuck on grass or against a tree anymore."

Everyone bursts into CBD-enhanced laughter at that, every giggle echoing through the wide space of the theatre.

"Oh, I got one." Paige finally chimes in, still smiling. "Craziest place ya'll have ever hooked up with someone."

"When you say hookup...what are we talking about." Ice asks.

"Like," Paige thinks, catching your eye for a second before breaking with embarrassment. "Like more than making out. anything further than that."

"Tipsy Bison family bathroom." Nika says immediately, grinning as her friends boo her loudly.

"That's the bar not far from here." She adds amidts the boos, to which you nod.

"Roof of my house." Aubrey says shyly, covering her face as soon as she says it. Kk shakes her shoulders, teasing her, as everyone else laughs and comments.

"Kinda romantic." You hum.

"Sounds uncomfortable." Paige counters.

"It was both." Aubrey huffs.

"Okay...guys I'm basic. Literally just like, against a wall? I dunno." Ice sighs, accepting the boos you all throw at her.

"Kk?" Paige asks.

"I'm not answering this." Kk scoffs with extra put-on attitude. "Cus I'm not a devil's child like you guys."

"You say that as you hold a joint." Paige snorts, smiling when Kk tosses the now-bud away without hesitation.

"Okay P. It was your question, so answer." Kk narrows her eyes. "Actually, I don't think I wanna know."

"Hm." She bites her lip, adjusting her seat on the velvet chair a little more, getting comfortable. "Like, prolly on patrol."

"Oh, what the fuck!" Nika squeals. "You and Azzi? Was I there? This is so wrong."

"You were off somewhere else." Paige snorts. "It wasn't anything crazy, just a quick little...you know, anyways, doing it outside isn't too bad."

You recognize the name, asking Paige before you can think to stop yourself, "Is Azzi your girlfriend?"

She seems surprised that you're asking her anything, eyes widening slightly before she shakes her head. "She was at one point, but we're better off as friends. She's out on an expedition right now."

You half nod, looking away from her before your mind can get ahead of you.

"So, newbie." Nika juts her head in your direction. "You really be doin' it outside?"

You break out into an embarrassed smile at that, shaking your head as the girls begin to coo and holler at your reaction. Paige's eyes burn the most, you make a point not to look at her.

"Okay, okay." You huff. "Yeah. My craziest...um..."

"C'mon. Spit it out." Kk jeers.

"It's not that bad, but uh. Yeah, I've done it like, against a tree. A few times actually."

"Nasty." Kk frowns, eyeing Aubrey, Ice and Nika, who laugh their asses off.

"I don't think that's my craziest, though." You sigh. "There was one time...in our artillery shed."

"The fuck?" Nika guffaws. "Like, where all the guns are n' shit?"

"Yeah. It was actually kinda hot. I was on this table, literally surrounded by all these weapons and bullets...I dunno, it was a thing." You mutter, the words practically tumbling out of you. You feel a little light on your feet, mouth running more than it usually does.

"You're crazy." Aubrey groans, cringing at the thought.

"Yeah, I'd be scared." Ice nods.

"She likes high stakes." Paige shrugs, tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Nothing wrong with that."

"Of course, miss get-freaky-while-on-patrol-with-me has no issue with it." Nika rolls her eyes.

"Maybe ya'll are meant for each other." Kk adds with a laugh. The comment makes your jaw go slack, you immediately grind your teeth to wipe your face of any reaction. There are trivial laughs all around you, from everyone but you and her.

You can feel Paige above you, and the moment her attention shifts to you. It makes your stomach flutter.

You keep your face trained on Nika, and try to forget Paige is there at all.

--

COLD SUMMER AIR nips at your fingertips as you walk back home, night sky clear, Nika by your side.

"You didn't have to walk me home." You say, glancing at her.

"It's no big deal." She smiles. "You live close to me anyway. Did you have fun?"

"Yeah." You grumble. "I guess I did."

"Girl, don't be like that." She snorts. "You had a damn good time. I'm gonna bring you every time we meet up now."

"And how would they feel about that?" You ask.

"First of all, don't care." She says seriously. "Second, they like you."

Now it's your turn to scoff. "I thought they thought I was donezo."

"Not after tonight, they don't." She grins, that signature sharp-eyed stare cutting you thin. "Now they know you're good with a crossbow and you like getting fucked surrounded by guns. You're not donezo."

"Stop." You squeal at her recount, shoving her lightly. "I can't believe I actually told everyone that."

"It'll be more personal next time." Nika hums. "We're gonna pry you open."

"Gross, don't." You tut. "Let me be closed."

"S' no fun that way." She responds. "But seriously, nobody in Jackson is a mystery. Doesn't matter if you avoid everyone and play with horses all day. People are gonna know you eventually."

"Okay, okay." You groan. "I get it, alright?"

"Good." Nika says, suddenly serious. "And what's up with Paige n' you?"

You stop in your tracks. "What?"

"What'd she do to you?" Nika stops too, brow raised. "You act like you don't wanna be around her."

You consider spewing a white lie, but you know Nika's eyes catch everything.

"That obvious?"

"To the others, maybe not." She shrugs. "But to me? Yeah. And to her? Fuck yeah."

"Has she said something?" You ask.

"No. She wouldn't." Nika says. "So what is it?"

"It's nothing, really." You say, and it's the truth. Your reasons for distance aren't malicous or fulled by something she did, they're just for your own peace of mind. To guarantee you're careful.

Still, Nika stares. The same way she did at the barn, like she's got you figured out. "Did you hook up with her?"

"No! I barely know her!"

"You know her." Nika says. "She's not some complex character, what you see is what you get. You spent three days with her alone. You know her."

"We didn't hook up." You snap.

"Okay," Nika grins. "so, what then? You look like you're in pain everytime she talks to you."

"I'm not." You frown, finally turning into your yard. Nika follows you to the door, watching as you open it up and step inside.

"Whatever." You huff. "Thanks for today. It wasn't bad."

"It's fine. You're a part of Jackson now, so it's only fair you experience everything, not just the barn." Nika grins, holding your door open.

"Yeah, sure. What's next, we smoke in the farmer's market?" You scoff.

"Hey, we drink too!" Nika laughs.

"But really." She continues, a little softer.

"You don't have to be afraid of people knowing you, okay newbie? There's nothing in you that isn't worth knowing. Jackson is different. We rely on each other, n' you gotta know your people to do that."

"Okay." You nod, taking in her words. It makes sense to you, this place is different from the last. There's no competition, no hidden motives. People here work to live, not live to work.

"I'll try." You settle.

"Good." She smiles. "I'm always here to help...and regardless of what's going on with Paige, she's here too. If there's anyone here I'd want to know me best, it'd be her."

"Really?" You ask.

"For sure." Nika nods seriously. "Because she's the best of us. She cares more than anyone else here, more than Geno and Dawn, even. It's hard to trust people, but trusting her will do you good."

You shift on your feet. You'd witnessed that selfless care first-hand, so you know it's no fluke.

"It's...hard." You mumble. "Hard to be around people who notice everything. Who know you wordlessly."

"It gets better with time." Nika nods, like she knows it all too well.

"Sleep good tonight. I'll see you tomorrow at the barn.

"Yeah." You shoot her a small smile. "See you."

You watch her wave and walk away, the night sky hanging heavy on the landscape. Today was a leap you didn't think you'd ever take, but it didn't feel as wrong as you thought it would.

The shared blunt, the laughter and teasing. It was natural, a warmth that you haven't felt in too long. Paige is dangerous, too kind, too good. It scares you, makes you feel like you're not in control, makes things messy.

Distance is safe, cleaner, colder. You know it well.

You strip off your clothes as you head to bed, dousing your face with cold water and flopping onto your mismatched sheets with a sigh. It's hot in Jackson, the summer leaks through your walls, makes you sweat, ignights you like the end of a blunt.

Friendship is new, messy, warm.

--tags

@juumecca @cowboybueckers @sweetbcgs @rishofkf @yailtsv @bueckers2fudd @syraxsbigfanfr @azziswrld

[cryptidcasanova]

Four Sugars

Bob Reynolds x Reader

I’m a sap.

Summary: Late night talks and inside thoughts.

Warnings: Angst, soft pining.

Shaky fingers. Fragmented nightmares. Disheveled hair. You knew the look a mile away.

"Wanna get out of here?" you offer. "Just for a little while?"

Steel eyes locked on yours for a brittle moment. Bob was spiraling.

"Please."

The 24-hour diner was outdated, but it was quiet. Empty. It was perfect for two stragglers fighting to stay awake and keep a low profile.

The booth was against the window, and as Bob slid in, the faint purple glow of the neon light outside lingered on his cheeks. An old sweater covered his shoulders, almost blanketing him. He wore it for…goodness. He must have worn it all week.

It was a safety net.

A waiter strolled over, setting down menus and taking drink orders. Two coffees.

They brewed a new pot - you could smell it a minute later. And then, two ceramic mugs were brought over. You mumbled thanks, and Bob offered a half smile at the waiter before he stepped away. It didn't make it up to his eyes.

You watched unsteady hands dwarf the cup, then pull at the little sugar packets in the holder. Four sugars. No cream. Shaky fingers tore at the paper. The metal spoon clinking in circles was hypnotizing. You didn't mean to stare.

With a clarifying blink, you reached for your own. Two creams. One sugar. And when you finally looked back up, it made your belly ache.

Bob was still struggling, his eyes flitting anxiously and his Adam's apple bobbing. So you laid out a hand. An olive branch to calm the storm. His eyes caught yours again. A heavy breath.

His hand dwarfed yours, and still, you gave a tentative squeeze. Walker would have teased you.

But perhaps it was the grounding that Bob needed.

"Sometimes," he breathed, eyes darting outside the window, deflecting even when you could see his reflection in the glass. "It feels like I'm living just to feel the drop."

Oh. Your chest ached for him.

"I-I'm going to hurt someone," Bob thought. "If I do nothing, someone's gonna get hurt." Guilt chewed through him.

Ah. There it was. The last mission was challenging for everyone. Abrasions and contusions were common, but everyone seemed to need medical care this time. The most notable of the bunch was Alexi pulling barbed wire around his ankle. The metal dug deep. He had never needed a tetanus shot before. He pretended it didn't bug him, but super soldier or not, he wasn't indestructible. You noticed the limp still taking time to heal.

Bob's owlish expression and lingering presence when you landed didn't help. He was stuck in the tower, stuck on the sidelines. He had clearly let it fester. He took a sip of coffee.

"Careful," you warned at last.

It was a whisper, and his eyes landed back on you from the other side of the cup. Your stare was intentional and careful. And he kept steady, shoulders tensing. You leaned in gently.

"That's something a hero would say."

But there was a soft smile at the end of your words. And you swore you could see the upturn of his lips from behind the coffee cup.

"Is that," you dared ask. "is that what you want?"

He set his cup down with a swallow.

"I'm not a hero," he admitted, the words sour in his mouth. "I just. I just," and another pause, "I don't want to be a burden."

You laced your fingers with his. Warm. Bob was always warm.

"You know what I think?"

His tired eyes perked up, lips pursing as he shook his head. It was sluggish. Tired.

"You bring out the best in us." you flashed a self-deprecating smile. "I'm- we're lucky to know you. I can't imagine where we'd be without you." The quick correction didn't change the look in Bob's eyes. Strong. Hanging on every word.

This time, it was you avoiding eye contact.

"And when," not if, you made a mental note, "you are ready to be a hero, I think we're all a little afraid of where it will leave us."

Because as fucked as being twisted in Valentina's web was, she did make a good point. Bob was Earth's mightiest hero. He was it. He had that spark - something broken and perfect.

You were broken, but you weren't perfect. Not a god. Not a super soldier. Not even a half-decent assassin. If anyone was a burden, it was -

"Stop."

Bob's voice was more decisive. He squeezed your fingers. You looked up to find his eyes already on you. It was as if he could see the invisible spiral of your own line of thought.

"You're - you're incredible."

It was more confident than he had been all night. You didn't know where it put you. You didn't know where it would lead you. You chewed on your lip - perhaps you saw the best in each other.  And you weren't alone.

"Then, if we can't trust ourselves," you thought aloud, brows furrowing before relaxing, "Then we'll just have to trust each other, yeah?"

Slate eyes were tired of the internal battle. But even then, Bob looked more at ease. Talking about it did help. And as he looked at his hand in yours, Bob's focus changed. You thought you spotted a flash of color in his cheeks. But maybe it was just the glowing neon sign.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The promise passed your lips before you could stop it. Idiot. Why did you have to- your breath hitched, feeling before seeing.

Bob's thumb started rubbing slow circles on the back of your hand. Slow. Grounding. Calming. Warm.

You'd never seen someone so hopeful. Like your words were valuable. Like you were valuable. And the soft cadence of his voice? Groundbreaking. And you couldn't help but believe him.

"Then I'll try," he promised. "I'm not going anywhere."

[holylulusworld]

A shattered Dream

Summary: It was all fake.

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Wife!Reader

Characters: Nick Fowler

Warnings: angst, betrayal, lies, deceit

Everything was perfect. You had a fulfilling job, a beautiful home, and were married to the love of your life. Until. One day. You found out the truth, shattering your dream.

It was a coincidence. Nothing else.

If you had stayed at the conference and hadn’t booked an earlier flight, you’d never know the origin of your relationship with Ransom.

One moment you sneaked into your house to surprise your husband, and the next, your heart shattered, and you looked at the broken shards lying on the ground.

It was another busy day. You just came back from a conference; you're happy that you made it back home a day earlier. Ecstatic to tell your husband about the conference and the surprise you have for him, you smiled the whole drive to your home.

When the house you and Ransom call home finally comes into sight, you sigh. It’s been a long week filled with workload, meetings, and too much socializing. Your social battery is empty, and you want to recharge in your husband’s arms.

“Home, sweet home,” you murmur, rubbing your tired eyes after you killed the engine. You’d call Ransom to ask him to help you with your luggage, but you want to surprise your husband.

Instead of calling him or honking, you get out of the car, silently unlock the front door, and sneak into your house. You can hear Ransom talk to someone, recognizing his best friend’s voice.

Grinning, you sneak upstairs to scare the shit out of both of them. Nick, Ransom’s best friend, likes to prank people, and tonight, you’ll pay back the favor.

You’re about to burst into the room when you hear your name. Your hand is already on the doorknob, but you want to hear what your husband has to say about you while you’re away.

They laugh about something, and then you can hear Nick’s voice.

“I’m telling you; all this dating crap is exhausting. I want what you and Y/N have. Everything looks so easy. How do you do it? Your wife is perfect.”

You press one hand to your heart. You never thought Nick Fowler, the eternal womanizer, would wish to have a relationship and that he believes you’re perfect. He never so much as recognized your very existence.

Waiting for Ransom’s reply, you press your ear to the door. He scoffs and says, “My marriage is not as perfect as it seems.”

He’s not wrong. Once in a while, you fight or struggle with Ransom’s flaws. Still, it hurts hearing him talk like that about you.

“You’ve got no clue how it feels to be in a relationship you don’t want. I’m trapped with a woman I don’t love. She doesn’t even turn me on. It’s for the future children, nothing else. A fake.”

It feels like someone pulled the rug from under your feet. You gasp and wrap your arms around your middle. All the sweet memories from your relationship with Ransom flash up in your mind, playing on repeat like a bad rom-com. Now they leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

“What are you talking about, Ran?” Nick sounds as shocked as you are. “She’s a wonderful woman, and you look so happy. Don’t give me that crap to mess with me. I’m trapped in my single life.”

“I know exactly how it feels to be trapped. I’m stuck in an arranged marriage,” Ransom huffs and drops his eyes to his hand and the wedding band around his finger. “My grandfather forced me to marry and settle down. I did it for my inheritance and to get the company one day.”

“Whoa, whoa… Slow down, Ran,” Nick gasps audibly. Until now, he believed you and Ransom had the perfect marriage and loved each other. ”What do you mean? Ransom, don’t fuck with me.”

Ransom sighs deeply. He pours himself another drink and takes a large sip.

“None of the girls I dated appeased my grandfather. He wanted someone more…classy…and smart. I told him that, if he doesn’t want me to date a greedy and brainless gold-digger, he must find me something fulfilling his high standards.”

Your eyes widen hearing Ransom tell his friend that your first meeting with him years back was no coincidence. Back then, you were an intern at Harlan’s company, and you accidentally ran into Ransom—or rather, he bumped into you and spilled his coffee all over your blouse.

“Ran, do not tell me you spent the last three years married to a woman you don’t love!” Nick’s outburst surprises you. “How could you? Does she know about all this?”

“No.” Ransom has the decency to sound apologetic. “She has no clue. I wanted to tell her, but…” He sighs and takes another sip from his drink. “It was never the right time.”

“You have been married to Y/N for three years, and it never occurred to you that you should tell her the truth! You wasted three years of her life because of a fucking inheritance?”

You have heard enough. There’s no coming back from hearing the truth about what you believed was a life-changing moment. Ransom staged your meet-cute and lied to you for as long as you've known him. Whatever reason he had to get with you, it doesn’t excuse that he’s a lying piece of shit.

Stepping away from the door, you slowly slide your rings down your finger, carelessly dropping them to the ground. You turn around, walking away with your head held high.

Ransom will find your rings on the ground hours later. He knows that he fucked up everything good in his life when only three days later the divorce papers get delivered to his house…

[biteyoubiteme]

EEEEEKKKK im so excited to start this fic after you had told me about it because great minds think alike and soobin is so eternal sunshine coded like i dont know how to explain it and i just needed to sink my teeth into this and like im so ready to cry i feel like im going to cry after this and i already have my sleeve ready to catch my tears lol <333

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer? Yeah so what the fuck raya- FIRST LINE???? WHY WOULD YOU ALREADY START THE HURT NOT EVEN AN EASE INTO IT a suckerpunch kinda line that i love it really does just hook you in at first read like im on the edge of my seat just gagged wtf- 

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. Yeah i feel a world of hurt already coming like i love them already this is so unfair- 

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you. Oh im about to never forgive you after reading this raya- youre going to hurt me and you cant take it back and ill be here loving soobin and your writing forever but you have to pay the price of me bringing this up all the time because it already HURTS

you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door. He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold. Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us." Silence. Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words. "What's wrong—?" i fucking knew it the second the slippers got mentioned i was so like no no no no no this cant be but IT DID AND YOURE EVIL AND I LVOE THIS 

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe. For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone. CRYING CRYING CRYING 

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am." "Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son." You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her. "It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you." The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts. "But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?" WHAT THE FUCK RAYA when i tell you the pain i feel is real and in my chest rn i mean it like tears in my eyes and brimming to spill as i type this out you evil girl why whY WHY- i love it so much like you dont get it and your writing style- 

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?" yeah im never recovering- 

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real. No one was ever allowed inside. No one but you. THIS IS SO EVIL TO THROW YEONJUN IN THE MIX WTF- YOU WANT ME TO SOB SOB and to have his room frozen in time- no nope no and to only let reader in because reader knows- reader gets it- NO NO NO IM HURT- 

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob. This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend. Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone. But pretending could only take you so far. ‘YOU CROSSED THE THRESHOLD LIKE A SINNER ENTERING A CHURCH-’ RAYA pls have mercy on me i love your way with words im sitting here reading this and just gushing over the way its making me feel even if its sadness over whats happened because your writing makes up for it like wtf the lines and emotion omfg- 

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking. Sobbing i cannot- 

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby." Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily." You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser." Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick. AND HES CRYING GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT I CANT THINK ABOUT THIS OMFG-  the memories shared is just so heartbreaking like teasing him even while gone and just being hit with the realization that he is gone is just so- nope nope nope- 

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes. No i love this sm you dont get it like you know its just eating at yeonjun who wants to care for reader in place of soobin because he one knows how much reader meant to him but also knows what its like to have lost him and its like he lost the both of them in one swoop like ;-; no no no i cant i love this- 

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go." Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone." And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living." WHAT IF I WAS CRYING RN BC ITS HAPPENING- RAYA I HATE THE WAY YOURE MAKING ME FEEL (i love it a lot actually)

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand. Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you. HE WOULD UNDERSTAND- stop im actually crying like its not funny anymore this hurts like wtf- like honouring soobin would in turn be to help reader like please im so sad rn- 

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too. In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you. Except for his sister. I feel so bad for reader stop stop stop- she is just a girl like- 

"How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" OH! Stop id actually leave and be so sad like wtf- like i get how seeing reader would hurt them and i think even more so like seeing her hold on so tight to soobin if they are finding new ways to deal with his lost because of the passing time and she is still stuck as if he just died the day before and that would hurt them to see her but damn- 

the dent in the couch where he used to sit. No no no why does this line hurt sm- 

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be. No im crying real tears over this like wtf- ‘as if you were still hers. As if you always would be.” LIKE WTF why would you do this to me raya i thought we were cool?///

And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going." STTOOOPPPPPPP

You knew you would never see them again. I couldn't imagine knowing you were going to forget someone that you love and saying goodbye like mourning them even if knowing they will be alive but like gone from your mind you know like that's so wild to think 

"God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me." i hope you know the bill im going to send you for putting me through this pain is going to be hefty okay you won't be able to financially recover from the pain you inflicted on me 

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him. This is so evil why do you have me crying-

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs. NO YOURE GOIGN TO DO EACH ONE OMFG IM TOO WEAK FOR THAT HUH-

A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face. I love your writing sm omfg 

ten-year-old eyes THE MET AT 10 YEARS OLD THIS IS SO FUCKING SICK AND TWISTED WTF- 

Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy. Me saying ive been crying this whole time but like fr bc they are just ten and giggling and talking like you cannot take that away from me thats so sad thats not cool raya (i love it sm) 

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen. Im not well- 

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever." Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest.  You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides.  "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you." If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red. No no no no no no no no no i love them sm AND I KNOW HE DIES LIEK NO THEY ARE JUST LITTLE AND IN LOVE OR LIKE LIKE WITH EACH OTHER AND UGH NO NO NO NO NO NO

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you. Raya sleep with one eye open you are HURTING ME

Please let forever be like this. No its not funny face reveal to show you i have real tears like i cannot see the keys rn like im not kidding this si so not funny wtf RAYA I HAVE IT OUT FOR YOU WHHHHHYYYY THIS HURTS MY WEAK HEART THIS IS A SHOT RIGHT AT IT AND YOU AIM SO TRUE WTF- 

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" RAYA @ USER DAWNGYU I NEED YOU TO HAND WRITE ME A LETTER OF APOLOGY WHY WHY WHY WOULD YOU CONNECT TO THE START OF THE FIC LIKE A MONSTER AND RIP MY HEART OUT, STILL BEATING, FOR NOTHING MORE THAN A GALLON OF MY TEARS??? YOURE SO EVIL

"But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever." His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?" FUCK 

STOP THE NEXT LINE WAS ALSO FUCK AND I LAUGHED EVEN WHILE CRYING CAUSE I DIDNT SEE IT TILL I WENT BACK TO THE FIC LMAO 

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this." get this fic away from me i cant look at it anymore or i fear i wont be able to recover i love it sb 

“How many babies would you want?” AND THE PAIN GETS WORSE WTF 

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand. “I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—” His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything. In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate. Then—stillness. Dont talk to me DONT EVER TALK TO ME ABOUT THIS UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO BE A BLUBBERING MESS WTF- this also reminds me of the vow i was so obsessed with that movie in middle school lmao but IT KILLS ME 

Then his fingers find your face. No no no no no no no no nonono  onononononono this is actually not okay raya youre so mean! This is so mean! This is evil work EVIL im like real crying its not funny anynmore it was never funny but its like devastating like omfg-  HE REACHED FOR HER RAYA HER FACE WTF BLOODY AND ALL 

“It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?” never talk to me again 

but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.  No no no no no

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name. Your mother notices. "What is it?" You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful." STOP reader still remembering but not at the same time is so evil

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?” The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway. He’s cute. “It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting. He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?” You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs. Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.  Something... archived. "What's your name?" i know i just put a whole ass block of text but like i cannot i really do love this fic i love when things circle back to other things and this just hits so fucking hard TEN YEAR OLD THEM TO THIS  no im not okay like this hurts but like in a way that is like oh i think i needed it but like i didnt know i did like i dont know how to explain it but like i loved this fic i loved this i love raya but if i think about this while giggling with you i might but stop mid giggle and side eye you remembering what you put me through because omfg i cried sm like its not funny but UGH  thank you for this fic raya youre such a good writer i love love love love love it sm also how does it feel to now have made an enemy out of me??? Huuum raya??? Are you happy to have made me cry and feel things??? Hummm you like hurting us??? Huuummm??? Anyways i LOVED THSI SO FUCKING MYCH YOU DONT GET IT I LOVED IT AND CRIED TO IT AND JUST UGH 

THE ARCHIVE

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

warnings: reader discretion is advised. neuro-science fiction au, set in the year 2125, romance, angst, psychological drama, character!death, depression!, anxiety!, stages of grief, flashbacks, self-destructive!reader, self!harm, accidents, everything written is a work of fiction. if any of the warnings above might be triggering for you, please step back. let me know if I missed anything.

wc: 13k — playlist.

notes: inspired by parts of ariana’s we can’t be friends music video aka eternal sunshine of the spotless mind... concept is there, but the plot itself will take a different path. oh, and buckle up.

a big thank you to my beta reader.

How shattered must your heart be, to long for oblivion over a name once uttered like a prayer?

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. He always wakes you up like this—unhurried, endlessly affectionate. And no matter how much you loathe early mornings, he somehow makes them worth waking up for.

Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck.

"It's too early for your silly jokes, Soobin," you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. His warmth is familiar, comforting. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

"Okay," you whisper back, not quite awake but not quite asleep either.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

He exhales a quiet laugh, shifting beside you, and when you finally lift your head, his face is already turned toward you, bathed in the gentle glow of morning. His dimples appear with a smile—one he always saves for you, like tiny craters in the universe of his face. You reach out, pressing a finger into the tiny hollow of his cheek, and his grin only widens.

How does he never grow tired of looking at you like this?

"Come on, let’s eat, yeah?" he coaxes, pinching your cheeks.

You let yourself watch him—watch the way his eyes soften, the way he always waits for you, the way his love sits so effortlessly in the space between you.

"I love you," you whisper.

His fingers brush your cheek, his smile turning impossibly fonder.

"I love you more."

He somehow managed to pull you out of bed, though not without a few sleepy complaints. You lazily threw your hair into a ponytail—an attempt at looking somewhat awake. The moment he caught sight of it, though, laughter spilled from his lips, his dimples deepening with amusement.

“What is this?” he teased, reaching out to play with the loose strands. "A masterpiece of chaos?"

"It's ugly, isn't it?" You pouted, lips jutting out just enough to make his teasing falter. Panic flashed across his face before he quickly cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he pressed frantic kisses all over.

“No. You’re beautiful,” he murmured between each kiss. “Always beautiful.”

You let him win that small battle, if only because the warmth of his touch made surrendering easy.

It's always easy with him.

"Put some butter and milk in it," Soobin says, watching you whisk eggs in a bowl. He’s perched at the kitchen table, chin resting in his hand, his gaze fixed on you as you move around the kitchen. The pancakes on the stove have just started to sizzle.

"You like them better that way," he adds.

"Oh, right!" You laugh, hurrying to grab the missing ingredients from the fridge. You mix them in just the way he likes, and when the pancakes are golden and ready, you set the plates down in front of both of you, fetching the utensils.

"Thank you, love," he hums, cutting into his pancake as you take your first bite. A satisfied groan leaves your lips as the warmth of the food soothes your hunger.

"Nothing beats pancakes for breakfast," you sigh. "You and your obsession with them."

He chuckles, watching you with amusement, his elbow propped on the table and his chin resting in his palm. "Good job, chef."

You roll your eyes, dramatically bowing. "You're welcome."

He grins before his expression softens. "You have plans later, right? Be careful out there, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

Before he can finish, the sound of the doorbell cuts through the moment.

"I’ll get it," you say, pushing your chair back.

He nods at you with a smile, watching as you disappear toward the door.

You step toward the door of your apartment, fingers curling around the handle before pulling it open.

"Wonyoung, good morning!" you greet with a soft smile, but the way her eyes widen—just for a fraction of a second—doesn’t go unnoticed. She hides it quickly, clearing her throat as she shifts the bags in her hands.

"Morning," she says, stepping inside, her gaze immediately scanning you.

Her gaze sweeps over you, taking in the messy hair, the oversized shirt that’s swallowed you whole—the same one she saw you wearing last time. The deep shadows under your eyes, the pale exhaustion etched into your skin.

"Are you okay?" she asks, careful, cautious.

"Yeah, I am," you answer without hesitation, as if saying it fast enough will make it true. You turn to grab the house slippers meant for her, but your fingers hesitate when you notice Soobin’s slippers still neatly tucked by the door.

He didn’t wear them? But the floor is cold.

Shaking the thought away, you straighten up. "I'm having breakfast with Soobin. We made extra, by the way. You can eat with us."

Silence.

Wonyoung just looks at you, her expression unreadable, her lips parting slightly before closing again. There’s hesitation—pain, even—as if she’s searching for the right words.

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

The bags slip from her hands, hitting the floor with a dull thud as she strides toward you. Before you can react, her arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight. The force of it makes you stumble slightly, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is desperate, as if she’s holding onto something fragile, something already breaking.

You feel her take a deep, shaking breath before she whispers, voice barely above a whisper.

"Y/N… Soobin’s been gone for two years now."

Panic grips you as your breath catches in your throat. Your head snaps toward the table—the very spot where you left him—only to find it empty—a plate of untouched food, sitting there like a ghost.

Everyone in the world fears something—even those who swear they don’t. And at the core of it all, there’s death. It is inevitable and final. It’s like spending years studying, only to fail every job interview. Like working yourself to the bone for months, only to walk away empty-handed. Like pouring your heart into a meal, only to take a bite and realise it tastes terrible.

But for you, fear isn’t just about endings. It isn’t just about pain. What haunts you more than death itself is the thought of being forgotten—or worse, forgetting.

Forgetting is terrifying. Yet, as you sit there, clipping your nailbeds, lost in thought, forgetting made you see him. You saw him this morning, standing there, just as he always had. And without thinking, you breathe.

For that fleeting moment, he’s here. Because you forget that he’s gone.

"Y/N."

You look up from the table, your fingers stiff against the wood. Your mom's eyes are swollen, glassy with unshed tears, rimmed red from exhaustion. She looks at you with so much pity it makes your stomach churn. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I am, Mom."

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. "I said we should go back to Dr. Park for another check-up. And maybe… maybe we should finally consider what she’s been recommending—"

"No." Your voice is firm, cutting through the air. "It’s just a waste of money—"

"That’s why I’m working two jobs, dear." Her voice shakes as she reaches for your hands. You flinch, but she doesn’t let go. Her grip is warm, trembling.

"You’ve been hallucinating again." She swallows hard. "I thought time would make it better. I really did." Her breath hitches. "But it’s been two years now. Your dad... he’s sick. He can't even get up on the bed, and—"

"You don't understand, Mom." Your voice trembles as tears well in your eyes. Crying has become second nature—easier than eating, easier than sleeping, easier than existing without him. "How am I supposed to act? I'm trying, I promise I am."

"Y/N." Your mom wipes her own tears, her breath unsteady. "It’s hard for me too. He was my son."

You drop your gaze, staring at the table, at the empty space in front of you, anywhere but at her.

"It haunts me," she whispers, "how deeply he loved you. He’s always here. Always with you. Always worrying about you."

The words steal the air from your lungs. Your chest tightens, the room tilts.

"But do you really think," she continues, voice breaking, "that he wouldn’t understand? That, of all people, he wouldn’t want you to keep going?"

The chair screeches against the floor as you stand abruptly. Your mother flinches at the sound. You turn to leave, but her voice stops you just before you step away.

"He loved you more than his own life," she says softly. "Do you really think it wouldn’t break his heart to see you like this?"

You bite your lip as you step out of your parents' house. Wonyoung had dropped you off earlier, she didn’t trust leaving you alone. No one does anymore. Everywhere you go, people watch you with that same look—pity, like you’re a glass figure they’re waiting to see shatter.

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

Your chest tightens as tears prick the corners of your eyes, blurring the edges of the world. A hiccup escapes, sharp and unexpected, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as if that might keep everything else from spilling out. You fumble with the car door, your fingers trembling against the handle. It’s only been three months since you managed to get behind the wheel again, but even now, the familiarity of it feels like a fragile lifeline—something that says I’m still here. I’m still trying.

Two years. Two years since his funeral. Two years since you last stepped into your office. Two years of nights that felt endless, of mornings that felt pointless. Two years of watching the people around you crumble under the weight of your grief, their hearts breaking because yours refuses to heal.

And for two years, the doctors have been whispering the same thing, their voices clinical, detached.

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

Your knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as you pull out of the driveway, heart pounding harder than the engine. Every turn, every streetlight, every crack in the pavement feels like it carries his shadow. But there’s only one place where it feels bearable—one place where you can almost convince yourself he’s still there.

Choi Yeonjun’s eyes swept across your face, taking in the tear-streaked cheeks, the vacant gaze, the way you trembled just standing there. He didn’t say anything, just stepped aside and pushed the door open a little wider. You walked past him, your steps sure, like you were following an invisible thread pulling you toward the one place you needed.

"Do you need anything?" You shook your head. Because what you need isn't here anymore.

And then you slipped inside. His room.

Two years had passed, and Yeonjun never touched a thing. Dust had settled, time had moved forward, but this room remained frozen—trapped in the moment before everything shattered. They had been roommates for years, but after Soobin died, Yeonjun never found the will to replace him. Never found the strength to erase the evidence that he had once been here, that he had once been real.

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

You crossed the threshold like a sinner entering a church, hands trembling, breath unsteady. And when you sat down on the left side of the bed—his side—your chest caved in as you sob.

This was where he always slept. Where he curled into you on restless nights. Where he pressed sleepy kisses to your temple, murmuring half-formed dreams against your skin. The sheets no longer smelled like him. Time had stolen that, too. But the ceiling above was the same one you woke up to with him beside you, and if you closed your eyes, you could pretend.

Pretend that if you reached out, you’d feel his warmth. Pretend that if you called his name, he’d answer. Pretend that you weren’t alone.

But pretending could only take you so far.

You never found the strength to open the door again. You curled into yourself, gripping the blanket like it could hold you together. And when sleep finally came, it was with his name spilling from your lips.

A name that no longer had a future.

The knocking pulled you from the depths of sleep, insistent. You groaned, the sound barely more than a rasp, your throat raw from last night’s tears. Your eyelids felt swollen, heavy, reluctant to open. "Yeah?"

"It's afternoon," Yeonjun said through the door. His tone was careful, but you could hear the quiet concern woven between the words. "You’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours."

Shit.

You knew that wasn’t normal. But then again, nothing about you had been normal for a long time. Some nights, sleep was a stranger you couldn’t reach no matter how exhausted you were. Other days, it swallowed you whole, dragging you under until the hours blurred into nothingness. Staying in bed felt easier.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, "I'll come out in a minute."

Yeonjun hesitated. You knew he wanted to say something—to tell you that you didn’t have to apologize, that he understood, that he wasn’t judging you. But in the end, he just sighed. "Okay."

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

With a heavy heart, you forced yourself to move, peeling the blanket away like it weighed a thousand pounds. Every part of you ached—not just physically, but in a way that settled deep into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs. The bathroom mirror reflected a version of you that you barely recognized. Hollow eyes, a face drawn thin by grief, lips pressed into something that was neither a frown nor a smile—just existence. Surviving.

You turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto your face, letting the chill bite into your skin. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white, as you sucked in a breath.

And then you saw them. On the shelf behind you; Soobin’s shelf.

Your hairbands.

The sight of them made you waver. Because it was proof, wasn’t it? Proof that once, you had a place here. That once, he was here to tease you about leaving them everywhere, to slip them onto his own wrist absentmindedly, to hand them back to you with a laugh.

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

Soobin's voice was soft and teasing as he pressed lazy kisses along your cheek, your temple, anywhere he could reach. You tried to ignore him, focused on brushing your teeth, but he never made it easy. His hands slipped under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin, tracing absentminded patterns over your stomach. He always did that—always found some excuse to touch you.

"So," he murmured, grinning against your jaw as he pressed your cheeks to his. "I bought a whole stack of them."

You paused, raising an eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror. "A whole stack?"

"Mhm." His fingers tightened slightly, possessive. "So now you have one less excuse to leave—and one more reason to come back."

Your hairbands. Like you, were waiting for someone who was never coming back. You shake your head, snapping yourself out of it. Then you heard knocking again. "Yeonjun. I said I’ll be out in a minute."

A pause. Then, softer this time—

"It’s been an hour since you last said that. Are you okay?"

You exhale, the breath shaky, uneven. Time has slipped through your fingers again, and you hadn’t even noticed. But that’s nothing new.

It happens more often than not.

You sit with a book in your lap, determined to do what they say might help—immerse yourself in another world, let fiction be a temporary escape. But you blink, and somehow hours have passed, and you’re still stuck on the same page, the words forgotten.

You eat lunch, fork moving mechanically between your plate and your mouth, only to glance outside and realize the sky has darkened, the day gone without your permission.

You tell yourself you’ll go out, that today, you’ll meet Wonyoung like you promised. You put on your shoes, even grab your coat. But then the door never opens. And before you know it, she’s the one standing there, knocking, asking why you didn’t come—why you never showed up.

You know it’s getting worse. And the worst part? You don’t know how to stop it. You don’t want to stop it.

Because it means moving on.

Moving on has always felt like erasing him. Like accepting a world where Soobin is nothing more than a memory—left behind.

And the thought that one day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday—everyone, even you, will stop mourning him?

That terrifies you more than anything.

You eat slowly, each bite feeling heavier than the last. Yeonjun had made you bacon and eggs—simple, warm, something that should’ve felt like comfort. But the food is cold now, left waiting for you just like he was. He eats in silence, but you feel it—his eyes keep flickering toward your wrist, checking. He doesn’t say anything.

It yanks you straight back to those first few months after Soobin’s death.

"Y/N?" Yeonjun’s face is sharp with concern as he pushes open the door. He had knocked—once, twice—but you hadn’t answered. That alone was enough to send his heart into a spiral.

"I brought you some food—" His words cut off the moment his eyes land on you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders curled inward, your body eerily still. But then he sees it—your wrist, the red staining your fingers, spilling onto the white sheets like ink bleeding through paper.

His breath catches. And then—

“What the fuck are you doing?” The words tear from his throat again, raw and panicked. The bags slip from his grasp, hitting the floor with a muffled thud, but he doesn’t care. He’s already rushing toward you, dropping to his knees, reaching for your wrist with hands that won’t stop shaking.

“What are you doing?!” He shouts—not out of anger, not at you—but because he’s terrified.

It scares him. God, it scares him. What would his best friend say?

"I—I don’t know," you sob, voice wrecked. Your body trembles under his hold, and the words spill out between uneven breaths. You just saw it and you couldn't stop yourself. "I don’t know what to do anymore."

Yeonjun clenches his jaw, his own tears burning behind his eyes. "You must not do this," He’s trying to be strong for you, but his hands betray him, quivering as they hold onto you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away completely. Because you might. Because you want to. "Please, Y/N. Please."

You were so beautiful in Soobin’s love, and now it clings to you like a disease.

"I know it’s hard," he chokes out, pulling you into his arms. "Fuck, I know. But think of his face." He pleads. "Whenever you see your wrist, whenever you look at your skin—think of him. Do you ever want to hurt him?"

"Jjunie." Yeonjun's eyes lift to meet yours. "You don’t have to keep looking at my wrists anymore,"

A breath leaves him, slow and measured, as if he’s been waiting to hear that. He tries for a smile, small. "It worked like a miracle, didn’t it?"

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "He always is." The smile that flickers across your lips feels foreign, like something borrowed from a version of yourself that no longer exists.

"My dad…" you hesitate, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. "I—I need to go back to work."

Yeonjun watches you carefully, as if afraid you’ll change your mind. He nods. "It’s only about time, Y/N."

Silence stretches between you before he speaks again, voice careful, "Are you considering the treatment?"

You don’t answer.

Yeonjun didn’t kick you out. He never would.

In the afternoon, the two of you sat on the couch—long enough to fit three, but only occupied by two. And yet, without thinking, without speaking, you both left a space between you. A space for him.

Infinity War played on the screen, a movie you’d both seen more times than you could count. It was muscle memory at this point—the dialogue, the fight scenes, the inevitable heartbreak.

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

"Soobin always bawled his eyes out here," you whispered, voice trembling. You laughed, but it cracked in the middle. "Like a baby."

Yeonjun exhaled shakily, his own throat tightening. "It makes me wonder how such a tall man could cry that easily."

You nodded, wiping at your face as tears slipped free. "He’s a loser." Your sob broke through before you could stop it. "He’s my loser."

Yeonjun pressed his lips together, but it was useless. His own tears fell before he could even blink them away. "Fuck," he muttered, voice thick.

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

"It's time for you to move on," Yeonjun says, his voice steady but careful. "You tried going back to work, but you can’t. You should be out there, living your life."

A fresh wave of grief crashes over you. "It feels like I'm betraying him, Jun." Your voice breaks, and before you know it, you're fully sobbing, the weight of it pressing down on your chest like it might crush you.

Yeonjun exhales sharply, his hands clenching into fists. "I feel like he's going to haunt me any day now for letting you stay like this, and he'd probably call me an idiot for not shaking some sense into you sooner." he half-jokes, but it’s bitter. It’s pained. The two of you laugh, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, dies as quickly as it comes.

"But if you're worried about him—about who will take care of his… grave," Yeonjun hesitates as if the word itself could break you. "I promise, I’ll do that. His family will, too. He won’t be forgotten, Y/N. Ever." You hate it. Hate that he’s making sense. Hate that every word he says feels like it's prying you away from Soobin, piece by piece.

"Your father, your mother, your siblings... they need you back," he presses on, his voice gentler now. "And you… you need to go on with your life. That treatment, it’s the only thing that can help you now."

You shake your head, barely able to breathe between the sobs. "I can't let him go."

Yeonjun swallows hard, his hands trembling as they reach for yours. "You’re not letting him go," he whispers. "He's already gone."

And then, softer, like he’s begging, "And I know, if he were here… to talk to you one last time, he would beg you to keep living."

It took him two years to say it, but Yeonjun cried with you that day, his own grief spilling over as you sobbed into the worn-out cushions of the sofa. Because he, too, was once afraid—to let go, to move forward. But he knows now, knows in the deepest part of himself, that Soobin, the kindest soul he had ever met, the person who loved you deeply, would understand.

Yeonjun will spend his lifetime visiting Soobin’s grave, honouring him in the quiet ways he can. For Soobin. For you.

Even if he has a family of his own one day. Even if his hair turns grey, and his legs grow too weak to stand. Even then, he will still go. And he’ll pass that promise down to his children, to his grandchildren, so that Soobin’s name is never forgotten.

But if he lets you waste away like this, there will be no future to carry on. And the guilt would eat him alive because Yeonjun knows—more than anyone—what Soobin would have wanted.

It’s cruel, cruel that he had to pull the names of your family into this, had to remind you of the people who are still waiting for you to come home. But it’s the truth. And if you can’t find the strength to fight for yourself, then at least let them be the reason you try.

You step out of the car, your breath hitching as your eyes sweep over the familiar neighbourhood—the one you used to visit so often, the one that once felt like a second home. Now, after two years, it feels like stepping into a past life.

"Y/N!"

You barely have time to react before Soobin’s older sister is pulling you into her arms, her laugh warm, her embrace familiar. It nearly unravels you.

"I missed you," she murmurs.

You swallow the lump in your throat. "I missed you too, unnie."

And then your eyes land on the small boy in her arms—the baby who was just two the last time you saw him. Now four, grown but still soft with childhood. His wobbly cheeks, the way his dimples deepen when he shifts shyly under your gaze—

It’s too much.

"Hi," you say, voice barely above a whisper.

"Hi," he replies, eyes wide, cheeks flushing as he clings closer to his mother.

You look away. Because he looks too much like him. Because for a second, your mind plays cruel tricks, and you almost convince yourself that if you just turn your head, Soobin will be right there, smiling at you like he used to.

But he's not. He never will be.

"Come inside," his sister says gently, as if she understands the storm inside you. "Mom knows you’re here." And you nod, forcing your feet to move, even as your heart screams for you to turn back.

In the first month after Soobin was gone, his mother stayed by your side. She held you as you cried, made sure you ate, whispered that she understood, because she had lost him too.

In the following months, she kept visiting, kept checking in. But as time passed, she began to pull away. Subtly, at first. The visits became less frequent, the calls shorter. And then, one day, they stopped altogether. Your messages, your calls—they went unanswered. His family, the people you once thought of as your own, had slowly closed their doors to you.

Except for his sister.

She leads you inside, her expression unreadable as she gestures toward the dining table.

And there she is. The woman you once called mother.

"Mother," you bow, the word slipping from your lips before you can stop it.

She doesn’t even turn to look at you. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?" Her voice is clipped, distant. "And why are you here?"

You swallow, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you. "Because I wanted to see you. I wanted to talk to you."

Finally, she rises from her chair, her gaze locking onto yours. And it is nothing like before. It is cold. Empty. Unforgiving.

“Get out, Y/N,” she says, her voice devoid of warmth. “Don’t come here anymore.” Your chest tightens. You don’t even realize your hands have started shaking.

"Mom, don't be like this," Soobin's sister cuts in, her voice soft but firm.

And for just a moment—a brief, moment—you see it. The way her lips press together. The way her shoulders tense. The way her eyes, for just a second, glisten as though they, too, are on the verge of breaking. She blinks the tears away before they can fall, turning away from you, like it’s the only way she can keep standing. She walks away without any second glance.

“I’m sorry,” Soobin’s sister whispers.

You force yourself to smile, though it trembles on your lips. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just… I just really need to talk to her.”

You spent the hour with Soobin’s sister, unraveling everything you had kept inside. Every dark thought, every ounce of guilt, every desperate attempt to hold onto him. And she listened. She held your hand, pulled you into her arms.

But time moves forward, even when you don’t want it to.

You check the clock, exhaling. “I’m going to try talking to her again. I have plans after this, too.” She doesn’t stop you. But the way she squeezes your hand before letting go, it’s as if she knows how much this is going to hurt.

As you walk through the house, memories seep into every corner. His presence is everywhere. The framed pictures lined the walls, the dent in the couch where he used to sit. It’s overwhelming. It steals the breath from your lungs, forcing you to press a hand to your chest just to steady yourself.

You don’t belong here anymore. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to leave.

The kitchen light is on. The soft rhythm of a knife against the cutting board fills the silence.

She’s there.

Soobin’s mother stands at the counter, slicing vegetables with practised precision. You swallow, stepping forward, trying to find your voice. She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

"Mom, I missed you." Your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and for a moment, her hands still. The steady chopping ceases, but she doesn’t turn. She keeps her back to you, her shoulders rising and falling with each controlled breath. "I came here because… I wanted to let you know that I think it’s time. I’m going to get the treatment."

Your own arms wrap around yourself, as if bracing against the cold creeping into your bones. "It will alter my memory. There’s big a chance I’ll forget you, too."

The words shatter something inside you. "But I wanted to say it—just one last time. Thank you. For everything. For giving birth to Soobin. For raising him into someone who could love me so deeply, who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I belonged here. Thank you for accepting me, for loving me. And I love you. I always will. I just… I just hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to do."

At your last words, she turns. And for the first time in a year, you see it—the grief she’s buried, the pain she’s carried alone. Her eyes, red and wet, spill over as she closes the space between you, pulling you into her arms.

You don’t hold back. You collapse into her, sobs wracking through your body as she holds you like she used to. As if you were still hers. As if you always would be.

Her hands run soothingly over your back, her voice breaking. "My daughter… I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through this."

She clutches you tighter. "I thought… if I pushed you away, if I kept my distance, maybe you’d find a way to stand on your own. I thought if I pushed you away, maybe it would force you to move forward. Maybe it would break whatever was keeping you trapped in the past. It felt like it was my fault you couldn’t move on. Our fault. That the love my son left behind has been anchoring you instead of lifting you. And I’ve been so afraid, afraid that his love, instead of saving you would destroy you." She cries, "I prayed for you every single day. That you would find the courage. That you would choose to keep going."

You shake your head against her shoulder, your grip on her tightening. "I understand. I do. I just—" Your breath hitches. "I’m scared. I’m scared to forget him."

She exhales shakily, her lips pressing against your hair. "Forgetting… it’s easier than suffering for the rest of your life." Her hands cup your face, her thumbs brushing the tears away even as her own continue to fall.

"You won’t lose him. Not really. Whatever Soobin left in this world, it’s you." Your breath shudders as she presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I want you to live, sweetheart. To build a life that he would be proud of. A new one, filled with love, with hope. And maybe, one day, we’ll meet again—whether you remember me or not. And even then, I will love you. Always. Just like he did."

It was a hard goodbye—one that clung to your skin like the scent of home you’d never return to. Their arms around you had been warm, their voices soft, their smiles trembling. And as you drove away, watching Soobin’s family grow smaller in the rearview mirror, you forced yourself to smile, to wave back.

But the moment they faded from sight, the mask crumbled.

Your hands tightened around the wheel as your breath hitched, but it was useless. You pulled over, burying your face in your palms, sobs wracking your body.

You knew you would never see them again.

A shuddering breath escaped you as you wiped your tears with shaking fingers, swallowing against the grief clawing at your throat. You couldn’t fall apart now. Not yet.

Because there was still one more goodbye to say.One more person waiting for you. One who had left but never truly rested. Because for two years, you hadn’t found the courage to let go.

To free him.

You don’t know how you managed to bring yourself here. Your legs felt heavy the whole way, like they knew what your heart refused to accept—that every step forward was another step closer to goodbye.

The grave is pristine, not a speck of dust in sight. Someone else had been here. Someone else still comes. And for a moment, a tiny splinter of relief wedges itself into your grief. He’s being cared for, even without you.

You stand there, your throat tightening, your lips parting—then closing again. The words are trapped somewhere deep inside you, tangled between the memories and the pain. What do you even say? How do you speak when just looking at his name carved into stone is enough to make your chest cave in? How do you even start? What do you say to someone who can’t answer back?

And then your eyes fall to the base of the headstone. White roses. Fresh. Untouched.

Your breath stumbles.

White roses—his favourite. The same ones he gave you that night, trembling fingers offering a bouquet, his eyes filled with so much hope. Now, they sit beside his grave, a brutal echo of the past.

And you wonder—when did forever become something so short?

You swallow hard. "Hey," you whisper. Just one word, and already, you feel yourself crying. "Are you somewhere nice?"

"I really… I really hope you are," your voice trembles, your vision blurring. "God, I cry so easily now. You’d tease me for it, wouldn’t you?" A broken laugh escapes your lips, but it fades as quickly as it came. "I’m nothing like the person you knew. I'm not that woman anymore. I’ve changed." You take a shuddering breath. "All because you left me."

The confession spills out before you can stop it, "You left me here alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Because you were my world, and our plans—" Your voice cracks. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head. "No. No, Soobin. I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

Your knees buckle, and you let them. You fold into yourself, pressing your palms against your face as the sobs finally come, wrenching their way out of you. "I’m weak," you choke out. "I’ve been nothing but weak without you."

Time slips away. You don’t know how long you sit there, trembling, letting everything have its way with you. At some point, people come and go, visiting the graves nearby. They stay for a while, whispering prayers, placing flowers, saying their goodbyes. And then, one by one, they leave.

But you don’t.

Because you know—this is the last time you’ll ever be here.

What does it truly mean to forget?

Is it letting go of the bad memories, even if it means losing the lessons they left behind? Erasing the trauma, even if it forged the strength that kept you standing? Wiping away the heartbreak, even if it unmade the love that once felt endless? If forgetting means unravelling the version of yourself shaped by every moment... then is it really freedom? Or is it just another kind of loss?

And if you don’t forget—who carries the weight of those memories with you? The nights spent in quiet conversation, the laughter that once echoed in familiar streets, the warmth of his hand in yours. Does one painful ending justify the erasure of everything that came before?

It doesn’t. Because memories do not vanish. They are not erased like ink wiped clean from a page.

The streets still remember the way you walked together. The wind still hums with the echoes of his voice. The people who once saw your love still hold its remnants, even in passing glances. And perhaps, this is the only way to keep it beautiful. Your memories, deserve to be left as they are. You should not taint it any further.

"I decided to do it," you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the wind. "I’m finally doing it, love. It took me so long, but… I will."

"I don't want you to think that I'll forget you. Because you're my life." A shaky breath escapes your lips, your fingers tracing the edge of cold stone as if it were his hand, warm and real, just one last time. "But you don’t have to worry about me anymore," you murmur. "You can rest now."

Your eyes lift, meeting the name carved into eternity—Choi Soobin. A tear slips down your cheek, catching on your lips as you whisper, broken and raw—

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

Sorry that it took this long. Sorry that you held on when you should have let go. Sorry that no matter how much time passes, some wounds never really heal.

Your wounds will never heal.

The overhead lights burn against your swollen eyes. You blink, but it only makes the sting worse. You thought they would’ve dried by now. That at some point, your body would just refuse to keep grieving.

Do people have a limit? Is there a point where you simply run out? Or does the body just keep producing sorrow, as long as there’s pain to feed it? Has anyone in history ever cried so much that their body just… gave up?

Maybe not.

Or maybe, if you stay like this long enough, you’ll be the first. Because this is all you know how to do now.

Cry. Cry for him. Cry for yourself.

Cry because it’s the only thing that makes the weight in your chest feel even a little less suffocating. Because if you stop, even for a moment, you’re terrified you’ll realise just how empty the world is without him in it.

You're not strong enough.

"Are you sure you don’t want me to come in?" Your mother’s hand is warm as she pats your back, enough for you to let out a breath you were holding.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You can wait for me in the waiting area." Your eyes flicker toward the entrance as another person steps in. She carries a box, full of things and when your gaze meets hers, you swear you see your own reflection staring back.

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

"I’m a big girl, you know," you murmur, forcing the words out as if saying them makes them true.

Your mother gives you a small smile before kissing your cheek. "I’ll be here," she says softly. "After all of this, I’ll be here to pick you up."

Something tightens in your chest. Such simple words, so ordinary, yet they make your throat close up. One less worry, a hundred more to carry.

But she’ll be here after.

No matter what happens behind those doors, no matter how much of you is left when it’s over—your mother will be here, waiting on the other side.

And that should be enough, right?

You take a step. Then another. Three steps before something in you falters, pulling you back. You turn around, and your mother, standing right where you left her. Her eyes meet yours, and one of them glistens now, like she’s holding something back. She’s trying to be strong for you.

"Does it have to be today, Mom?" Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper. "I mean… can we, can we just—" The words die in your throat. You swallow hard. You promised him.

You promised.

And if you don’t do it today… you might never do it at all.

“Honey, we can always come back.” Your mother’s voice is soft. She’s in front of you now, hands warm on your shoulders. “We can reschedule, and—”

“It’s fine.” You shake your head, refusing to meet her eyes. If you look at her, if you see the way she’s looking at you, you might shatter right here, in front of her. So you turn away. The door is just a few steps ahead. White. Sterile. All you have to do is cross it. You can do it. You have to do it. Because—

You promised him.

"Miss Y/N?" The sound of your name barely registers. You don’t even remember sitting down. One moment, you were outside and now—now you’re here. In this cold, sterile waiting room, surrounded by people clutching their own silent burdens. Boxes. Everyone has one. Resting on their laps. Some are dressed in stiff work clothes, like they came straight from their jobs. Others wear the softness of home... sweatshirts, slippers, a kind of exhaustion that no amount of rest could ever fix.

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

It doesn’t matter where you came from. It doesn’t matter who you were before this moment.

You’re all here for the same reason.

"You need to sign the waiver. Please read each clause carefully dear. The nurse will call you once it's your turn." The papers were handed in your hands, making your heart pound, each beat a hammer striking painfully inside your ribs. The relentless ticking of the clock thumps in your ears, a fierce reminder of the gravity of what you’re about to do. Your fingers tremble against the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles ache, but the pressure doesn’t help you—nothing ever will.

You sigh, biting your lip so hard you taste a bit of blood. Your stare drifts ahead, settling on a woman a few seats away. Her eyes are red, swollen. She isn’t crying anymore, but she looks like she hasn’t stopped in days.

You follow her stare, down to the box in her lap. It’s small. Too small. A bib, baby rattles, tiny clothes meant for someone who never even saw their first birthday. Your throat tightens. You force yourself to look away. Swallowing hard, you check your own papers. Your box sits beside you, shut tight. Your mother had suggested covering it with a cloth—to make it easier, to keep you from looking at it. And it worked. Because if you had to see what was inside…

You don’t know if you’d still be here.

Your hands tremble as you stare down at the waiver, the words blurring in and out of focus. You read the clauses again. And again. And again. Your eyes trace the final lines, the words smudging under the sting in your eyes.

You have given extensive thought behind your decision and give "Brighter Days Inc." the exclusive permission to remove this person completely from your memory:

☐ Yes ☐ No

You shakily checked what you knew... he'd want for you. You need to think this is what he would've wanted.

“Y/N?” The nurse’s voice is gentle, but it still makes you flinch. She stands in the doorway, dressed in white, looking at you. You wipe away a tear, but another one slips free before you can stop it. “You can come inside now.”

“Okay,” Your legs barely carry you as you stand. Your trembling hands clutch the box, holding it so tightly.

Inside, the room is cold, sterile. Three people wait—one dressed in blue, one who looks like the doctor, and the nurse who fetched you. The chair in the middle looms, surrounded by wires, screens filled with numbers and statistics you don’t understand. But the moment your eyes land on the headrest, on the equipment waiting there—your stomach drops. Your body moves before you can think. A step back, then another, until a hand gently stops you.

The nurse reaches for your box. Your fingers twitch as they slip away from it, “Let’s get you on the chair,” she says softly. You nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak. You started crying again. Not with sound, not with sobs... just endless, silent tears slipping down your face, one after the other.

No one tells you to stop crying. No one even reacts. You wonder how many people they’ve seen like this.

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

Her hands are warm against your shaking ones, steadying you just enough to guide you down into the chair. You let her. You don’t have the strength to resist. The doctor moves quickly, securing straps around you—across your wrists, your chest. Another band wraps around your finger, likely for your heartbeat. It’s already racing. You don’t need a machine to tell you that. The person in blue starts placing wires against your temple, the cold press of metal settling on the right side of your head. It sends a shiver through you, but you don’t move.

You barely breathe.

“Okay, so now—” The doctor’s voice is calm, clinical. “As you’ve read, you’ll need to recall the moments tied to the things you brought. We asked you to choose items that hold the strongest memories because only then can they be altered. These machines will help bring them to the surface. You don’t have to force it—we’ll go slow, one step at a time.” A pause. “Are you ready?”

Your throat closes. Your hands curl into weak fists against the armrests. All you can do is nod.

The man in blue moves quietly. You barely notice him at first, lost in the weight pressing down on your chest—until he reaches for your box. The cloth is lifted. Your breath catches.

The first item is pulled free, and the moment your eyes land on it, something inside you crumbles. "Wa-wait," A sob rips through you, raw and unrestrained, your whole body trembling. The nurse kneels beside you, her eyes unbearably soft, understanding. "It will be much easier after this," she murmurs.

You swallow back another sob, hiccupping through shallow, gasping breaths. It's ridiculous, isn’t it? That at your weakest, you're placing your trust in strangers. That you can't even find the strength to speak. But this isn’t for you.

For him. For your family.

For him.

Your nails dig into the synthetic material on the armrest. You close your eyes, surrendering to their instructions, to the machines humming around you. A sharp beep echoes in the room, signalling the process to begin. A single tear slips free, tracing a path down your cheek, and despite the agony twisting in your chest, you manage the smallest, most broken smile because you see his face.

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

"Let's take a 30-minute break, and then we'll go over the discussion again, okay?" Your ten-year-old eyes lock onto your homeroom teacher, a sigh slipping past your lips. Math has never been kind to you. Numbers blur together, equations twist into impossible knots in your head. If you had it your way, subjects like this wouldn’t even exist. You’d much rather read—preferably a hundred books. Or better yet, a hundred manga.

You reach for your bag, already deciding that a "break" means exactly that. No memorizing. No thinking about numbers. Your brain deserves rest. With a small pout, you pull out your current manga, flipping through the worn pages with practiced ease.

Your friends prefer watching anime, gathering around their phones or talking about the latest episodes. But your mom—she's strict about screen time. Too much of it, she says, will rot your brain. So, you stick to reading. At first, it was just a substitute, a way to keep up with your friends. But over time, it grew on you.

You're barely on the second page when a shadow falls over your desk.

"Uh, Y/N? Do you have, uh… an extra pen?"

You glance up, mildly irritated at the interruption, only to be met with the tallest boy in your class—Choi Soobin. A transfer student. You’ve only been classmates for a few months, and until now, you’ve barely spoken.

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

His eyes dart to your open pencil case, where at least five pens sit in plain sight. "But… you have so many," he points out, looking almost betrayed. "Please? I swear I’ll give it back!"

You sigh, flipping another page of your manga, already regretting this conversation. "Fine."

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

"Not that one—" Your head snaps up. "That’s off-limits, it’s my favourit—"

"Wait, is that Inuyasha?!" His voice practically jumps an octave, eyes wide with excitement as he plops down in the seat beside you without a second thought. "I love this series! I read them all the time!"

Your annoyance falters, replaced by something close to surprise. You glance at him, then at your manga, then back at him. "It’s my favourite," you say, flipping the page. "I have all the volumes."

His eyes widen. "Whoa. Lend me some?"

You raise a brow. "And what do I get in return?"

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

You pretend to consider it, tapping your chin. "I’ll think about it."

He nods eagerly, leaning in a little. "Okay, but—serious question. Kikyo or Kagome?"

"Kagome," you answer without hesitation. "I pity her." At that, he studies your face.

"But Kikyo…" he murmurs, gaze dropping for a second. "I pity her more." His voice is softer now, "Because she doesn’t get to be with Inuyasha anymore. And I think… that’s sad."

For ten whole minutes, the two of you went back and forth—voices overlapping, hands flying in exasperation—until your classmates abandoned all pretence of studying just to watch. Some whispered bets under their breath, stifling laughs as you and Soobin yapped at each other like two kids fighting over the last piece of candy.

And then, finally, Soobin sighed, slumping in defeat. "But at the end of the day," he muttered, rubbing his temple, "Kikyo is Kagome, right?"

You scoff, shaking your head. "That’s not how it works." You roll your eyes, turning back to your manga. "Loser,"

And then—he laughs. Not just a chuckle. A real laugh, the kind that makes his eyes scrunch up until they almost disappear, deep crinkles forming at the corners. His dimples dig so deep it’s like someone pressed a pencil into a soft dough, and his cheeks, full and round, look annoyingly pinchable. You catch yourself staring, warmth crawls up your neck, spreading to your ears.

That day, for the first time, you let someone else use your glitter pen.

THE POLAROID CAMERA

Your feet dangle lazily in the air as you scribble in your notebook, your laptop propped open in front of you. You scroll through pages, searching for answers, when a notification pops up.

Meet me at the playground?

You sigh, fingers hovering over the keyboard. But I’m doing homework…

I’ll let you copy mine.

Your lips twitch. Okay. Be there in 10 minutes.

Excitement bubbles in your chest as you throw on a hoodie and a pair of shorts, not even bothering to check if they match. You bound down the stairs, brushing past your mom just as she calls after you. "Be careful—!"

"I’m meeting Binnie, Mom!" you shout over your shoulder. Her resolve crumbles instantly. She sighs, but there’s a small smile in her voice as she mutters, “Be home before dark!”

The walk to the playground is short. When you arrive, you spot Soobin awkwardly lingering by the swings, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his shoe.

"Soobin!" His head snaps up, and the moment he sees you, a grin spreads across his face.

It’s been three years since you first met, three years of him becoming your best friend. Everyone at school knows it. High school doesn’t feel as scary because he’s always there—hovering, teasing, sticking by your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. People assume you’re together, which is ridiculous. He’s your best friend. Sure, he goes everywhere with you, sure, you’ve fallen asleep on the same couch during sleepovers, sure, his family adores you, and your mom—well, sometimes it feels like she likes him more than she likes you. But again, he's your best friend.

You slow your pace, tilting your head playfully. "What’s up? Finally giving in and letting me copy your homework?" You wiggle your eyebrows, smirking as you catch the faint pink dusting his cheeks—something that happens more and more these days.

But instead of rolling his eyes or firing back with a sarcastic remark, he just exhales. "Happy birthday," he says. "Happy 13th birthday."

Before you can react, he holds out a neatly wrapped box. Confused, you take it, fingers fumbling with the ribbon before you lift the lid. Inside, is a brand-new Polaroid camera. The exact one you’ve been rambling about for weeks. You gape at him. "No way."

Soobin shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. "You wouldn’t shut up about it," he mumbles. "Figured it’d be easier to just get you one instead of listening to you whine forever."

Your throat tightens, something warm spreading through your chest. You can't stop yourself from hugging him. His hands stilling on his sides. "Shut up," you whisper. "And thank you."

If you weren’t pressed against him, your face buried in the fabric of his hoodie, the hoodie you gifted him, you would’ve seen the deep flush creeping up his neck, turning his cheeks a fierce shade of red.

THE TEDDY BEAR

“Stop staring.” You nudge his foot under the table, twirling the lollipop in your mouth—the strawberry ones. You used to hate the flavour, the fruit too, but it was impossible to keep up when it’s his favourite. “Am I ugly or something?”

Soobin hasn’t stopped looking at you since you showed up at his house. Not the kind of stare that lingers, but the kind that keeps sneaking glances every five minutes, like he can’t help it.

You cut your hair. The long strands that used to reach your back now barely brush your shoulders. Because I’m turning 18 tomorrow, you told him earlier. And of course, he laughed.

“Okay, okay,” he finally says, chuckling. You’re sprawled out on his bed now, while he’s still at his desk, spinning a pen between his fingers. “Do you wanna sleep over tonight?”

You freeze. Hands dropping from your face, you stare at him. “Why?” you ask, voice laced with suspicion. “Seriously? I’ve spent the midnight of my birthday with you for almost… five years now?”

“Four years.” — “What?”

“It’s four, not five.” He pushes up his reading glasses—the ones that somehow make him look even more handsome. Not that you’d ever admit it. He leans back in his chair, casual as ever. “Stay over, okay? Let’s play League.”

You scoff. “So you can bully me the whole time? Yeah, no thanks.”

“I’ll go easy on you.”

You grab a pillow and chuck it at him. He catches it effortlessly, smirking. “That’s worse!”

You stayed. One pout from him, and you caved. You acted annoyed, but in truth, you just didn’t want him to know how easily he could sway you. You will do anything to hide the fact that he had you wrapped around his finger, whether he knew it or not.

And so, you played. You laughed until your stomach hurt, cursed loud enough that Soobin’s sister pounded on the door, yelling at you both to shut up. But it didn’t matter. Nothing outside that room ever really did when it was just the two of you.

Your birthdays used to be simple, just another day with family, another year passing by. But ever since Soobin came along, they became something special. Something that felt irreplaceable. And the thought of him not being there, of waking up to a birthday where he wasn’t the first person you saw, made your throat tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

Maybe you didn’t want to explain it. Maybe you were scared to.

"Let's go out to the balcony," he says, shutting off his computer with a final click. You glance at the clock—11:45 PM. Fifteen minutes till you turn eighteen.

"Why?"

"Just because." He nudges you forward, hands settling on your shoulders, his touch impossibly light. No matter how much taller or broader he’s gotten over the years, he never holds you too tightly. It’s always careful. And that’s why your heart stutters in your chest every time.

You step outside, the night air crisp against your skin. The trees sway below, dark silhouettes against the dim glow of the streetlights. You wrap your arms around yourself, glancing at him. "So… are we spending my birthday just standing here?" you tease. "Shouldn't we be doing something? Eating ice cream, maybe?"

He smiles, "We’ll do that after," he says, already stepping back inside. "Wait here."

You're confused as he leaves you outside. Through the thin curtain, you see his shadow moving; shuffling, hesitating. "Soobin, don’t tell me you got me a cake or something," you call out, teasing. He doesn’t answer right away, and that alone makes you smirk. "So you did get me a cake."

"Sh—no. Yes. Ugh, I hate you," he groans, but when he steps out, there it is, a cake in his hands, eighteen candles flickering in the night breeze. He clears his throat, awkwardly starting, "Happy birthday to you…" His voice is unsure, barely above a murmur, but it’s enough. You smile, and as cheesy as it sounds, your heart clenches in your chest. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of the moment settle over you.

Please let forever be like this.

You blow out the candles, and when you open your eyes, he’s grinning. "I baked this, by the way."

"Wow, looks amazing," you breathe, taking the cake from him. The effort, the slightly uneven letters of your name written on top—it makes your throat tighten. You don’t say anything, just sit down beside him, forks in hand, digging straight into the cake. The wind picks up slightly, ruffling your hair, but neither of you cares. You talk, laugh, and steal bites from each other’s sides, like time doesn’t exist.

"Y/N," he says, your name rolling off his tongue softer than usual. His gaze lingers, watching as you hug the big white teddy bear he got you. Your fingers clutch the plush fur, cheeks pressed against it, lips curled into a quiet, content smile.

His chest tightens.

"Eight years... For eight years, I, I've been," He falters, blinking, momentarily losing himself in the way your eyes widen at him. God. You’re beautiful.

"Hmm?"

He exhales sharply, fingers twitching at his sides. His heartbeat stumbles over itself, but before he can think, before he can think of the script he rehearsed over and over, before he can convince himself to hold back—

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then, warm—featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours. "Wake up, sleepyhead. It's almost midnight,"

You laugh softly when you feel him press another kiss behind your ear. Turning over, you’re met with his familiar smirk, eyes already tracing every inch of your face like it’s the first time he’s seeing you. His hands find your cheeks, cradling them gently—like he always does. As if he hasn’t held you a thousand times before. As if you haven’t been his to hold since high school.

"It's a crime to be this pretty when you just woke up, don't you think?" he teases, his nose bumping against yours before he gives your lips a quick peck. "I love looking at you,"

"We're seriously keeping up with the tradition?" you mumble, voice still heavy with sleep as you reach for him, burying your face against his shoulder blades. Your eyes slip shut again, and he hums softly, his hand tracing slow, soothing patterns on your back.

"Happy 25th birthday, baby," he murmurs. Then, softer—like he’s letting the words settle between you before he dares breathe again, "I love you." His voice pulls you from the edges of sleep, and when your eyes flutter open, you find him already watching you.

Is there anything in this world more beautiful than love? More sacred than being loved?

"Thank you," you reply, smiling. He sits up beside you, and you chuckle softly as he fumbles for something on the floor beside the bed. "What did you get me this time?"

But then your breath stumbles. White roses. A small black box in his hands. Your heart clenches. "Soobin,"

"I’ve been thinking about how I should do this," he starts, chuckling nervously, though his fingers tighten around the box as if anchoring himself. "I thought about renting a place, throwing a party, taking you to some fancy dinner, or even an overseas trip." His gaze finds yours, earnest. "But the truth is, nothing makes me happier than waking up beside you. Nothing feels more right than this—just us, here, like this. So I chose this moment, this place… because I want it forever."

His voice trembles, his hands unfolding the box before you. The silver ring with a single diamond sitting atop. "So please," he whispers, his throat tight, his eyes searching yours. "Could you—will you—marry me?"

“Fuck.” The word rips from your throat as reality slams into you. The room is chaos—voices rising, bodies moving, the cold bite of metal and plastic pressing against your skin. The doctor’s hands fly across his keyboard, adjusting something you don’t understand, while the nurse grips your shoulders like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You’re crying.

You don’t remember when it started, but the tears won’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps as your hands scramble to your chest, fingers clutching desperately at the thin chain around your neck. The ring is warm against your skin, pressed into your palm, solid and real. His ring. The one he slid onto your finger with shaking hands.

“Please,” your voice cracks, “please—just let me keep this.”

The nurse exchanges a glance with the doctor. Their hesitation is suffocating. “We need to take it,” someone says—calm, detached. Like this is just another part of the process. Like it doesn’t matter. “It goes with the rest of your belongings.”

Your heart seizes. The box? What else was in the box? You try to remember, but your mind is a blur of static, you can't. You can't remember now. “No,” you sob, curling around it, pressing it to your lips, your chest, anywhere that might keep it safe. “Please. Not this."

The nurse looks at you with something that almost feels like pity. A softness in her eyes that only makes your chest ache more. “You’re almost done, honey,” she murmurs, her voice gentle, coaxing. “A little more. You can do this. Just close your eyes. You just have to close your eyes.” Your hands won’t stop shaking. The tremors run up your arms, through your ribs, settling somewhere deep in your throat. You feel the prick of a needle, the slow push of something cold into your veins. It soothes the sharp edges, dulls the panic—but not enough. Not enough to stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. “Close your eyes,” she whispers again.

You do.

Your hands are in his. The car hums beneath you, the city lights flashing by in a blur, but all you can focus on is him. He drives with one hand, the other wrapped around yours, bringing it to his lips every time you hit a red light. Soft, lingering kisses against your knuckles, “How many babies would you want?”

You nearly choke on your drink, coughing as you turn to him. “What?”

He laughs, eyes flicking toward you for just a second before focusing back on the road. “I mean… I’d love as many as we can have. But of course, it’s your body, baby. You get to tell me.”

Your heart flutters. “We don’t even have a wedding date yet.” Another red light. Another kiss against your hand.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “It just crossed my mind. Last night, I dreamt of a little girl… she looked just like you.” He pauses, his thumb brushing against your skin. “She was so beautiful. Like you. And I—”

His words are cut off by the violent, shattering force of metal colliding with metal. The world twists—spins—flips. A scream rips from your throat as the car is thrown into chaos, gravity shifting, glass cracking, the deafening sound of impact swallowing everything.

In the middle of it all, his hand finds yours. Instinctive. Desperate.

Then—stillness.

A ringing in your ears. The distant sound of voices, footsteps pounding against the pavement. Shadows moving outside the wreck. Someone is calling, you think it's for an ambulance. Your chest heaves as you groan, the taste of blood thick on your tongue. Pain radiates from everywhere, your head throbbing as you press trembling fingers against your scalp. Everything hurts.

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

You look to your right and he’s already looking at your face. Pale, dazed, blinking too slowly. "Y/N, are you okay?" His voice is hoarse, weak, but when you nod, he exhales a shaky, "Thank fuck."

His grip tightens around your hand. You can barely feel it, your body is numb, adrenaline rushing through your veins. But you squeeze back. Hold on. You breathe. It’s going to be okay. The ambulance is coming.

Then your eyes drop. And your stomach lurches. "Soobin?"

A jagged piece of debris—large, sharp, too deep—juts from his stomach, trailing up his chest. Blood blooms around it, staining his shirt, spilling over his hands where he grips it like he’s not sure whether to pull or hold on.

Your world tilts again. This is just a dream. "Soobin, what—what—how the—"

There’s so much blood. Too much. Your hands press against the wound trembling, trying to keep it from spilling out, but it’s everywhere—warm and sticky between your fingers, staining your skin, pooling beneath him. You’re sobbing, whispering frantic words that don’t make sense, but you can’t even hear yourself. The panic is eating your face, roaring in your ears as you struggle to breathe. “How should I—”

Then his fingers find your face.

His touch is weak but certain, cradling your cheeks, forcing your wild, tear-filled eyes to meet his. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, but stronger than it should be. “Look at me.” His grip tightens, thumbs brushing your tears away. “Baby, shhh, look at me.”

You shake your head, choking on a sob. “Soobin—”

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

You’re unravelling. He’s bleeding out beneath you, and you can’t do a damn thing to stop it. “Help! Please, someone help us!” you scream, voice cracking. There are people—so many people—but no one can touch him.

His breath stutters, but he still holds onto you. “Y/N.” Your eyes blur with tears as you grip his hand, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek. “Look at me, yeah?” His lips tremble, but he’s still here, still fighting to keep you calm. “Just keep looking at me. Please.” His forehead rests against yours. “It doesn’t hurt when you’re looking at me. We’re gonna get help soon. You're gonna get help soon, okay?”

The last memory crashes over you, pulling you under. Your chest feels heavy, unbearably so, but then… slowly… it gives. The weight that has kept you drowning eases, just enough for you to take a breath. The sound of machines hums beside you. A final tear slips down your cheek.

It feels like the end.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, just to see him one last time—the Soobin you knew like the back of your hand. And then, you see his face. That soft, lopsided grin that always made your heart stumble. His voice is a whisper, just a breath against your skin.

“I’m proud of you.” Your lip trembles. “You’ll be okay.”

"Congratulations, it's successful."

The doctor shakes your hand, his grip firm, reassuring. You smile, nodding along. The nurse beside him looks at you with warmth, and before she can react, you throw your arms around her. She lets out a small gasp before melting into the hug.

You feel light. Weightless.

They tell you the treatment worked. They tell you your mother is waiting outside. You nod again, absorbing their words, but for a brief moment, your fingers drift to your neck, expecting something to be there. But it’s bare.

You push the thought away as you step outside. The air feels fresh against your skin, and then you see her. Your mother. She looks thinner than you remember, her cheeks a little sunken, her eyes holding something you can’t quite place. Had she lost weight?

"Hi, Mom," you say, smiling. She looks at you—really looks at you—and her lips part. She smiles back.

"Oh, honey," she breathes, pulling you into her arms.

You giggle, warmth spreading through your chest. "What’s wrong?"

She pulls back just enough to cup your face, shaking her head. "Let’s go home, okay?" You nod, letting her guide you toward the entrance. Everything feels new, yet oddly familiar, like a dream you barely remember but somehow miss.

You're about to step outside when someone walks in. A bouquet of white roses in their arms. Your breath catches, feet falter. Your head turns instinctively, eyes following the flowers, something deep in your chest stirring, something you can’t name.

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

You blink, exhaling softly. "Nothing." You force a small smile, eyes lingering on the roses. "Those flowers… it’s beautiful."

"Yeah, I'll go home after class, Mom," you say, balancing your phone between your shoulder and ear as you adjust your bag. "Plus, I'm nineteen. An adult now. I can take care of myself."

Your mom chuckles on the other end, the kind of laugh that says she doesn’t quite believe you but won’t argue. "Alright, alright. Just don’t stay out too late."

"I won’t." She sighs, but you can hear the smile in her voice as she bids you goodbye.

The campus is buzzing with energy, students milling about for the event. It’s a collaboration between three schools—art students showcasing their work, others just here to admire. Beside you, Wonyoung loops her arm through yours, eyes scanning the crowd. "Girl, I’m getting us drinks," she announces. "Wait for me here."

You roll your eyes with a laugh. "Okay, okay. Don’t take forever." She winks before disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing in the middle of it all.

Your eyes drift over the canvases, taking in the strokes of colour, the textures, the stories woven into the art. And then, you stop. Something about this one halts you mid-step. Oh. It’s a painting of—

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

The voice beside you is warm, curious. You turn, finding a tall boy with black specs watching you, his hands tucked into his pockets. He shifts slightly when you meet his gaze, and after a beat, he offers you a small, hesitant smile. It’s barely there, just a quirk of his lips. And yet… his dimples poke through anyway.

He’s cute.

“It’s my favourite,” you reply, tearing your eyes away from the painting.

He nods, a quiet hum escaping him. “Mine too.” Then, after a pause, “Kikyo or Kagome?”

You blink at him. He stares at you, and something in your chest stirs.

Not deja vu—no, it’s not that fleeting, ghostly sense of repetition. This is different. Deeper. It feels like a memory you never knew you had, something tucked away in the quiet corners of your mind. Like a song, you don’t remember learning but somehow know all the words to. Like a book misplaced on a shelf, rediscovered years later—its pages worn, its story intact, as if it had been waiting for you to return.

It feels like something preserved, sealed in the vault of you.

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

taglist: I love you @.beombunni @.lovingbeomgyudayone @.virtaideen @.hyukascampfire @.fancypeacepersona @.bamgeutori @.lilbrorufr @.beomieeeeeeeeeeees @.xylatox @.yunverie @.imlonelydontsendhelp @.moagyuu @.soobinbunnie5 @.usuallyunlikelyfox @.txtzyallinme @.younbeanz @.fatbixchwithanopinion @.bakudon @.readinmidnight @.flowzel @.zaynspidey @.joieouioui @.kiyof @.tubasmiracle @.bamgyuuuri @.heechwe @.takimakiiiii @.whatblop @.frankghgr @.lostgirlysstuff @.philijack

[yourstrulynobody]

Trying to write "Eclipse's Eclipse Twins", but Im hyperfixating on this instead so have a continuation I guess??

"Monty and Roxanne FIND OUT!" (fake EAPS ep and thumbnail)

(storyline under cut)

(btw: Im horrible at interpreting personalities, so I do apologize if theyre out of character! Please do correct me by all means ty :D!!!)

(Montessa is EAPS Monty :) )

Two pairs of footsteps make their way to theatre, one thudding so loudly it muted the other who squeaked against the tiles. Along it were two female voices belonging to Roxanne and Montessa, accompanying the repetitive noise with a disagreement on their current situation.

Roxanne moves her hands in an exaggerated manner, trying to emphasize her words physically. "..all Im saying is that one of those three couldve taken him, especially Afton." She speaks in a tone that dismisses Montessa's theory, making the other pout as she continues. "Theres just no way he ran. Not in a time like this."

A soft sound mimicking an exhale escapes pass Montessa's lips before they purse. "He couldnt...—they couldnt have just taken him like that. Not one of them can make it pass any of the entrances without setting off an alarm we all wouldve heard.

"It just doesn't make sense..." She continues, her fingers curling around her snout as her thoughts rage on. "He went somewhere. I know so. Hes been... hes been stressed lately and I think we've done nothing but intensify that."

"What? Trying to get him a social life?" Roxanne's step causes the shutters of the theatre to rise, allowing their entrance. "We all agreed he needed one."

"Yes, but—" Montessa sucks her teeth, sighing as she realized the argument was futile. "Lets just ask Solar Flare. I mean, hes always around the guy, so he must know something, right?"

Golden eyes lock onto the back room behind the counter, and Roxanne's ears lower while her anxiety raises. "He has been quiet... too quiet. So I guess I wouldnt be surprised if he knew something..." She trails off, her ears perking up in sudden interest.

Narrowing her eyes, Roxanne spots a bright neon glow reflecting off the metal beams of the shelves from the back room. Her enhanced audio pickup sending her feedbacks of a hushed conversation, though unable to know what was said, the voices were recognized as Solar Flare's alongside Andy's, Jake's and Andrew's.

Roxanne allows her body to act intinstively; rushing to jump over the counter and slide into the back room just as Andy and Jake jump into a blue light—a portal. Retracting her claws that slowed her momentum, she stands up straight, staring in disbelief.

"Whats happening?" Roxanne demands though her voice dropped to nothing but a whisper.

Solar Flare's eyes narrow, covering Andrew with his body while his arm extends to shield the child further. "Classified." He speaks in a low voice, nearly growling. To Andrew, however, his tone softened. "Andrew, get in. Do not let them wait."

Andrew takes one last look at the room before slipping into the portal as well, only allowing Montessa to get a glimpse of the bright source before it disappears in a flash, making her optics reset for a brief moment.

"Fuck! What the—" Montessa's fist knocks against her temple, forcing her vision to repair itself quick. Still, she did not need to see it all to know what it was. "That was a portal. What was..."

"The kids—Eclipse's kids jumped into that thing," Roxanne would summarize, shaking her surprise off as he regains her confidence. "And Solar Flare allowed it to happen."

Solar Flare raises his head high as if his height wasnt enough. "I was simply told to." He defends himself, but Roxanne wasnt gonna allow him to continue doing so.

Tight fists grab Solar Flare by his collar as the fabric tears because of the extracted claws, dragging him down to the wolf animatronic's height. She would snarl as her teeth bares, showing a daring bite she was willing to pull if any defiant moves were made—too violent. Montessa quickly seperates them upon realization, going between the two to avoid more physical confrontation.

Montessa looks back at Solar Flare, unable to form her thoughts orderly at the revelation. "How... why—who ordered you to do that?"

"Requested." Solar Flare corrects, dusting the hem of his shirt off. "But that is none of your concern as it is classified."

"Solar Flare!" Roxanne tries to push forward, but Montessa holds her back. She claws with now numb fingers on Montessa's arms, though still possibly denting the metal skin lightly under the pressure. "Who told you to do that?! And why would you listen?!"

Solar Flare stands his ground, unphased by the reaction as he merely repeats his words. "It is classified—"

"I DONT CARE IF ITS CLASSIFIED!" Roxanne snaps, her claws threatening to go out. Her eyes flicker to a bright purple before it disappears, and she growls as though in raging hunger. "You took them somewhere that could be dangerous without Eclipse's permission at all—! The guy is missing and you take his kids away like that! What is wrong with you?!"

Profanities and scolding escape Roxanne's mouth, but Montessa blocks it all out once she and Solar Flare lock eyes, a look of knowing coming from Solar Flare suggesting...

..that Montessa was right.

She nearly lets go of Roxanne due to it, but she returns her hold in a tighter grip as Solar Flare dismisses himself, leaving the duo alone with their thoughts.

"Montessa!" Roxanne pushes herself away, stumbling backwards but she caught her footing. She hisses when the purple in her eyes return, but she shakes her head and its golden color returns. "Why bother holding me back—?!"

"He left us." Montessa mutters in a tone just as questioning as Roxanne's.

Roxanne sighs in frustration, the purple hue rising in her eyes once more. "Yeah, because you didnt let me go! You held me—"

"Eclipse left us." Montessa breaths out, her eyes shaking as they met Roxanne's. "Eclipse left."

Roxanne's eyes widen as they return to their original color, her ears lowering just as much as her tail had.

She wants to argue—to tell Montessa she was wrong and that Eclipse hadnt because it wasnt the time to leave, not when all of this was still happening, but Montessa's voice full of disbelief told Roxanne enough: even Montessa didnt wanna believe what she knew.

They stood in silence. A silence loud enough to deafen the air conditioner running, to make even white noises muted, to silence the voice whispering for them to destroy everyone in their way. Now, they were left with an unwanted responsibility:

How would they tell the others?

How do they tell the others to stop looking for a man who tore down his own missing posters?

[littlemissrbf]

Summer Lovin’

Robert “Bob” Floyd x Fem!Reader

Y’all I am so late to the Bob Floyd hype train but I can’t stop thinking about giving him the full SoCal experience (Also is Bob actually from Montana or is that just a widely accepted hc ?)

(No use of y/n, fem!reader, reader is a SoCal native, language, for the purpose of this fic Bob is from Montana, reader has an annoying but loving uncle, I think this is gonna end up being a multi-part fic)

Part 1 [Word Count: 3k]

Meeting a man like Robert Floyd had to be a moment of pure fucking luck.

The drive down to San Diego was a complete bitch. You were on your way to Naval Base Point Loma for your uncle’s retirement ceremony and of course, when you got there, you were stuck at the main gate because of your lack of military ID or spouse card. You needed your uncle to basically confirm that you are family and let you in. You grabbed your phone off its stand and snickered to yourself at the contact name from when he had this ridiculous mustache that he refused to shave

“Hey siri, call Wannabe Tom Selleck.”

After a few rings, he picked up,

“Ohh guess who finally decided to show up. Lemme guess, you need me to come buzz you in?”

“Yep.”

“Well what’s the magic word?”

You let out a groan and tried again,

“Can you please come get me, I’ve been driving for two hours and I feel like if I don’t stretch my legs in the next five minutes I’m gonna lose it.”

“Relax kiddo, I’m on my way.”

The ceremony started promptly at one and was over by two, your uncle spent the next hour showing your family around the base then you took family photos on the beach for a bit. At dinner, your relatives gave you the interrogation of a lifetime: asking about your school, work, and relationships. The last topic had you flustered as it had been a while since you’d actually dated anyone. Sure, you had some flings here and there, but nothing actually serious or worth bringing home to meet your family.

“You really ought to find yourself a military man just like your aunt, that way you only have to deal with him for about half the year, and you’d get the whole house to yourself while he’s away.”

Laughter erupted around the table, and your uncle smiled over his glass before speaking,

“Well that’s the case for about 20 years or so, then he retires and you’re stuck with him and his loud-ass snoring forever.” He lazily threw his arm around his wife, who rolled her eyes and smiled.

You reached out to hold her hand and asked, “Seriously Auntie, how have you put up with him for this long?"

She gave your fingers a squeeze and replied, “Well sweetie, he’s the love of my life, and I just have to remind myself of that sometimes. Especially when I’m thinking of smothering him with my pillow.”

The sound of laughter bounced around the restaurant, and you laughed along too, but your mind was still stuck on the idea of 'finding yourself a military man'. Of course, you wanted to find a good man to settle down with but it wasn’t that simple, it felt like literally every part of dating was a struggle for you, even meeting people was hard. And then there was the other thought, if you were to be with a navy/army/whatever guy who was deployed half of the year, is that something you could realistically handle. You'd never been in a long-distance relationship and you've heard the stories about military spouses who's partners cheat while away. Or what if he's perfect and you love him and everything is great- and then he gets stationed in another state. Then you would have to choose between staying close to your family or moving to stay close to him. Your uncle must have noticed you spacing out, or maybe he saw the way your eyebrows furrowed a bit as you pondered the hypothetical relationship with a military man. He took a piece of his napkin, rolled it between his fingers, and flicked it at you from the palm of his hand. It hit you right between your brows and you turned to him with a (greatly exaggerated) open-mouth face of shock, with a hand over your chest 'clutching your pearls'.

He threw his head back as he laughed at you,

“Geez Louise kiddo you’ve gotta lighten up a bit, maybe live a little.”

You scoffed “Gee thanks for the advice, any more suggestions on how to ‘live a little’ old man?”

Before he could respond to your sarcasm with his usual quips or a clever joke, a brilliant idea hit him like a brick, and you swore you could actually see the little lightbulb appear over his head.

“We’re going to the beach.”

The “beach” in question was actually a military-access beach on Coronado Island called “Breakers Beach”. Since it was a part of Naval Air Station North Island, it was only available to military personnel and their guests. You had given your keys to your aunt, who was ready to go home after a day in heels and her second glass of wine, so your uncle drove the two of you in his truck. Turns out, your little field trip to the “beach” was actually a little field trip to a bar called the “Hard Deck”.

You’d heard about it before in one of your uncle's stories, he was arm-wrestling another officer at the bar when a man at the other end accidentally knocked over a drink. The wet counter caused his elbow to slip, he lost the match and got stuck paying for his buddy’s tab. Of course, he then grabbed the man from the end of the bar and dragged him outside by his collar (at least he had the "decency" to take him outside before bashing his face in). Turns out, the man was a flight instructor for the Top Gun program, so bashing his face in was not a good idea and probably would’ve resulted in a lifelong ban from the bar. They apologized, shook hands, and then did some shots together.

Your uncle pulled up to the gate with his ID ready, the man in the booth took it and looked your way, and you handed over your driver's license. He looked between the two of you and asked for your "relation?" Before you got the chance to respond, your uncle smiled at the man and clapped his hand on your shoulder like he was showing off a new car at the dealership,

“Oh, this young lady right here is my beautiful niece who just so happens to be single.”

Then he fucking winked at the officer and brought his elbow up in a “nudge-nudge” gesture.

You felt your heart stop. The son of a bitch was actively trying to get you a man.

“Oh my god please no” you begged with your face now buried in your palms, but he was still going at it with the poor guy who just stood there dumbfounded.

“I’m just saying if you’re single and she’s single-”

You cut him off, “Sir, I am so sorry please ignore him.” But he just couldn't shut the fuck up,

“See? Look how polite she is, son I’m telling you this is honest to God girlfriend material right here!”

Finally, the poor man spoke up,

“I uh- already have a girlfriend sir.” he gave a little shrug as he handed back your IDs and opened the gate.

Your uncle didn't miss a beat.

“Well in that case, son, you just dodged a bullet cause she’s actually a handful, you have a good night.” he said with a grin, then slowly pulled through the gate.

You waited until you were out of earshot,

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, I love you too.”

After a few minutes of driving in complete silence, you made it to the bar and he pulled into a spot. Realizing that your uncle was about to go boyfriend hunting for you in a bar full of Naval officers you pulled down the sun visor’s mirror to check your face and hair. You had dressed up and done a bit more makeup than usual because it was his damn retirement ceremony and you knew your family was going to take pictures. You picked one of your nice dresses, a blue short-sleeved one that cut off just above your knees and was perfect for the warm weather, you wore some ankle boots with a small heel and a purse to match. You had no idea if you were overdressed or underdressed, and honestly, you don’t really know which is worse. Your uncle had changed out of his dress whites before dinner and now he wore just jeans and a polo shirt, so between the two of you, you definitely looked overdressed.

Your uncle made his way over to you as you hopped out of the truck, and put both hands on your shoulders,

"Here's the game plan kiddo, we're gonna go in there, get some drinks, and have a good time. I don't wanna hear any complaining. You're gonna go put yourself out there and meet some guys and get their numbers. And if anyone starts giving you trouble, I'll take care of it."

You looked up at him, nodded, and gave a small smile. Despite all the jokes and embarrassing moments from the day, it was nice to know that he cared and would protect you no matter what.

You sighed and turned towards the bar, thinking 'fuck it, I've got this'

Dear lord, you did not 'got this'. You did not 'got this' at all. The bar was completely full of patrons and it wasn't even six yet, and it was loud. All the conversations, the multiple pool games going on, and the music playing in the background layered on top of each other.

Your uncle agreed to stay with you for a bit while you worked up the nerves to go out on your own, you sat together at the corner of the bar facing towards each other. Your uncle strategically sat down so that he was facing the TVs, and you were facing the other end of the bar where the pool tables were. There was a group around one of the tables, all in their khaki uniforms, there were about ten or twelve of them in total, but a smaller group of five stood closer to the table chatting. A woman at the center caught your eye immediately, she was shorter than the men around her, but she carried herself with no less confidence. She was talking to two men standing together, probably good friends and another two were placed on each side of the table.

Your uncle turned around to follow your gaze, then turned around once he saw the group you had been watching

"Someone's interested, alright which one of 'em is it?"

"Calm down, I was just trying to figure out what their uniforms are for."

"They're probably pilots."

"How can you tell?"

"Bunch of little nerds, just look at the one with the glasses over there."

You raised an eyebrow, there were about ten faces you skimmed over and absolutely none of them had glasses.

"On a stool, to the right. Look but don't be obvious."

You rolled your eyes and shifted your gaze past your uncle to look for the "little nerd" and sure enough, there he was. He was sitting on a stool with a cup of peanuts, watching the conversation in front of him. His hair was sandy blonde and styled nicely, he wore the same uniform as the rest of the group, and he had some huge fucking glasses which would've been ridiculous had he not been so good-looking. He's pretty cute- but of course, it's the one your uncle makes fun of that would catch your eye, you smiled as you thought to yourself.

Then he turned, and suddenly he was looking straight at you.

You immediately looked down, startled by the sudden eye contact, after a beat you looked up to see if he had turned away yet. He didn't. When he caught you staring a second time, a small smile crept up on his lips, and raised his hand to give a little wave. Damn it he's cute. You smiled back, but instead of waving back you looked down again in embarrassment and started fiddling with your hair. Your uncle did not miss the interaction,

"Seriously, him?"

"Dude stop he's gonna hear you."

"I mean, you do you kiddo but he's probably only gonna ever want to talk about Star Wars, and video games, and books."

"I like those things."

You peeked over and sure enough, he was looking too.

"You like 'em little nerds."

"Okay stop saying 'little' and 'nerds' you old man or I'm gonna start introducing you as my grandpa."

"Ya know what, just for that you're on your own, I'll be over there watching the game and you're gonna go socialize."

He grabbed his beer and slid off his barstool, giving your shoulder two taps as a 'good luck' before making his way over to a booth near the TVs where he joined a group of patrons he recognized.

When you turned again to see if the man with the glasses was still looking he was now talking to the group of pilots around him. You watched as he stood up from his chair, took the cue that was being handed to him by the woman from earlier, and began to set up a game of 9-ball for the group. You were a bit disappointed that his focus was on something else but relieved that you didn't have to immediately go and strike up a conversation, you wanted to prepare a little. The woman behind the bar snapped you out of your daydreaming,

"Can I get you something to drink hun?"

You looked down at your empty glass, considered a second drink, then thought better of it. If you were actually gonna go talk to Mr. Glasses it was not gonna be while inebriated. You smiled back at her and asked shyly,

"Could I get something without alcohol?"

"Of course, sweetie. I can get you water, soda, or a Shirley Temple."

You hadn't had a Shirley Temple since you were a kid when it was your favorite thing in the world. You'd ask for it at every restaurant. It's just a ginger ale with some grenadine and maybe a cherry, nothing special, but the nostalgia hit you like a truck.

"Can I get a Shirley Temple please?"

"Sure thing, hun. I'll put it on your old man's tab"

You laughed as you thanked her, of course, she'd overheard your conversation earlier, she was probably standing directly in earshot the whole time. You turned toward the pool tables to see if Mr. Glasses was playing but instead, a tall blonde man held the cue and Mr. Glasses was off to the side next to another pilot with a buzzcut. The second you locked eyes again you smiled quickly, so you didn't seem rude, and then turned away.

'Every time I look at him he's looking at me.' you smile to yourself as the bartender comes with your drink. She seems like such a sweet lady so you introduce yourself, shaking her hand and she introduces herself as 'Penny' and mentions that the Hard Deck is actually her bar.

You spend the next hour or so chatting with Penny whenever she's not too busy with the patrons. She asks what brings you to Breakers Beach and you tell her about your uncle's retirement and how he brought you here to basically find yourself a husband. She chuckles at this, before telling you to 'be careful with those aviators', when you ask what she means by that she shrugs and tells you 'it's a long story'.

You steal glances at Mr. Glasses whenever Penny is busy making drinks or working the cash register, and every time he catches you looking he tilts his head, a boyish grin plastered on his face.

Eventually, you notice the group of pilots start to make their way toward the bar for some more drinks, but Mr. Glasses stays at the pool tables holding the cues, cleaning up a bit. You feel a little tug on your heartstrings, he must be awkward, he has to be. Any other man would've struck up a conversation by now with the amount of times he's caught you staring.

Okay this is it, you're just gonna walk up to him, introduce yourself, and try to have a good conversation. If it goes well, great! And if it doesn't, then at least you know that you tried. You gather up the last beats of courage you can muster as you finish the last few sips of your drink, say a quick goodbye to Penny, and walk over to go meet Mr. Glasses.

He looks genuinely surprised when he notices you make your way over to him, when you're a few feet apart you manage to get out a "Hi" which comes out way higher than you intended. Before you can introduce yourself, his eyes light up

"Oh did you want to play?" He smiles and extends one of the cues to you.

"Huh?"

"Well, I noticed you look over a few times and I thought that maybe you just really wanted to play billiards."

Are you fucking kidding me, you'd spent the last couple of hours stealing glances and blushing at this guy from across the room and he thinks it's because you just 'really wanted to play pool?!' You haven't played pool in years but it would be too awkward for the both of you to just decline. And, if you play a game or two with him then that gives you the opportunity to actually talk to him. So you smile sweetly as you take the cue from him, softly brushing his fingers with your own, and you introduce yourself.

"Oh I'm Bob. Bob Floyd."

"Bob?"

"It's uh- it's short for Robert."

"Would you mind if I called you Robbie?" you asked, tilting your head.

"No, not at all." a pink blush spread to the tips of his ears.

You smiled as you had your own little lightbulb moment.

"Tell you what Robbie, let's play 9-ball and whoever loses has to buy the winner a drink."

He stared at you for a moment, mouth hanging slightly open, then he swallowed and looked down to pick up the cue chalk. He met your eyes again, and oh god he has gorgeous eyes, and he smiled, confidently now, and replied

"You're on."

(Author's Note: oh this is already wayyy longer than I had planned. I've never really written a fic before and I kinda just use the dividers when I don't know how to move from scene to scene. Let me know if you have any writing tips or suggestions! - update: I just went in with a couple of edits to fix the grammar and dialogue)

[shanastoryteller]

Not a prompt, I just keep thinking about the classic spn plot of "boys transported into au where they're happy" with the au being See Something, Say Something and the boy being Sam at his most depressed, and then sighing gleefully at the thought of how much angst he'd feel over everything. Beautiful fantasy.

See Something Say Something

Dean hears Sam shout and goes running.

Nothing should be able to get to them in their impenetrable dead guy bunker, but they’ve barely explored the place, who knows what kind of weird shit Sam could be getting into when Dean’s looking.

Except when he turns into the library, he sees Sam standing there looking perfectly fine. In fact, he looks great, something Dean’s long practiced at not noticing, but there’s something just a little off. Does he have less wrinkles? Did Sam sneak out and get botox when he wasn’t looking?

“Dean,” he says with obvious relief, completely unabashed, and it hits him hard. They’re not fighting, exactly, at the moment, but that’s more because they’ve made a mutual, silent decisions to stop talking about Amelia and Benny and purgatory than anything else. “Man, what happened?” He looks around. “What the hell are we doing at the bunker?”

“What?” he says blankly. Where else would we be. “Did you hit your head?”

He scrunches his nose and Dean almost smiles. “I don’t think so? Am I missing time?”

How would Dean know that?

Before he can say that, Sam turns the corner, head buried in a book. “Hey, Dean, I found–” He looks up and blinks. “Um.”

Dean reaches for his gun, but isn’t sure where to aim it.

“Oh.” Sam blinks. “Well, I guess I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

“Actually,” Dean hears himself saying, “we are in Kansas.”

Both Sams roll their eyes.

~

Other Sam is apparently from a parallel universe and he mostly seems unbothered by the whole thing, although the first thing he does is text a witch named Rowena for help. “This is probably her fault in my world,” he explains. “She’s always doing shit like this on accident. That’s the real problem with witches that are on her level, they just start fucking with the fabric of space and time for something to do.”

“Right,” Dean says. He needs a drink.

“Your hand,” his Sam says, a strange look on his face.

Dean follows his gaze and sees what must have upset him. The other Sam is wearing a wedding ring.

He’s spent his life trying and failing not to covet Sam in ways he shouldn’t. He’s done a lot of fucked up shit, hell, he’s fucked up in ways that put him about equal with the things they hunt, and this is something he should have gone over. Right, like his little snit over Amanda or whatever her name is hadn’t proved he hasn’t had a handle on it for a long time. He was better at ignoring it before hell. After, it was like all his careful self control had been ripped away from him, in all things. At least when he’s mad at Sam he’s not thinking of – things he shouldn’t.

Other Sam looks at his hand then at Sam’s and he becomes visibly upset, emotions so close to the surface in the way they haven’t been on Sam for a long time. Since before Dean sold his soul. “You’re not married?”

Sam shakes his head, hesitates, then asks, “What’s her name?”

“Jess,” he says, love and fondness clear in his voice.

Oh, fuck.

“Jessica Moore?” Sam whispers.

Other Sam lights up. “Yeah! You know her?”

“I did,” he says.

Other Sam isn’t stupid and his face crumples. “Oh, man, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“The demon,” Dean says so Sam doesn’t have to. “Yellow eyes.”

For some reason, the other Sam seems surprised, but he says, “Oh. Well,” he looks between them and forces an encouraging smile. “I mean, at least you still have each other, right?”

The bitterness is close enough to the surface that neither of them say anything.

Other Sam raises an eyebrow. “Lover’s spat? You know, me and Dean have found that fucking it out first really helps.”

Sam snorts and shakes his head like it’s a joke but the other Sam just looks confused by his reaction.

Dean feels his stomach bottom out. “Sam, I need to talk to you.”

His Sam starts to rise, but he grabs other Sam’s arm and drags him down the hall. He sees hurt briefly flash over his Sam’s face, but he doesn’t have time to do something about that right now. Other Sam follows him pliantly enough, even when Dean shoves them both into a random storage room. He just crosses his arms and waits.

Dean doesn’t know how to ask this. Even the idea of saying out loud this thing he’s been trying to will out of existence for most of his life terrifies him, because it can’t be, but if it is he needs to make sure that this Sam doesn’t say anything in front of his Sam.

“Are we,” he licks his lips. “Have we. I mean. When you said, before, did you.”

Sam blinks and then scowls. “Seriously? Jess is dead and we’re not sleeping together? What the hell have I been up to here?”

“What,” he says blankly. Holy shit. Really? No way.

Now Sam looks concerned. “Dean. You have told me, right?”

“Why the hell would I do that?” he spits. As if Sam isn’t always looking for reasons to leave him anyway and this would just be perfect. It’s not like he’d be able to blame him. Of course he wouldn’t want to be around Dean if he found out that he was in love with him.

Sam opens his mouth then closes it. “No, okay, I mean I was the one who – and I haven’t figured it out? Really? I mean, I did.”

Dean’s suddenly terrified. Could Sam know? But no, it’s not possible, if he knew he wouldn’t be here, if he knew then it would have come up in one of their many fights recently.

“You should tell me,” Sam says. “Or just, I don’t know, plant one on me and then go from there, I’ll figure it out pretty quick that way.”

Okay, not only is this Sam from a different universe, but he’s insane. “You don’t – you’re not – it’s just me. You’re not like me. You’re normal.”

Not normal in a lot of ways, but in this one. It’s not like he’s unaware of the irony of those times he’s called Sam a freak when he’s the one that wants to fuck his brother.

Except Sam gives him a dry look. “Dean, I’m pretty sure loving you is as fundamental to my DNA as nucleic acids. You’re probably just overthinking it.”

Overthinking it? He’s overthinking it?

“You can kiss me first for practice if you want,” he says.

Dean’s mouth goes dry. He wants it so badly he has to clench his hands into fists. “That’s a bad idea. I just – don’t say anything, alright? Don’t tell Sam.”

He rolls his eyes, like he finds Dean exasperating and unreasonable for not wanting the brother who he’s barely managing to hold onto to know his deepest, darkest, worst secret. “Fine, but you’re making a mistake.”

He’s not.

Making sure the worst part of him doesn’t ever touch Sam is one of the few things he’s done right.

[neonnecromancerhoe]

Sentryagent vs. nightmares

John was sleeping. Or more like trying to. He has been restless the last week. Even thought they have successfully completed last mission, he couldn't put a finger on why he has been fretful.

He was in that state of almost-sleep. Still aware of his surroundings but slowly dozing off.

In that blissful moment he heard a knock on his door.

John tried to ignore it. Really really tried.

But then the person knocked again .

"Yes?" John mutters and waits.

In a moment, the door cracks and Bob's head comes into his view as he slowly steps into John's room. Dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and pyjamas pants.

Of course it's Bob, John thinks and sits up in his bed.

"What do you want?" he snaps and looks at the clock "it's 2 a.m."

Bob shrinks to himself.

And John kind of feels like shit. It's not like he hates Bob, they got over the rocky beginnings. After 3 months living in the Tower, he can say he kind of gets on with everyone, even Bucky.

"I -" Bob says quietly and then stops, looks into the ground and takes a step back to the door. "I didn't wanna wake you up." mutters Bob.

"Well I am awake Bob, what's going on?" John really doesn't have a patience for this.

"I had a nightmare,"

"So?"

"I was wondering if I could stay with you?" asks Bob, still looking at the floor, hidden behind his hair.

"What?" John is dumbfounded. Of course he knows that Bob gets nightmares and that the Void is making everything probably even worse.

But why the fuck has Bob come to him?

"I had-" starts Bob again and flashes his gaze to the sofa John has in his room next to the window.

"No, I got that. I mean why come to my room? Why have you not gone to Yelena?" they were usually thick as thieves, so that would make sense.

"She is not here, they went out," says Bob, now looking apprehensively at John.

And... and John doesn't know how that makes him feel. They didn't even ask him?

His face must have shown something because Bob adds "You said you were tired when you left the living room, that's why they didn't ask."

"Sure, Bob." John falls back into the pillows and stares at the ceiling. "And what about you? Why not go with them?" Bob never went out to the clubs with them. John knew that.

But he still was an asshole. And since Bob woke him up from that anteroom of blissful sleep, he didn't feel like being nice right now.

There is silence. John moves his head to the side and sees Bob move his weight from one leg to another and shift closer to the door.

And one part of John was like yes, please get out. That was his asshole side. His other part, that went to the mandatory therapy these last three months felt bad for Bob. Cause he knew how bad the nightmares were. He had them himself.

Only, when he woke up, he usually went to the gym to destroy his body to the same state of anguish his mind was.

Looking at Bob and then at the ceiling again he gave up.

"You can stay on the sofa if you want, there's a blanket. And catch - " he threw a pillow from the other side of his bed to Bob. It hit Bob in a chest but he managed to catch it.

"Thank you, John," was the only thing he heard from Bob. John closed his eyes and listened to the silent movements as Bob was settling on that small two-seat couch.

Honestly, that was the best John could do. Letting Bob stay on the couch.

Or at least that's what he thought.

When he heard a quiet sobbing.

He was hoping Bob would stop soon. Because John was shit at comforting people. Olivia always told him.

But Bob did not stop.

After a few minutes John resigned himself, threw his duvet off and went to stand over now crying Bob.

"Move," he said and Bob flinched as if John had hit him.

"I'm not throwing you out, just move," he said in a considerably milder voice. Telling to himself that he was not a complete piece of shit.

Bob was slowly shifting himself into a seated position. He had puffy red eyes, was trembling and generally looked like shit.

Something broke in John.

He sat down and hugged Bob.

Of his own initiative. He embraced him tightly in his arms.

Bob was not moving. Not even breathing. It was as if John was holding a statue.

Then in a very fast movement Bob wrapped his arms around John and clutched to him, as if his life depended on it. He hid his face into the space between John's neck shoulder. Burrowed there. He still shivers and after a while John can feel his t-shirt getting wet.

And all John can do is to hold Bob.

Because he is shit with words.

So he holds Bob.

They sit there, bunched on a sofa too small for two grown men of their size, in silence. John starts to stroke his fingers over the fabric of Bob's sweatshirt.

Tiny movements meant to bring comfort.

It has been close to half an hour when Bob finally calms down, resting against John as if all the strength left him.

"I'm sorry," comes from Bob. And John doesn't even has the capacity to be annoyed.

He just rearranges them on the couch.

He is half-sitting, half laying down, leaning on the backrest and armrest, legs hanging off the sofa.

Bob is propped against him, head on John's chest, legs off the sofa as well.

It's not comfortable and his back is going to hurts like bitch in the morning.

But John catches himself that he doesn't care.

"Just try to sleep," he tells Bob, pulls the blanket over them and closes his eyes.

 █  █ █

I wrote this in one sitting watching F1 qualifying. Unfortunately for everyone, I do not posses the ability to read back anything I write so this has not been corrected at all. In my head it should be a comprehensive story.

I haven't written anything in the last 5 years and english is not my first language, so accept my apologies for any mistakes, please.

I have so many headcanons about John and would like to explore them. It comes easier to me to write in John's perspective but in a time I would love to work up to Bob's POVs.

I take and even welcome constructive criticism.

Also I suck at naming things in general and as you can see it clearly includes my writing. Will try to work on that.

[juletheghoul]

father figure IV

a/n: I know we’re all in our Joel feels, but Clint has me by the throat so 🤷🏻‍♀️ Hope you guys enjoy the drama! 💕xoxo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, Clint's POV, shitty dad (neglect), absent mother (abandonment issues), allusions to illegal activity, domestic violence (Clint's knuckles getting a pretty gnarly infection--medical talk), allusions to the daddy kink, not so secret relationship, **angst** Hurt/comfort, period piece - takes place in 1987, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader

Ko-fi link 🥲💕

word count: 4.7k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series Masterlist

---

He’s really fucked it up this time. 

His hand aches, sharp and deep–that shithead's tooth had broken off in his knuckle. Serves him right for speaking to her like that. Clint shakes his head, angry all over again only this time it’s coloured with shame. A bone-deep embarrassment that he’d let his anger get the better of him. The fear in her face is burned into his retinas. He sees it every time he blinks, hears her choking sobs as she pushed him out her door. 

His apartment is quiet, too quiet. His ears ring with the finality of it.

Louis meows as he moves towards the bathroom, the motion of grabbing his first aid kit from under the sink is practiced, too practiced but it is what it is. It’s not the first time he’s had to patch himself up. He fucking hates that he knows it won’t be the last. 

He wishes she was here, he wishes so badly that she was the one tending to him, gently washing his hand with that pretty smile on her face. He sighs again, how could he be so fucking stupid?

He bites his cheek, the sting is nothing new but it still fucking hurts. He curses loudly when he finally gets it out, the broken chunk of tooth falls into the sink, goes down the drain in a swirl of red. He wonders idly what she’s thinking at that very moment, how angry and hurt and disgusted… how terrified she must be of him. The shame burns through him much hotter than the anger. 

The shower steams while he strips, he does his best to keep his hand out of the spray, and his mind off of her skin but he fails at both. There’s none of that softness that overflows in him for her left for himself. He scrubs himself raw, replays the incident over and over again and the frustration almost makes him laugh. How quickly it all went to shit, how quickly he ruined his chances with her, and if by some miracle he hadn’t–it's clear to him that this whole thing was a mistake. 

He settles into his bed, hand bandaged and aching but the pain falls short compared to the stab of regret at smelling her within his sheets. 

He dreams about her, and when he wakes with the taste of her still fresh on his tongue, he doesn’t know if it’s better, or worse.

-

He picks up the phone at least a dozen times before noon. It’s a compulsion, her phone number itching in the tip of his finger, begging to be dialed but he stops himself. He shouldn’t call. He should just cut his losses, hope he didn’t do any long term damage to her confidence. 

He barely tastes the food he made, barely feels the wind whipping around his balcony while he smokes. The ache in his bruised, swollen knuckles makes him wince whenever he flexes but it’s become a grounding point, self-flagellation. His mother would laugh at that—she’d been Catholic while she was alive. He wishes they could have met. 

He shakes his head, crushes out the cigarette, crushes out that train of thought and heads back in to stew some more. 

Louis knows there’s something wrong, his meows sound almost comforting, his purrs seem extra loud. The cat plops onto his lap, a rare yet welcome occurrence. 

“I know buddy, I miss her too.” 

-

The phone rings on the third day out, he rushes out of the shower but doesn’t make it in time. Her voice comes through and it freezes the air in his lungs like a snowstorm.

“Clint? Clint what is happening? I expected you to be here, I expected to see you waiting for me after my shift, or call me or I don’t know, show up and talk to me about this? Aren’t you going to apologize? My dads fine by the way—not that you’ve bothered to ask about that either, and spare me the rationale behind this whole thing, I’m not expecting you to apologize to him but I was expecting my boyfriend to be here, to maybe not leave me stuck with paying for the ER visit. Call me, come see me, anything, and give Louis some love for me. Bye.”

There’s a bruise in his chest, something in his bones at the sound of her voice. There’s an anger there that he cannot blame her for, competing with disappointment. He wanted to go, but it wasn’t a good idea. He knew this, or at least, he kept trying to remind himself. It was doomed from the start, he wasn’t the one for her. She would move on, she would find someone closer to her age, someone appropriate. The thought of some young dumbass all over her makes his skin crawl. 

He flexes his knuckles, focuses on the pain, leaves the phone on the hook and goes to get dressed. 

The phone rings again a few hours later, this time he lets the machine get it on purpose. 

“Clint—This isn’t funny anymore. What is happening? Can you please just call me back? I’m getting really annoyed now—I’m about to leave for my shift, I finish at nine-thirty, can you please pick me up so we can talk about this? Bye.” 

He sighs, flexing his hand again. It’s going to scar with the way he keeps breaking the skin open but it helps. It takes the hand of god for him not to rush over to the video store, to catch her before she walks in and beg her to forgive him. Deep down he knows he won’t though. He has to let her go, let her forget him.

His skin prickles with a nervous edge as the evening progresses, makes him pace and smoke and eventually he can’t take it anymore. With an angry grunt he storms out, gets on his bike and rides way too fast. It helps with the adrenaline, but it fucks up his knuckles even more. The skin of his hand is red and he knows he should have someone take a look. 

By the time he gets home his whole body hurts, the tightness in his muscles, the pain of the injury,

The machine is beeping and he already knows. The time on his watch says 11:21pm.

“So it all bullshit then. Everything you said to me, about your feelings, about wanting me in your life. Partner, boyfriend…none of it was real…are you in the fucking hospital? Are you okay? Why are you ignoring me? How could you be so sweet, and then pretend I don’t exist? I cannot be invisible to you, Clint, please—please talk to me.”

Her words cut him deeper than her dads tooth, deeper than the knife that had scarred his face. He should eat, but he can’t. He feeds the cat, turns off the lights and gets into bed. 

-

The phone rings again a couple of days later, and the temptation is almost irresistible. He can hear the tears, hear the heartache he’s caused with his actions, with his silence. He hates himself. 

Her anger has swelled, fed and watered by her tears, by his abandonment of her. She asks what she did wrong, she asks why he won’t speak to her, if he’d even deign to answer the door if she came to his apartment and he wonders what he’d do if it came to that. Could he stand to hear the buzzing and do nothing? He hopes she won’t test him like that. He hopes she will. 

He disconnects the phone, he unplugs his answering machine. He sits with the silence, sits in his own cowardice while his knuckles get worse. He focuses on reorganizing his things, curses to himself when he finds the tapes he hasn’t returned. The girl on the cover–her doppelganger stares at him, the smile that had caught his attention because of their resemblance was now a taunt, accusatory and angry. He cannot return them now, she might be there. 

Thursday, he thinks. He’ll go on her day off, stop by the clinic on the way to get his hand checked out, pick up some meds and look for work. 

-

Thursday comes, and the clinic is rammed. There’s a mother rocking a sick child, an older couple sitting together. There are a few teenage girls all huddled together, he can vaguely hear them rehearsing their lines, how to ask for birth control, how to ask to get tested without raising the alarm. 

Clint remembers his introduction to puberty. It hadn’t been a slow bloom for him, it hadn’t been gentle, nothing in his life had. It had been violent, splinters in his bones and fitful sleep, beatings from his dad from how much he’d needed to eat. The hunger had gotten him in so much trouble, and had cost his mother more than money. 

“Clint Flood–” The nurse calls him, and he rises, leaves the painful memories behind and follows her into the examination room. 

“Doctor will be with you shortly.” He nods at her, sits in silence when she closes the door behind her. Diplomas line the walls, certificates too. Alongside those same boring watercolours and inspirational posters that seem to live in every doctor's office. There’s a comfort in getting lost in that landscape, safe, quiet, empty. 

It startles Clint a bit when the doctor opens the door with what he knows is his chart clutched in the man's hands. He can only imagine the laundry list of injuries in there. 

“What seems to be the problem Mr. Flood?” The doctor sits, smiling benignly. 

“My hand–” He pulls the bandage away, hissing at the pain. The gasp the doctor lets out doesn’t inspire confidence. 

“May I?” Competent, yet delicate hands reach for him and he nods. The doctor frowns, reaches for the glasses in his shirt pocket to see the injury clearer. 

“This looks nasty, I’m imagining it hurts very much.” 

“You aren’t kidding.” Clint huffs out a breath, clenching his jaw while the man squeezes his hand a tad. 

“Can you tell me what happened? Is this an animal bite?” 

“No, it was… an altercation. I pulled a piece of tooth out of it a few days ago.” The doctor's eyebrows raise into his receding hairline. 

“A human mouth did this?” He lets it go, moving back to grab some gloves as well as a syringe and a vial from a cabinet. 

“Yes. I got into a fight.” 

“I am terrified to imagine what the other guy looks like. Well, the human mouth is a nasty cesspit. Not surprised at how infected it is. I do wish you would have come in sooner, could have avoided this.” He fills the syringe with a clear fluid. 

“Is it really bad?” Clint knows it is, the shooting pains, the swollen, purple-red skin tells him it is. 

“It’s not good. I’m going to give you a shot, and then start you on a course of pretty aggressive antibiotics. Just to clear it all up. Luckily it looks like it didn’t hit a bone or a nerve or it would be really bad.” He gives Clint no warning, and injects a few different points of his hand. He grits his teeth because it fucking sucks. 

“Okay, that should help with the swelling and the pain, and then I’m going to prescribe some pills, please don’t skip any doses, and come back if it gets worse. If you see the skin turning black, or the redness spreading then go straight to the hospital.” The used needle goes into the yellow sharps container, his hand gets flushed with some saline, and then a fresh bandage wraps the whole thing up. 

“There we go, all taken care of. I’ll give you some more gauze–”

“I have some at home, got a first aid kit.” Clint rises, the doctor nods. With a quick unreadable scribble he’s free to go with his prescription. 

-

The video store is empty of customers, but his stomach drops when their eyes lock. She looks upset, she looks like she hasn’t slept, she looks like she hasn’t stopped crying and instantly his heart cracks in half at how her eyes water. 

“I’m sorry–” He tries to back away, but her eyes harden and he’s stuck in his spot.

“You’re sorry?” 

He takes a slight step back, cowering under her gaze. 

“So you thought to come and return your fucking tapes when you thought I’d be off? Is that it? Are you such a fucking coward Clint?” She isn’t yelling but he almost wishes she was. Her every word is an icicle, and it’s so much worse. 

“No, I–I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. It’s better this way.” He clenches his jaw, flexes his hand and winces. 

“Better? For who?” She scoffs, fire blazing in her expression–he sees her on that first night, that same anger she’d directed at her father for the heat having been shut off. Even now, with her ire so accurately directed at him, he cannot help but want her. He cannot help his need to comfort and protect her, even if that meant from himself.

Her boss clears his throat, they’re causing a scene for the couple of customers milling about the place. 

She catches him off guard when she pulls him by the sleeve. He is helpless, a lamb being led away for slaughter. He sighs to himself when she shoves him into the backroom. 

“What the fuck is your problem? What did I do wrong?” She still doesn’t scream. 

“Nothing! You did nothing.” He takes a deep breath, lets out a deep sigh. 

“I’m the one who ruined this. I forgot myself, I forgot that I’m not the man for you, I’m a mess and angry and violent and you don’t deserve that–”

“Oh please, I know exactly who you are and I’m not afraid of you.” She crosses her arms, annoyed scowl firmly in place. 

“I scared you the other night, I could have killed your dad–probably would have if you hadn’t pulled me away.”

“I’m not happy you did that, at least; I shouldn’t be because despite him being a piece of shit, despite him deserving it I don’t want anyone to get hurt. That being said, what I deserve is for you to fucking face me like a man.” 

He closes his eyes, focuses on his breathing and repeats all the reasons he’s come up with for why he should end things now. She sighs, he can see the mental cogs turning, that tentative reign she has on her patience.

“What I deserve is for you to let me make the choice of whether I want you in my life or not. What I deserve is an apology and some grovelling. I want the person I care about back. Where’s he?”

She searches his face for a glimpse of who he’s been with her and he’s there, on the surface, it’s in him to beg for her forgiveness but he has to think about the consequences. Her age, his past, his damage.

“You deserve better—“ He tries to soften himself, make her understand but she lets out an angry, guttural sound.

“Stop that! I’m not a fucking child! Just because I call you daddy when you fuck me doesn’t mean you get to make decisions for me. It doesn’t mean you know better.” It burns clean through him, that authority she’s trusted him with, all of the intimacy she’s given him, the trust; his resolve crumbles for a moment.

“Clint, why did you say all those things? Why did you want me only to throw me away? Please don’t do this—please don’t leave me behind.” Her eyes shine now, fat, shiny tears collect in her lashes, she blinks them away and they fall down her pretty face. He’s cracking in two, his heart aches, words fail him.

“Apologize, beg me to come back. I’ll do it, I’ll follow you—I just need to know you’re sorry, that you want me—“ She moves towards him and it’s an agony not to gather her up in his arms. Her delicate fingers touch his face, cup his cheeks, trace the scar. He wants to talk some sense into her. He wants to take her home and fuck her raw. He wants to cry into the soft skin of her neck. 

“What if you hate me for it?” He asks her. He’s terrified to know, he’s dying to know.

“I know who you are, I know what you’ve done, let me make the decision.”

He sighs, presses his forehead against her shoulder for a moment, breathes in the ghost of the smell that’s faded from his sheets.

—

The early shift is done a few hours after the confrontation, and for a moment you’re afraid he’s disappeared again but he’s there; parked right in front of the store, eyes already on you. You almost smile, the joy of him being there is almost enough to forgive the glaring absence of him. Almost.

He’s out and opening the door for you before you’ve made it to the car, you do smile then. A hot, sweet coffee is pressed into your hands, a small wordless apology. It’s not enough, you know it, he knows it, but it’s definitely a start. 

“Where are we going?” 

“To my place. I made dinner.” Tentatively, he takes your hand in his bandaged one. You’d noticed it back at the store, but you were too mad to ask him about it then. 

“Is it bad? Your hand?” You touch the thick gauze, devastated to imagine that he might be hurting.

“No.” He frowns, a lie.

“Tell me the truth.” He looks over at you for a moment when you stop at a red light. 

“Yes, the doctor patched me up though.” He kisses your hand, and you want to cry. It feels like you’ve been apart for months, it feels like he’s shut you out of so much. The hospital had been so fucking busy on that night, and you’d had to take your father alone, you’d had to listen to his bullshit for hours. He should have been there with you, he should have turned right around and come back, helped and taken you away. 

You say nothing, but let him hold your hand anyway. There’s a tension that fills the car, building, swelling, heightening your anger and your hurt and your grief–grief? It is grief isn’t it? Mourning the death of something. Maybe not an actual death, but for a week he’d let you think what you had together–what you have together–had died. Being stuck in that house with your dad, being stuck in that suffocating silence, that colossal loneliness had been almost too much to bear.

The elevator ride up to his apartment is tense, everything is. 

Louis chirps happily when you walk in, winding through your legs, pawing at them to be picked up. His purrs are so loud, so soothing. 

“You want to eat now? Or in a little bit?” Clint takes your things, hangs them up while you reacquaint yourself with Louis.

“After.” You walk past him, settle onto the couch and cuddle the cat for a few more minutes, until he gets tired of it and jumps out of your lap. 

It’s so hard not to crawl onto Clint's lap when he sits beside you. It’s so fucking difficult not to just break down and cry into his neck, beg him never to leave you again but you cannot do that, you cannot bypass this whole thing. He runs his uninjured hand through his hair, fidgets with his bandage before finally looking you square in the eye. 

“I’m sorry.” He lets it out like a breath he’s been holding. You let him continue.

“I lost control of myself, I got so fucking mad that he said those things to you, that he thought it was his right to hurt you like that.” His head dips, elbows resting on his knees. 

“I know you know what I do, what I am…but I also know you definitely didn’t sign up for that and I’m sorry but I need you to know that I would never hurt you.” You frown, but he shakes his head, continuing on. “Baby, you have to believe me, I would never hurt you. I have never hit a woman in my life, I have never–would never do anything like that.”  

You scoff. He doesn’t even know why you’re angry, he doesn’t even realize what he’s done.

“I know that.” You sigh, eyes flitting around his apartment. Annoyingly, the peace is still there, it’s still infused throughout every inch of the place. Clint shakes his head, continues on.

“I saw the look on your face. I saw how scared you were, I saw the tears. I can’t imagine what you thought about me in that moment.” He clenches his eyes, no doubt reliving the moment, no doubt seeing the expression you’d worn. 

“Yes, you saw it, but you clearly have no idea what I was thinking, and you clearly didn’t listen to any of my messages. You imagined that I saw you give my asshole dad a beat down he deserved and that I automatically thought you’d turn around and knock my tooth out next.” The tone is much more cruel than you mean it to be. 

“I did listen, how much I hurt you–”

“You heard me asking for you to speak to me, to not leave me behind. Clint I’m not angry that you punched my dad, I’m angry that you fucking abandoned me.” The tears are there again but you blink them away. 

“All my life I’ve been abandoned. My mom didn’t want me, my dad doesn’t give a shit about me unless I’m making money and–” your voice breaks and you stop, take a deep breath, gather your thoughts under his gaze, “and right after telling me that you want me in your life, that you’re my partner or boyfriend or whatever the fuck, you left me high and dry.” His eyes widen and you know he gets it.

“I like you Clint, I love being with you, I love how you make me feel and how you treat me but I can’t live in fear that you’ll leave me too.” The tears fall for real now, all that silence, all those unanswered phone calls, that glaring absence of him waiting for you after a shift, the uncertainty catches up. 

He pulls you to him and you fall apart. That smell you’ve fucking ached for in the crook of his neck makes you cry even harder. 

“I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry.” His arms wrap around you so tight you can barely breathe but it feels like warmth after a blizzard, like a blazing fire in a frozen wasteland. “I want you with me, I want you here–move in with me.” He presses kisses to your tear-stained face, the suggestion pulls a laugh out of you. A watery smile, blubbering laughter.

“I’m serious, come and live here with me.” You can see the sincerity in his expression, his eyes water a bit too. You smile, trace the scar and don’t respond. Your thumbs caress his cheeks, one hand moves to comb his hair back. 

“It was torture not to pick the phone when you called, it was torture not to go and see you at the store.” He presses his face into your neck, breathes you in deep. “Forgive me.”

You don’t say anything, there’s nothing to say. You already know he means it, you already know there’s no way you’re saying goodbye.

You pull his face up and press your lips to his, soft and sweet.

-

Dinner is good, but you can’t eat much. All of the stress has put a huge weight in your stomach and despite feeling a bit lighter, it’s difficult to just let it go.

He doesn't eat much either. The both of you just sort of dance around each other, tidying up and putting most of the food away. You wash dishes despite his objections, you suspect his injured hand is the only reason he lets you continue. 

The TV plays once the kitchen is spotless and the silence turns into a tight embrace on the sofa. You soak in the shape of one another, relearn his skin, like braille. Silent, comfortable, slow. His kisses are full of apologies, the purest form of begging, and it doesn’t end, until eventually you have to leave. Tomorrow's shift is early, and you have none of your things. 

He doesn’t argue, simply grabs his keys and together you walk to his car. 

Your dad scoffs when you walk through the door, but it’s tempered with a healthy, valid fear of the man that walks behind you. You almost want to laugh at how pathetic he looks. His face is still swollen and his front tooth is cracked in half. There’s a freedom in what little respect you have for him now, he’s never been the father you deserve, and he’s taken every single opportunity to prove to you that he never will be. 

“Got a lot of nerve coming into my house again.” Your dad speaks directly to Clint, who only sighs in his direction. 

“Enough, dad. He’s leaving now.” You hang your purse, roll your eyes. 

“No, you’re leaving now.” He raises his voice, “I’ll not accept some–” Clint raises his eyebrows, almost daring your dad to continue but he rethinks things, takes a deep breath. 

“You’re an adult, go live your life. Not in my house.” He crosses his arms, a petulant, ungrateful child. You want to argue with him, you want to remind him just how much of your money has gone into his house. How you paid the mortgage with your savings for almost six months when he lost his job. How you used the last little bit when he fucked around last year, how you’re the one who usually keeps the fridge stocked and the house clean. 

“Baby, let’s go pack your things.” Clint's hand lands softly onto your shoulder, and all at once all of the fight goes out of you. There is no point in arguing. With a tired, defeated sigh you let him lead you up the stairs. 

Silently, you pull your big suitcase out from under your bed and begin to empty your drawers. Clint opens your closet, asks softly what you’d like to take with you. The suitcase fills up, your duffel too. A plastic bin is filled with everything you can fit from your bathroom. The books, the movies, everything that isn’t essential will have to stay behind until you can come back. 

Clint grabs your bin in one hand, rolls your suitcase behind him and tosses your duffel over his shoulder. He ignores your attempts to help and tells you to grab whatever else you need. An old teddy bear, your favourite pillow and your walkman make their way down in your arms. 

You grab your jacket, your purse, and the sweatshirt hanging on the back of the sofa. 

Your dad mumbles something about cleaning out the room but Clint is there, stepping close enough that you can see sweat beading on your dads face. 

“We’ll be back to empty the rest of her things tomorrow night. God help you if you touch a single fucking thing in that room. You understand me?” His voice is soft, almost bedroom-low. It sends a shiver up your spine. He turns after making his point, and guides you softly, but firmly out the door. 

-

He puts your things in his bedroom, and instantly goes to work clearing space for you in his closet. There’s a numbness in your movements, a finality to the whole thing. The rollercoaster has finally stopped, but your stomach is teetering between relief and a debilitating nausea. 

You hang your things in the space he’s made, separate your clothes into different piles, smile when he clears out a few drawers in his dresser. 

“We’ll get another one this week, one just for you. We can get some shelves for your books, and whatever else you want to make it feel more like home.” He sits on the bed, pulls the rest of your things out of the suitcase to fold and organize. You smile, but stay quiet. It’s too much for one day, all catching up at once, you’re exhausted. He sees right through it. 

“Baby, I’m sorry.” He pulls you into his orbit, presses his face into your belly. Your hands thread through his hair. 

“I know.” 

---

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[faiiryseong]

_ _ // ヤ . . . . so sweet — p.sh 18+ ◟ ⨯

[ smut drabble , word count : 500+ ]

[ tags : softdom! sunghoon x subfem! reader, oral (m. recieving), reader cries a little, reader’s hands are tied up, lots of praise, petnames, brief mention of recording during sex, sunghoon is a little bit of a perv idk ]

this is smut, meaning minors and ageless blogs shouldn’t be interacting with it or they will be blocked. also this is not proofread so sorry if there are any mistakes

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

your knees hurt. it sends an extra wave of arousal down your spine as you feel the hard wood digging into your skin, even through the thigh high socks you’re wearing, and you know you’re gonna wake up with pretty bruises tomorrow. it’s not the first time you’re sucking sunghoon off, far from it. but it’s the first time he’s dragging it out this long. it’s not quite cockwarming, but he’s agonazingly slow in his movement. making you feel the drag of his cock between your lips and down your throat, as your spit pools below and drips onto the floor.

“always so good for me, baby. look so pretty like this.” his voice is surprisingly soft given the circumstance, and it makes your heart swell with the knowledge that this is affecting him emotionally too.

his tip catches the back of your throat and you gag, sending another wave of tears down your cheeks. your makeup must be ruined by now, but he looks down at you like you’re the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. instinctively, you go to move your arms so you can push away from the intrusion, only to be reminded of the pretty ribbon tying your hands together behind your back. for a second he stills, checking if you dropped the little ball you’re holding in your hand, so as to signal for a break. he smirks when he finds you’re still holding on tightly, and effortlessly switches back into his role.

“oh sweet little bunny, did you forget again? i haven’t even touched you yet and you’re already so gone, huh?” he asks, as he tightens his grip on your hair, holding your head still as he suddenly pulls out, making you cough and gasp for air.

“that was a question so you’d better answer me, darling. don’t make me wait.”

“h- hoonie…” you manage to bring out. “just feels so good, love it so much. love you so much!” your voice is hoarse, and your throat hurts from stretching to fit his cock.

“fuck. i wish i could take a picture of you right now, baby.”

he laughs in disbelief when your breathing noticeably gets heavier and your thighs rub together at the thought. “i see.” he says, amused. “we’ll keep that in mind for next time, yeah?”

and then he pulls your head back again, his grip still tight in your hair. “as for right now… if you make me cum i’ll give you a reward, hmmm? how’s that sound?”

“yes, please- please! i’ve been good!” and you have. you’ve been trying your best to ignore the ache between your legs, focusing on pleasuring your boyfriend as your heat has been slowly soaking through your panties, effectively ruining them. you know sunghoon will buy you new ones, he always does. but you also know he will be keeping your ruined ones in a secret box in the back of his wardrobe, as a reminder of how many times he’s made you his already.

he moans openly as you take him in again, and the sound goes straight to your core. he’s beautiful as he loses himself a little in the pleasure, his thrusts speeding up and becoming sloppier as he draws closer to his orgasm.

his eyes close as he suddenly spills down your throat without warning, holding your head still as he gives one final thrust. you gag as you attempt to swallow as much of his cum as you can, whining a little when some of it spills out and onto the wooden floor, pooling together with your spit.

he pulls out slowly, kneeling down and wiping the tears off your cheeks as you try to catch your breath.

“did so well for me, baby. i think it’s time i give you your reward now, hmm?”

[midnite-c6]

listen…

Thanos being completely shocked at the fact that namgyu is dating someone who’s the complete opposite of them both, sure thanos has heard namgyu muttering under his breath that he needs to get back home to his girl but he just assumed you were gonna be completely like them. But seeing you smiling all so nicely at him whilst namgyu introduced him to you, no wonder namgyu wanted to get back quickly

HEHE its like my choi su bong x namgyusgf reader one oops + this one finally leaving the drafts 😭 lowkey sweet thanos but cheating nonetheless

choi su-bong x namgyusinnocentgf!reader warnings: 18+, dubcon, dark content, cheating, oral (m receiving), bimbo reader?, HEAVY corruption kink, no proofread

つ⁠｡⁠☆ rappers, money, clubs, drugs, strippers, sex. that's all that thanos thought of when he thinks of his best-friend's "girlfriend". someone who takes the same aura as nam-gyu, a person who is quite literally mentally deranged, it even freaks him out sometimes.

but when he stands infront of nam-gyu's doorstep and looks down to see your innocent, pure face, one that would never inhale a cigarette, or step foot an inch in a kind of guy like nam-gyu or his's way, he's shocked, baffled, for sure. "tsk, doll, where's nam-gyu?" you hummed, giving him a warm smile as a welcome, "he's not here right now, still working at the club, i'm sure you're thanos right?" he'd stare, awe-struck, still in disbelief. "and your...?" "his girlfriend." you tilt your head to the side, why else would you be answering nam-gyu's front door? "right. can i come in, pretty?" you'd move to the side, inviting him in. "...are you sure? you sure you're his girlfriend? nam-gyu?" "yes?"

he huffs as he walks inside. "do you even know half the things he does?" the man flops onto the couch, closing his eyes, like he owns the place. "what do you mean...? he's just a normal guy..?" he bursts into laughter, really? normal? "that guy's a jerk." what a compliment to his best friend. "a dirty jerk." he'd open his eyes to see, poor you, looking down at him, so confused and lost, like what would he mean by that? it only gets him fucking hot, i mean your dumb little face needs to be fucked, desperately. "don't look at me like that. have you ever smoked a line before?" you were getting concerned by the second, maybe you invited the wrong guy? "uhm... i think you should leave.." he scoffs, "answer the question." in an attempt to be smart, you'd try to get your phone that was conveniently placed on the couch, his hand would stop you though, getting to your phone first. "h-hey-!" he shrugs you off, "i can't tell if this is all an act or not." he continues to eye you down, does nam-gyu do this to you too? toy with you?

"are you seriously that naive to think he's a nice guy? man... he must be such a good liar." "what are you on about-" he places a hand on your lips, shutting you up. "or are you just that fucking into this?" you pout, feeling helpless to defend yourself..

"you like to act all innocent to rile men up, hmm?" you shake your head in response, "i have to admit, i'm jealous, angel, he gets all this good-stuff, untouched, virgin-like, girl to himself!" he spits out, taking his hand off your mouth. "but i swear- i'm waitin' til i'm married." what? fucking why would you be dating his buddy then? he's fucking girls left and right, he doesn't even have money for a lousy ring. "you think that guy would marry you?" you nod. "hope so." he'd only laugh at the thought to himself, pausing for a moment to sigh and a convenient time to obtain an idea...

"don't you not wanna dissapoint him?" you're already too annoyed at this guy, asking questions left and right. "like... what if you guys do wait for marriage, and you just wont fuck right?" "but we lov-" he'd shut you up again, with his pointer fingers, shushing you. "yeah, love, whatever... but that man's got some high as hell standards... " leaning in to whisper in your ear, "what if he falls out of love immediately when you can't suck his dick right, or you can't fuck him since you're too tight? tight is bad, you know." he's loving every bit of this, loves how you practically flinch whenever he says those explicit words, where you suddenly get worried about something that you weren't supposed to be worried about, definitely not your pretty little head.

"really?" tilting your head to the side, face painted in real concern.

"really."

◜⁠‿⁠◍✧⁠*⁠。

nam-gyu hated virgins, he said. nam-gyu hates inexperience, he said. so why did thanos absolutely loved how you were already squirming when he's only palming your clothed virgin pussy? "chillax." but you couldn't, not when the last place you would ever think about touching was being touched by the purple-haired weirdo you so easily invited on his lap. it felt tingly, it felt unfamiliar, it also felt wrong. "startin' to think your just any neighborhood slut, gettin' guys to think you're all pure n' innocent..." he'd whisper, knowing that you're too pretty and pure to be hearing the filth that comes out of his mouth... "is that true, sweetheart?" you could feel his warm breath, shaking your head to his dumb questions, yet you're none the wiser to not take his advice. as he pushes your white satin panties to the side, fingers gliding onto your folds, you'd let out a sweet, sweet, moan, right into his ear. "you're into men who looks like they'd ruin your life, huh?" it felt real nice until a wandering finger would shove right past your hole, "you don't even know my name.." the action made a painful squeak come out of you, "m'don't w-want it, anymore!" "you don't want to impress nam-gyu?"

soon enough, you're cumming, legs shaking, just by a finger! "u-uhm -! is.. is that good..?" looking down on your lap, "what's good, doll...?" "the white stuff." fuck. did you even know you could cum? he was truly a bastard to be fucking you and it made his cock twitch... ache . "yeah. but, it won't wow him that much." what! you'd went through all that, and it didn't even matter?! (he only wanted to see what a virgin's pussy would look like anyway, he wasn't disappointed.)

you furrow your brows. "then... what?" lifting off his lap, looking at him straight in the eye. his calloused thumb would meet your lower lip, roughly pressing onto it for your mouth to be agape. "need ta' train your throat, yeah?" like he was a professional, he pushes you down to the smooth white tiles of the floor, earning a grunt from you. he'd unzip his pants, no boxers or briefs (slut), purple mixed with black pubes, you're wide-eyed stare at his cock, like you'd never seen it before, made it harder. "not goin' gentle on ya now." the only warning he'd give before he'd tug your hair to fully take his dick in, of course you gag, but he wouldn't give you the mercy of pulling away, instead his hand tugs harder, making you stay in your place, you'd open your eyes as to plead with it, earning a guttural moan at the man, "shit. now suck, and no teeth." pulling your head back n' forth, he smelt of musk and sweat, it wasn't enough to not distract you from how you were choking on his length, practically pushing him away. he gives in, letting you breath for a second. "come on, you haven't even made me cum yet, dumbass, you've got no rhythm, but that's another lesson..." a few seconds, he gives, "l-let me jus-" he shoves himself again, but you'd be trained from the first thrust. "fuck, you're so pretty." as he looks down, spitting on your face to see it drip down, you hated yet loved every bit of it... maybe you were a slut afterall. maybe he was right.

his pace was slowing down, all messy, sloppy, "gonna shoot... shoot my load into you, right...now..." he controlled the pace but it was you, your cute self, and your throat that was making him feel so .. excited. when he finally pulls out, pumping his dick a few times, then "that's good. when he cums you did good." yay. you did good :) the white stuff *did* taste a bit nice, yet bitter. seeing you smile because of what you did for the first time made him want to fuck that smile out of you. when you're purely ruined for anyone else. but that'll wait for other lessons, he was nice, for now.

of course, he'd save the best for last, to feel your tight pussy clenching on his dick, but to his demise, he'd hear a knock on the door, and smell the essence of weed, smoke, and drugs. nam-gyu's home! what would he feel when he sees his bestfriend's cum all over your face?

forgot i had this in my drafts. kinda ass tbh 😭😁, mayhaps my last squid game fic until squid game s3 comes out, been into other things lately (challengers)😕😞

[ableseamen]

five times gale has a drink + one time he doesn't. just because.

i.

The first time, it's just a sip. A little taste of what John gives him. There's hardly a taste to it at all; just the lingering warmth of John's mouth around the lip of the flask, the promise of a sensation that works to his belly quicker than liquor.

He doesn't thank John for it.

ii.

John's sucking at the flavored air at the bottom of the glass. He must be, because there's nothing there anymore. He doesn't take ice, just a little water. Tonight it's neat, straight from the bottle. Gale watches as he pours himself another. It's better at room temperature, he tells him, though Gale's never thought of John as all that picky.

Has he ever even looked at the bottle?

"Fifteen years old, Scottish," he reads, to prove a point. "Imported by the Kraus brothers."

"Alright, alright," Gale says, waving a hand down at him.

John sits with it. It sits in a smooth amber line at the bottom of his glass. Once, he smashes one up and fucks up his hand a little. Doesn't feel a thing, he tells him, smell of blood filling up the room. Gale stands on a shard he misses the next day. It hurts, but he chews on an aspirin while John feels bad about it.

"Reckon you'd be good at that," John says.

"Good at what?"

"All that pretentious shit. Notes of vanilla and candied ginger and sandalwood."

Gale's mouth is still sweet and wet from a slice of cantaloupe. The rush of whisky over his tongue is startling, but he does taste it. Something lightly charred and fruit. The taste stays in his mouth longer than it stays in John's glass, and he doesn't ask about it either.

iii.

The thing is, Gale fucks like a gentleman, but he wants to be fucked like a man. Most of the time, John's just happy to be there.

"C'mon," he says.

The flask is at his mouth, tilting towards his lips. It makes it easier. Makes it more fun. It's supposed to be fun, John says once, voice a little small, sitting at the end of their bed. Sometimes Gale doesn't make it fun. Sometimes he's plain ol' funny about it, like John's sticking his hands down his johns for the first time, and Gale feels like breaking every bone in them, for touching him like that.

He doesn't. Doesn't have it in him. Wants it, actually. Takes a few sips of whisky to take it easier, let John inside. Knees to the heath, face to the bark. John's truck is parked not ten meters away. Someone could hear, but they probably won't.

"They'll just think I got you drunk and easy for it," John says, on his knees behind him like a good Catholic boy, already anticipating the punishment and penance. Gale lets him.

iv.

It's called wetting the baby's head, John tells him. Marge has a girl. The fella sells dairy equipment around the mid-west. Nice guy, served in the Navy at the tail-end of the war. He comes back fine, without a penchant for sucking cock. Gale's happy for her. Gale's really goddamn happy.

"Bet you wish it were you, though," John says, antagonistic with a drink in him. "Bet you wish you had it in you."

Gale's used to it. John being mean on a bad day. His bad days are worse, and he doesn't need to throw a whisky on the fire to burn the house down. Instead, he just has it to finish the bottle. It's what his mama used to do. More satisfying that pouring it down the sink, or killing the grass out back.

It scorches all the way down.

"You want the last of it, you settle down and you can kiss me on the mouth," he says, and John will, that way he always does.

v.

Gale pours a whisky. The house is quiet. He adds a splash of water, like his daddy did, like John does. He sits on the porch, imaging kids, dogs, a fence he doesn't feel like shooting through in the aftermath of a nightmare.

Whatever hour John joins him, it's before there's even a promise of a new day. Just all black, without a moon in the sky. There should be, but it's cloudy. Gale imagines rattling about in them, falling out of them. He imagines John catching him, acting like it's nothing.

"Bad one?"

"Just the kid again. Pulled the trigger," he says, taking a sip.

John hums from beside him. He scrapes his chair closer. It'll leave a mark, but John will get around to painting it. It's a growing list to keep him occupied since his heart nearly packed in. He's not allowed a drink. Gale does it for him, if only for a taste.

+ i.

Gale splashes the whisky on the headstone.

"Cheers, Bucky."

[starshipsofstarlord]

done dealing | daryl dixon

summary. everything seemed peaceful in your home when you awoke, even with a baby crying. but that is sourly interrupted by the early wake up presence that merle begrudges his brother with (1.2k)

warnings. mentions of drug dealing and alcohol consumption, brief mention of daryl’s father, swearing, reader and daryl are parents, preapocalypse!daryl, fluff

divider credits. @cafekitsune

It wasn’t much, but it was home. The dank walls surrounded you and so did Daryl’s arms as you laid curled up on the couch, where the both of you had drifted off into a late night slumber. There were still a couple bottles of beer on the shabby coffee table, as well as an empty pizza box that you had shared, Daryl collecting it from the takeout across town on his way back from his job at the garage. Flickers of sunlight peaked at your silhouettes through the curtains, making you squint briefly, and sink deeper into the furniture that was too small for the both of your bodies, though that didn’t concern him nor you.

He was warm, and you wanted to sink into the heat that he radiated for all of eternity, existing for a world that involved nothing but his love and all that he had given you in this life. A cry from the neighbouring room forced you out of instinct to bolt up right, slipping Daryl’s arms from around you, causing the man to slowly awaken and groan. With a glance at the clock you realised that it was still early, and reluctantly Daryl allowed you to move away, stiffly and slowly sitting up from his once resting position, rubbing the tiredness out of his eyes.

“Though’ we mighta had a late mornin’.” Daryl had been wrong, and as much as he had initially wanted one, his face lit up as you hurried and returned with the culprit in your arms, who was an accident from a drunken night together, forgetting about the safety of protection, though neither one of you regretted him. “Hey buddy.” He murmured to the infant whom you had spent nine months carrying, caressing your forearm that supported his little head. Daryl was always enamoured with the fact that you had created the spectacle of life together, at first he had been terrible, afraid that he would be a terrible father as his own was, but he had proven all of his worries wrong,

“Late morning don’t exist anymore Dar.” You told him, although he was aware as much as you were. Y/S/N had stopped crying from the contact that you had given, he must have just wanted his parents - the two of you. It was impossible not to be smitten with the baby, Daryl was practically cooing at him. “Don’t people give a shit that we have a baby?” You asked with exhaustion as a fist rapped at the door, firm handed and with an intention bore within the disturber’s knuckles. You held Y/S/N closer to your chest, soothing him as he began to cry.

Daryl got up, pressing a featherlight kiss to both your forehead and that of your son, stalking with a tired swagger in his steps. He sighed as he unbolted the front door, pulling it open only to be met with a sight he wished never to see this early. “The fuck d’ya want Merle.” Just the mention of his brother made dread brew in your body, he either needed some cash to get by, to which you had only a limited amount, or he wanted something from his brother. You dared not glance at the older Dixon, knowing that you would rip him a new one for inviting himself over, disturbing the morning that had been calm prior to his arrival.

It surprised you that Daryl didn’t let him in, he usually did, though your partner stood straighter, squinting at his sibling with exasperation. “I got a job fer ya little bro.” You’d informed Daryl that you didn’t approve of him helping Merle deal out drugs, much less so since Y/S/N had been born. The last thing you needed was for him to be caught with the illegal substances on his form, he would not always be able to evade the authorities. The thought of him being arrested scared you, more so now that you had a child to take care of, being left alone to raise him would be difficult, not to mention that his son would only see him on the occasional visits that you would have to book in with the jail.

“I told ya.” Daryl almost growled out of frustration, and that startled you, not having expected that reaction, “I ain’t doin’ that shit anymore. I gotta kid now Merle, I ain’t riskin’ my ass to help yer business.” The southern drawl to his voice had become more prominent, and whilst he did not yell for the sake of not causing Y/S/N to belt out cries, his tone was dismissive to the favour that Merle was asking for. Merle leaned against the doorway, glam in in at you and your child, raising his hand in a wave, but you rolled your eyes at him, and his insistent desire to cause trouble for his brother.

He turned back to Daryl, a frown etched upon his face in retaliation to the rejection. “Little bro, you got a lady and a kid ta look after, you could sure use the extra cash.” Whilst it was a relevant point on the side of Merle’s argument that none of you could deny, Daryl stood his ground. The only reason that he even had the balls to ask Daryl to do his dirty work was because he knew that he would skim some off the top of the profit, or take the drugs for himself. Others wouldn’t be so loyal, hence why he had never gotten himself a personal lackey that would do his bidding. It was always Daryl, and he wanted it to still be Daryl.

“I got a job.” Daryl stated, Merle laughing at the prospect of his ‘little bro’ being employed somewhere, however Daryl remained straight faced, combating with Merle’s amusement. “I ain’t gonna keep fuckin’ my life up, not for you, not fer anyone. It ain’t just me I gotta think ‘bout anymore. Last thing I wan’ is to end up like dad, don’ ya remember when he was behind bars? ‘M not gonna be like him. I care ‘bout my kid.” It seemed that he had struck a nerve, Merle’s face going placid at the mention of their father and the glimpses of memory that rotated around their childhood. A light scoff emerged from Merle’s lips, there wasn’t much else that he could say to argue with his brother.

“Alrigh’.” The man finally surrendered, casting you and Y/S/N one last glance before he nodded at his brother, a pit of jealousy rousing in his gut that Daryl had something to live for, and something far greater to lose. He stepped back, affirming himself before he stalked away, and Daryl gently closed the door, shaking his head at the nerve that had pushed Merle to come knocking. He turned, giving you a sheepish smile under the soft glowering of your proud gaze. Your partner returned to you, sitting beside you on the couch, bringing his arms around the family that he had created.

“You really done with all that?” The voice you knew was small, as if you were afraid that it had simply been a ploy to convince you that he was no longer helping Merle with his dealings, though you knew that he would never deceive you in that way. Daryl leaned towards you, his hand gently stroking Y/S/N’s small head, pressing a definitive, love filled kiss upon your lips. You reciprocated the action, humming into his mouth and shyly meeting his eyes when the both of you departed from one another. There was an honesty betrothed in his eyes, and from that alone, not just his following words, you knew that he was affirming that it had been nothing but the truth.

[justastupidlittlelesbian]

fight club wip

Children love Tyler. He's just off-putting enough to fulfill their fantasy of an imaginary friend and freak their parents out. That is actually the reason he started collecting the stickers, they're a hit with the kids. It started like this:

"Here hold this for a second"

Tyler what is this I ask, looking down at my hands, now holding about four dozen different cat stickers.

"Shut up and follow me"

Stealing cat stickers from a corner shop is a new low, even for me. Am I closer to hitting bottom yet?

Tyler just looks at me, a cigarette dangling from his mouth that he was just in the process of lighting.

Even though I've known him for a while now and we've been inseparable for pretty much the whole time, I sometimes don't get why he does what he does. I'll go along with it of course but that's because he's conditioned me to do what he wants and ask questions later.

I really don't see the purpose of this theft I say, we're not dismantling capitalism with smiling cats.

"Hey don't underestimate the cats, they'll eat your corpse. Not like dogs who'll fucking sleep on your decomposing body until they starve to death.

I think if Tyler died I'd crack open his ribcage and stay in there until i died, even more dedicated than a dog. I don't say to him but i suspect Tyler knows anyways, because I know.

I get pulled from my morbid thoughts when i walk straight into Tyler, who has stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

What the hell Tyler-

"Can I touch your hair?", a little girl, only reaching up to our thighs, asks Tyler, looking up at him with almost the same fascination I must have shown the first time we met.

Tyler squats down and lets the girl run her fingers through his messy, dirty blond strands (he'll have me cut his hair soon again) until she gets pulled away by her concerned mother. I don't blame her, Tyler does look like a madman with his red jacket and sunglasses to match. As the girl gets dragged along by her mother I notice Tyler slipping something into her hand - one of the cat stickers I forgot I was holding.

"I'm radicalizing the youth man, one cat sticker at a time."

For a second, I imagine Tyler in a classroom full of pre-school children, teaching them recipes from the anarchist cookbook they can do with things from under the not-so-childproof cabinet under the sink before I feel a feeling bubbling up in my chest that I usually only feel when Tyler tends to my wounds after one of our fights.

"Now stop staring at me, fucking fagott."

Ah, there is my Tyler again. I hold my hand not holding the stickers out to him and he passes me his cigarette.

Marla is like a cat.

"Fucking hell she is, scratches like one too."

I immediately regret bringing her up and focus on not gagging the rest of the way home.

Anyways, that’s how the thing with the stickers started. From then on, any time we went anywhere we’d be a few stickers richer – or at least Tyler was. They immediately wander from my hands or my pockets into various drawers in his room. It wasn’t too long until he began collecting random trinkets as well, especially pocket watches. I’m sure if I were to ask me he’d tell me about the subjectivity of time and the futility of the perfect moment (this is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time) but mostly they just remind me of the watch I used to have. I still remember all the different time zones and how many hours you gain and you lose when you’re travelling by plane, the same way I remember the formula and how many car crashes I applied it to since I started my job. I don’t wear that watch anymore, the same way I don’t wear a tie to work anymore. Tyler has turned me into a rabid animal, surviving with the least amount of absolutely necessary things – or so he likes to think. Sometimes I still dream of Ikea.

“How does one take so long to find a ball of twine, you fall asleep again?” Tyler yells up the stairs mockingly, momentarily startling me.

That was one time! I snap. One time and I hadn’t slept for four days, asshole. Tyler likes to take away my ability to sleep sometimes, he says it's to make me more pliant. I’m pretty pliant all the time anyways so I think it’s just him trying to see how far he can push me. Sometimes I want to rip out his throat with my teeth.

“Come on psycho boy, we’re almost done packaging the soap. Be good and just bring me my shit.”

Tyler knows me so well I could kill him, the praise making me immediately grab the offending pink twine and walk down the dangerously brittle stairs.

@splat1316 @earfsquakez

[sirius-orion-black-the-third]

Sirius sat in the rafters of the Clock Tower, staring at the letter in his hands, reading the words over and over again.

.... 'We told you you were still good enough for the family; again, a reminder that that attack on the halfblood was wonderful, Sirius! Try and do another one this year' .... 'A wonderous heir you are to this family' .... 'Your grades and performance in sports are spectacular as always.' .... 'You must come home for Christmas Break; the Lord wants to speak with you'

The Lord.. Voldemort..

Sirius had nearly vomited the first time he had read the letter. They had talked about new curses they were going to teach Sirius to cast over christmas break and next summer. They had discussed the Death Eater meetings he would attend. They brought up marriage contract meetings and dates that he would go to, now that he was 17 and legally an adult. They mentioned his coming of age gala over Christmas Break, where all of the sacred 28 families and other acquaintances (mainly Death Eaters) would be invited. And so many more things that he didn't want to think about.

'We told you you were still good enough for the family'

'A wonderous heir you are'

Sirius had never felt more disgusted in his life. He can't be like them...

He's not like them..

'I'm not like them ... I'm not like them ... I'm not them ... I'm not them, I'm not them, I'm not them, I'm not them. I'm not them. I'm not them. I'm not them! I'm not them! I'm not them! I'M NOT THEM!!'

All the candles in the clock tower go out, as a blast of uncontrolled magic erupts from Sirius. The letter he was holding bursts into flames and falls to the ground, crumpling into a charred ball. He grips onto the railing infront of it, as more horrifying thoughts and images run through his head. His vision blurs as tears cloud his eyes.

He's exactly like them.. and he doesn't want to get better...

@the-officalbartycrouch-jr @peter-francis-pettigrew @pprongspotter @the-real-ms-evans @miss-marry-mcdonald @no-fuck-u @evieisthebest @pandora-harmonia-rosier @flower-not-star @i-will-haunt-you-in-your-dreams @melionameansdream @gilderoy---lockhart @meadowes-cass @lost-dim-prince