#why not just erase every memory i have of you then. That would be easier for us all wouldn't it?

[lunarharp]

"Found out" set in kind of a made-up chapter where the girls are in trouble, or something.

[anamina0]

Echoes

Part I , Part II , Part III , Part IV , Part V , Part VI, Part VII , Part VIII

Summary: Fleeing the wreckage of your heartbreak, you land in the chaos of Zaun, pouring drinks at a dingy bar. You're still facing unresolved feelings and emotions towards Ellie, but they’re easier to bury when Vi storms into your life—a whirlwind of sharp words and reckless energy. You start off bad, really bad but it's enough for you to think of something else for a bit.

warnings/themes : angst, heartbreak, lots of trauma, kind of enemies to lovers, unresolved feelings, a bit of violence, au

word count : 3.8k

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Back at it again, falling just where you started , completely alone , full of sorrow and regrets. Moving away to a completely unknown place was the best escape plan - literally. You knew nothing about this city, save for a few stories your best friend had told you. Yet, even the thought of staying in the same place as her couldn’t outweigh your choice - you'd rather wander off Zaun's shadowed streets, losing yourself for a lifetime than remain bound to the familiar.

City was close to what you have imagined. The fractures that happened few years ago helped to a great extent , after decades of suffering, the city had finally exhaled, though it had not lost its soul. Cleansed of its grime, its fumes, and its shadowed figures, the streets and the people remained exactly as your friend had described them—a perfect echo of her tales.

Finding a job wasn't hard , from now on you'd serve drinks in one of the city’s dim, suspiciously isolated bars—barely more than a shadow in the corner of a forgotten street. Pay wasn't good but it was enough for an apartment and food, nothing else mattered to you. You were trying your best to take as many shifts as you could, working whole night helped you not think about her , during daytime you would typically crash out , exhausted from your job. And yet, she always found a way to reappear.

At the bar, you distracted yourself by watching customers. Most of them came for a drink and a chance to ease their burdens, but for you, the real game was observing them—piecing together their stories from a glance, a gesture, a half-heard conversation. Sometimes , thought of her would reappear . Something would remind you of her scent, her voice, slipping into your mind without warning. But you had mastered the art of distraction, shifting your focus before the memories could take root.

It was in your dreams where she would visit most frequently, escape from her was almost impossible, as though she determined to remind you of what you wanted to forget: that no change of address, no new life, could erase her. She was etched into you, inescapably, a part of you as much as your own breath. But you had to move on , that's what you were best at, carrying pain and suffering throughout your life, god knows you've been doing that since the day you were born.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Can we talk?” she asked, her tone calm but firm, as she stepped closer to you.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “Ellie,” you whispered, bracing yourself for the inevitable fallout. “I shouldn’t have said what I said.” The words spilled out in a shaky breath.

Her green eyes searched yours, unreadable but sharp. “Why is that?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost careful.

“You already know why,” you said, your gaze flickering over her face—her furrowed brow, the tightness in her jaw. Anxiety clawed at your chest, every emotion colliding at once: fear, anger, love, and a desire that burned despite everything. Losing her wasn’t an option, not like this.

“That’s the problem,” she said, stepping even closer, her boots scraping softly against the floor. “I don’t know why. You told me how you felt and then ran off, didn’t even wait for my answer.” Her voice broke slightly, frustration seeping through, though she was clearly trying to hold it together—for your sake. “That’s not fair.”

“I couldn’t take it anym—” you began, but your trembling words cut short as Ellie moved.

Her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm and steady against your skin. “I need you,” she whispered, her voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “More than you could ever need me.”

“Nothing’s going to change that,” she said, her voice unwavering now, as if it was the most certain truth in the world.

* * * * * * * * *

Once again, your own screams tore you from sleep, Ellie had found her way into your dreams.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath, the echo of her voice lingered in your ears. You glanced at the clock hanging crookedly on the wall and exhaled in relief—it was almost time for another shift.

You moved through your routine on autopilot: a quick shower, clothes and out the door. The walk to the bar felt like a blur, your thoughts still tangled with fragments of the dream you couldn’t shake.

“Hey there,” you greeted Revek, arguably only person who could be considered as your friend in Zaun , as you stepped behind the counter.

He glanced at you with that signature smirk of his, tossing his apron onto the counter. “Well, well, look who decided to show up. Twenty minutes late, no less.” Leaning against the bar, he crossed his arms and tilted his head. “Alright, what is it this time? Lost your keys? Got cornered by some hooligans? Or let me guess—lost track of time again?” His smirk widened as he tapped the counter, signaling for his usual drink.

“Cut me some slack, you asshole,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “It’s not like they’re paying me enough to show up on time.” You reached for the shaker, pouring his drink without missing a beat. “I just… had a bad dream, alright?”

The smirk faded slightly as he took the cup from your hand, his gaze softening. “Not again,” he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. He took a long sip before adding, “You know, if you ever want to talk about it… I’m here.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said quickly, brushing him off with a weak smile. “Seriously, it’s no big deal. Now scooch—you’re scaring off my customers.”

Revek gave you a knowing look, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he pushed himself off the barstool, raising the cup in a mock toast. “Fine, fine. Just don’t forget—I’ve got a hell of a good ear for this kind of thing.”

You watched him walk away, trying to shove down the unease crawling up your spine. Fixing your hair in the reflection of a glass, you turned to face the empty bar. The night was long, but at least behind the counter, you could pretend your mind wasn’t a battlefield.

The day had been dragging. The bar was dead slow, with only a few regulars stopping by for a drink and a bit of small talk. You made an effort to keep busy—wiping down the already spotless counter, rearranging bottles, polishing glasses—anything to make the hours pass. Not until she walked in. The air shifted instantly, the tension almost suffocating as the door swung shut behind her. You froze, your hand mid-reach for a glass, and looked up. You’d seen countless faces walk through those doors. From the desperate to the careless, from the downtrodden to the troublemakers, the bar had welcomed them all. Nobody ever stood out—nobody cared about anyone else here. That’s what you liked about this place. People came in, had their drinks, exchanged a few words, maybe played a game or two, and left as if they’d never existed to one another. But her? She shattered that silence like glass. You didn’t know who she was, but everyone else seemed to. Heads turned, conversations halted, and even the usual clamor of the old jukebox seemed to dull in her presence. She strode toward the bar, brushing off the stares that trailed her like shadows. It was obvious she didn’t give a single fuck about anyone in the room. Whatever power she held over the crowd, she didn’t seem interested in wielding it—at least, not tonight. Stopping at the counter, she gave the drinks menu the briefest glance before tapping the laminated surface with her finger.

"Can I have this?” she muttered, her voice low and uninterested, pointing to a drink. Then, without looking at you, she added, “Make it a double.”

“Sure thing,” you replied, watching her as you reached for the bottle. She didn’t meet your gaze, didn’t acknowledge you at all, but that only gave you the chance to study her features: pink hair cut into a sharp mullet, light blue eyes that didn’t seem to care about much, and freckles scattered across her nose like they’d been painted there.

“Here you go,” you said, sliding the drink toward her. She grabbed it without a word, her attention flickering to the room around her. Even now, she seemed utterly uninterested in you—or anyone else, for that matter. She didn’t sip the drink so much as down it, her throat working as the liquid disappeared almost too quickly. You found yourself leaning slightly forward, unable to look away. There was something about her, something impossible to read. You liked puzzles, and she was the hardest one you’d come across in a long time.

Who was she? Some kind of criminal? Or maybe she was the exact opposite? Why was she here? Trying to get drunk, or waiting for someone? Before you could settle on an answer, she tapped the counter sharply, her empty glass sitting in front of her. The message was clear. Another. You poured the drink without hesitation, the silence between you stretching long and tense. As you set the glass down, she didn’t so much as glance your way.

“You’re welcome,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm, hoping to at least provoke some kind of reaction.

It worked—but not the way you’d hoped. She turned her head, finally looking at you, and you almost wished she hadn’t. Her glare was sharp, cutting, and filled with barely-contained anger.

“Just do your job,” she said coldly, her voice low and cutting. “I didn’t come here for chitchat.”

She turned back to her drink, dismissing you entirely, but the tension she left behind lingered in the air, coiling around you like smoke. Whatever game you thought you were playing, she wasn’t interested.

“What an asshole,” you thought bitterly, dragging your gaze away from her and down to the bar. The question lingered in your mind—should you say something? Not because you couldn’t stand up for yourself, but because, you weren’t sure if she was even worth it.

She tossed back another drink, her sharp eyes cutting across the room as she motioned lazily for someone to come over.

“Again,” she muttered, her gaze flicking back to you. For a fleeting second, it softened—just barely. But the moment was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual aloofness when a tall man approached her with an appearance that screamed trouble. You busied yourself making another drink, ears pricked to catch their conversation.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here, Vi,” the man greeted her, his tone carrying an edge of wary excitement.

She chuckled dryly, grabbing her fresh glass without even looking at him.

“What are you playing over there?” she asked, dismissive, like she hadn’t even heard him.

He hesitated, glancing at his buddies like he was searching for backup. It was obvious he didn’t want her involved, but too afraid to say no.

“Just some boring cards,” he replied with a strained grin. “You’re, uh, welcome to join.”

“I’ll be right there.” Her words were ice-cold as she turned back to you. “Another one.”

You stared at her silently, letting your expression say everything your words didn’t. She noticed. Of course, she noticed.

But instead of acknowledging it, she took the drink you handed her and headed over to the table of men, sliding into a seat among the kind who spent their nights gambling away the last shreds of their dignity. Vi. That was her name. At least you had that much now. But she was still a puzzle—a unsolvable one. You watched her, lost in your thoughts, until Revek appeared from the back of the bar, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her.

“Haven’t seen her in a while,” he muttered, settling onto a stool.

“Who even is she?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Revek leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember I told you abour shit that went down three years ago? Piltover, Zaun, all that Hextech chaos?”

You nodded.

“She was part of it. A big part.”

You squinted, piecing it together. “That explains why everyone knows her down here.” You frowned, the anger bubbling back up. “She’s an asshole.”

Revek chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, you could say that. After everything went to hell, she holed up in some dump around here. Doesn’t talk to anyone. Just drifts between bars, sometimes… worse places, drowning herself in cheap booze.”

“Was she always like this?” you pressed, desperate to understand.

“That’s a long story,” Revek began, but his words were cut off by the sharp sound of glass shattering across the room.

Your head snapped toward the noise. Of course, it was her, standing over some poor bastard, yelling and swearing. Revek shot you a look and stood, ready to step in, but you stopped him with a firm hand.

“I’ll handle it,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

“You sure?” he asked, hesitation in his voice.

You nodded, already moving toward the chaos. By the time you got there, she was on top of the guy, fists flying with a fury that could have leveled buildings. The crowd around them was frozen, too shocked—or maybe too entertained—to intervene.

“Hey!” you shouted, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Stop it! Now!” you tried again.

Still nothing. She was too far gone, lost in her rage. Without thinking, you moved in to pull her off—but before you could, pain exploded across your face, and you found yourself on the ground, disoriented.

The room went silent.

When your vision cleared, you realized, she had hit you.

Vi stood over you, her expression flickering with something almost like regret. “Shit,” she muttered, reaching a hand toward you. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Get the fuck out,” you snapped, cutting her off as you staggered to your feet.

She hesitated, her gaze locking with yours. You made sure she saw every ounce of your anger, your disgust.

“Now,” you commanded, stepping closer.

For once, she didn’t fight back. She just turned and walked.

Days passed, and thankfully, she didn’t come back. Still, every time you stood behind the bar, her face crept into your mind—her cockiny, her sharp eyes, her unbearable attitude. It filled you with rage. You already had too much on your plate; the last thing you needed was to waste energy hating some pink-haired asshole. But despite yourself, you couldn’t stop thinking about her. It wasn’t all bad, you supposed. At least thoughts of her kept you from thinking about Ellie. But replacing heartbreak with anger wasn’t exactly a healthy trade.

It was another calm day, the kind you’d come to appreciate in the wake of the chaos she’d brought. If anything, her outburst had earned you some respect. The regulars gave you a nod, a look, as if standing up to her had proven something. But the peace didn’t last. The bar doors swung open, and the room fell into an all-too-familiar hush. You didn’t even need to look to know who it was. The tension in the air told you everything.

Vi.

Revek appeared at your side almost immediately, his eyes darting toward her. “This gonna be trouble?” he asked, his voice low.

“I’m fine,” you replied, keeping your gaze locked on her as she strode toward you. There was something deliberate in her steps, something… different.

Her eyes met yours from across the room, and you stood your ground.

“I think I made myself clear last time,” you said coolly, though your voice carried that simmering edge of anger you couldn’t quite hide. “You’re not welcome here.”

“I know,” she replied, stopping in front of the bar. Her tone was calm, almost subdued. “I’ll leave. But first, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

You narrowed your eyes, studying her. There was no cocky smirk, no sarcastic retort. Just… awkwardness.

“I was drunk,” she continued, her voice low. “That guy said something—something that pissed me off. I lost control.” She hesitated, her eyes searching yours. “It’s not an excuse, but… I didn’t mean to hit you. I would never—”

“But you did,” you cut her off sharply, though you could already feel the fight draining out of you. She was being honest. You hated that you could tell, but you could.

“I know.” Her voice softened even more. “I didn’t see you. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

You exhaled, your shoulders dropping slightly as you leaned against the counter. You weren’t ready to forgive her—not entirely. But you were exhausted from carrying so much anger.

“Fine,” you said at last, pouring her the drink she’d ordered last time. Sliding it across the bar, you added, “I appreciate your honesty. I don’t appreciate assholes, though. And you? You were an asshole.”

A flicker of surprise crossed her face as she accepted the drink. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else. But instead, she downed it in one quick motion, set the glass back on the counter, and walked out without another word.

She started coming back. At first, you thought it was a fluke—a one-time thing. But no. A few days later, she was there again. And again.

Sometimes she was alone, sometimes with a new girl on her arm, but the pattern stayed the same. She’d order a few drinks, stay for a while, and leave without so much as a word in your direction. She’d read your message loud and clear. But what you couldn’t figure out was why. Zaun was filled with bars—plenty of them even filthier than this one. So why keep coming back to this one? Was it defiance? Did she just not care about the fact that you didn’t want her here? Then there were the moments that left you even more confused. The way her gaze would linger,as she was hanging out with some random girl, her eyes flicking over to you when she thought you weren’t looking. It wasn’t often, but it was enough to notice. Enough to keep her lodged firmly in your thoughts.

Vi was a mystery. An infuriating, captivating mystery. And for some reason, you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting to figure her out. Maybe it was the distraction she provided, pulling you away from the ache of Ellie. Or maybe it was something else. Something about the way she carried herself, the way she owned a room even when she was silent. Whatever it was, she had you hooked—and you hated her for it.

Today was no different. She strolled in like she owned the place, another girl trailing behind her—a new one this time. She made a beeline for the bar and ordered a round of drinks before sliding into a table suspiciously close to where you were working. Maybe you were imagining things, but it felt deliberate. There were plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the room, especially ones better suited for whatever this was supposed to be. An intimate date? That hardly seemed like Vi’s style. The girl with her seemed sweet. Blonde hair with blue highlights that caught the dim lights of the bar, bright eyes, a soft smile. She leaned toward Vi as they talked, her body language screaming interest. But Vi? She sat back, arms draped casually over the chair, her expression distant, detached. It was like she craved the closeness but couldn’t bring herself to let anyone in.

It was… familiar. Too familiar.

You turned back to the counter, your hands working on autopilot as you wiped down the surface. Yet, no matter how much you tried to ignore her, your gaze kept drifting in her direction. And every time it did, you caught her watching you.

You didn’t like it.

Pouring yourself a drink, you told yourself it was just to take the edge off. One drink turned into two, and before long, the alcohol made everything sharper, more noticeable. You were too aware of her—every glance, every quiet laugh, every time her eyes flicked toward you. When it happened again, you decided enough was enough. You locked eyes with her, letting your gaze trail over her features, daring her to look away. She didn’t. At first, she looked confused, but that quickly morphed into something smug—a slow, cocky smirk creeping across her face. She leaned over, whispering something in the blonde’s ear. The girl nodded, and just like that, Vi stood and headed straight for you.

“Hey there,” she said, her voice calm but carrying that familiar edge of arrogance. Her eyes bore into yours, steady, confident.

“Well, look at you,” you quipped, leaning casually against the bar. “Turns out you can talk.”

She smirked. “Can you blame me? You called me an asshole and made it pretty clear you didn’t want me to talk to you.”

“Both of those things are true,” you replied with a dismissive shrug, though the faint trace of a grin played on your lips. You blamed the alcohol.

“So let me get this straight,” she teased. “You don’t want to talk to me, but you want me to talk to you? Maybe even acknowledge you?”

“Oh, I’ve noticed you acknowledging me,” you shot back, your tone dry. “Not with words, though.” Your hand idly wiped at the counter with a cloth, pretending nonchalance.

Vi chuckled, brushing off your jab. “Fair enough. Since you’re so insistent, let me drop the ‘asshole behavior’ for a minute.” She leaned in slightly. “I don’t even know your name.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to meet her halfway. “It’s Y/N,” you said, your voice firm. A beat of silence lingered between you, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a small smirk of your own, you added, “Now get back to your date. Don’t keep her waiting.”

You didn’t wait to see her reaction. The sudden surge of emotions made your chest tighten, and you dropped the cloth and glass onto the counter, heading for the backroom.

Intimacy—it wasn’t something you wanted. Not now. Not with her. Even the smallest brush of warmth from someone else felt like an open wound. You were comfortable in the cold, with the pain. Examining Vi had been easy, safe. She was uncertainty and sharp edges, not softness. You closed the door behind you, leaning back against it and exhaling deeply. Maybe one of these days you’d figure out what Vi was really doing to you. But not tonight. Not yet.

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Note from author: It's my first time writing something ever please please please let me know if you liked that! I think that this fic will have 6/8 parts , so there's a lot unfold here. I kinda changed finale of Arcane, because Vi and Caitlyn don't end up together. Also, I have included Ellie as reader's ex girlfriend, so she will have more appearances in future. It would mean world to me if you shared my work (if you liked it of course) and please don't hesitate to message me, ask me questions about it or let me know what are your thoughts! Thank you!

[ssa-danhotchner]

Happier | Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader

summary: Years after their breakup, y/n struggles with seeing Hotch move on with his new partner, Beth, while still working alongside him every day.

cw: use of y/n, past relationship, heartbreak, angst?, themes of moving on, Haley mentioned. let me know if I missed anything

wc: 1k

note: English isn't my first language so please be kind. I had the entire sour album stuck in my head. Please give me some ideas to write

read part two here

The sound of laughter echoed faintly through the bullpen as the last of the team packed up for the night. You sat at your desk, staring blankly at the screen of your computer. The words of your report blurred together, the glowing monitor casting pale light over your exhausted face. You didn’t even know why you were still there; everyone else had gone home.

Everyone, except for him.

Aaron Hotchner.

It had been years since the two of you had ended things, but the wound never seemed to fully heal. Time had dulled the ache, sure, but it hadn’t erased the memories.

You could still see the way he’d smile when it was just the two of you, the way his hand would linger on yours longer than necessary, the way he whispered your name like it was the only word that mattered. Back then, it felt like you had something unshakable, something real. But life had a way of pulling people apart, and for you and Aaron, it had been no different.

It wasn’t a dramatic breakup. There were no screaming matches, no accusations hurled in the heat of the moment. It had been quiet, almost agonizingly so. You’d both known it was over before either of you said the words. The demands of his job, his grief over Haley, and the ever-present weight of being a single father—it was too much for him to bear. And you, despite loving him more than anything, hadn’t been enough to bridge the growing gap between you.

“I can’t give you what you deserve,” he’d said that night, his voice heavy with regret. “You deserve more than stolen moments and half-hearted promises.”

And that had been it.

You had cried, of course. For weeks, maybe months. But you told yourself you’d be fine, that you’d move on. You tried to convince yourself that his words weren’t true, that you could have made it work. But deep down, you knew he was right.

Still, knowing it was the right thing didn’t make it any easier.

Now, years later, you had settled into a new normal. Working alongside him every day was a constant reminder of what you’d lost, but you’d learned to compartmentalize. You had to. There was no room for personal feelings when lives were on the line.

Or at least, that was what you told yourself.

Your eyes drifted to his office, where the light was still on. Through the glass, you could see him sitting at his desk, his phone pressed to his ear. His face softened as he spoke, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You knew who he was talking to.

Beth.

The name tasted bitter on your tongue, though you hated yourself for it. She was kind, warm, and good for him. You’d never met her formally, but you’d heard enough to know she made him happy. And wasn’t that what you wanted? For him to be happy?

But it wasn’t that simple.

Because every time you saw him with her—every time you heard him mention her in passing—it felt like someone was twisting a knife in your chest. You wanted him to be happy, but not like this. Not with her.

I hope you’re happy, but not like how you were with me.

The lyrics played on a loop in your mind, echoing your most selfish thoughts. You wanted to believe he still thought of you, that some small part of him missed what you’d shared. But the rational part of you knew better. Aaron Hotchner wasn’t the type to dwell on the past. He had moved on.

“Hey.”

His voice startled you out of your thoughts. You looked up to see him standing in front of your desk, his expression tinged with concern.

“You’re still here?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

“I could say the same to you” you replied, forcing a small smile.

He didn’t return it. “You should go home. It’s late.”

“I will” you said, though you had no intention of leaving just yet.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt heavy, weighed down by all the things left unsaid.

“Are you okay?” he asked finally, his dark eyes searching yours.

You hesitated. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

He nodded, but you could tell he didn’t quite believe you.

“Goodnight, y/n” he said softly, his voice carrying an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place.

“Goodnight, Hotch”

You watched him walk away, the sound of his footsteps fading into the quiet of the bullpen.

Once he was gone, you let out a shaky breath, the weight in your chest threatening to crush you. You hated how much power he still had over you, how his presence could unravel you so completely.

Leaning back in your chair, you closed your eyes, letting the memories flood in despite the pain they brought. You thought of the nights you’d spent tangled together, whispering secrets in the dark. You thought of the way he’d kiss your forehead before leaving for work, murmuring promises to come back to you.

And you thought of the way it all ended, the way he walked out of your life without looking back.

It wasn’t fair.

You wanted to move on, to let go of the love that still clung to you like a ghost. But every time you tried, you found yourself pulled back to him, to the man who had once been your everything.

You sighed, grabbing your bag and shutting off your computer. As you walked to your car, the night air was cool against your skin, but it did little to soothe the ache in your heart.

Sitting behind the wheel, you gripped the steering wheel tightly, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over.

“I hope you’re happy,” you whispered to the empty car, your voice cracking. “But don’t be happier.”

The words hung in the air, a quiet confession to a love you could never fully let go of.

And as you drove away, the memories of him lingered, a bittersweet reminder of the love you once had—and the happiness you’d never find again.

[gorgeys]

thirty minutes ★ santana lopez x fem!cheerio!reader

santana only has you for thirty minutes a day

part 2

word count: 885 warnings: SMUT - fingering, lowk angsty

a/n: the santana brainrot is so real ughhhhh

thirty minutes.

that's the exact amount of time between the end of cheerios practice and the end of football practice.  and you and santana make the most of it.

while the rest of the cheerios hit the showers, you and santana race to the parking lot, her hand tightly wound around yours.  she looks both ways, ensuring there's no witnesses, before literally shoving you into the backseat of her brand new car.

"it's not cheating," she reassures you, grabbing you by the hips and settling you in her lap.  "if the plumbing's different."

before you can ever protest, her lips are meeting yours in a bruising, dizzying kiss and any thought of your kind-hearted boyfriend, quarterback finn hudson, is erased from your memory.

he's probably throwing the football around on the field right now, thinking about the date he's going to take you on tonight.  he probably overthrows a ball because he's too busy contemplating what type of flowers to buy you or what shirt he's going to wear.

you do feel bad for doing this, especially since you can see the bleachers of the football stadium from the rear window of the car, but the death grip santana has on your hip bones, forcing you to grind down onto her bare thighs, feels too good.

and santana says it's not cheating anyway.  she wouldn't lie to you, right?

her fingers start to creep beneath the hem of your skirt, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they skim the inside of your thighs.  for the sake of time and her own eagerness, she pushes your underwear to the side and buries two fingers inside you without warning.  the way you groan and arch into her hands leaves her looking up at you like you're the only thing in her world.

"bet he can't make you feel like this," she says, driving her fingers deeper.  she feels like she's on cloud nine when you nod back.  all the hate in the world couldn't compare to what she felt for stupid finn hudson.

other than her occasional whispers, this is the only time in her life that she actually shuts up and listens.  she listens to every sound and incoherent babble that leaves your lips and the squelching sound of her fingers inside of you.  she watches you screw your eyes shut and throw your head back, an attempt to avoid the way she looks at you.  it's easier to ignore the longing and desire in her eyes than to accept it.  especially when you only have ten minutes left.

it doesn't matter how many times you cum or tell her that the overstimulation is too much.  finn may have you for the rest of the day, but these are her thirty minutes with you and she intends to use each and every one of them. 

"you can take it," she mumbles, pulling down the front of your cheerios uniform so she can leave kisses on your bare chest.  "don't you wanna be good for me?"

she keeps curling her fingers inside of you and watching your wetness drip down her wrist with blown pupils until you notice the football boys start to emerge from the field.

"shit," you mumble, brain still fuzzy as you climb off her lap. she frowns as you flatten your skirt, missing the feeling of your nails digging into her neck.  "do i look okay?"

she thinks you look perfect as always with lips puffy from kissing and ponytail much looser than before.  to anyone else it would have been obvious you were up to something, but finn was so oblivious santana didn't even have to worry.

"yeah," she says breathlessly, her chest still heaving beneath the school logo of her uniform.

"okay," is all you say before you open the car door and step out.  she sighs before following your lead and stepping out the other side.

she closes the door just in time to see finn walking up, his helmet tucked under his arm.  she leans against her car and crosses her arms as he engulfs you in a hug, not even questioning why you had emerged from the backseat of santana's car.

she scowls watching you beam back at that stupid gassy infant grin on his face.  maybe she wasn't ready to proclaim her love to you in front of the entire school like he was, but she still couldn't understand what you saw in him that you didn't see in her.

he slings an arm over your shoulder and starts to lead you toward his car, but you make sure to turn back before he can take you too far.

"i'll call you later, san!" you shout with the smile she'd give up everything for.

santana only grimaces back, conflicting feelings fighting each other in her head.  finn, who's still somewhat scared of your intimidating best friend, looks back and gives her a subtle wave and tight-lipped smile.  it only upsets her more.

you never say it, but she knows you'll end up in her car tomorrow, bouncing on her lap again.  and the day after that and the day after that.  so for now, she'll just have to replay the vivid memory of you in her head, wishing she could be so much more to you.

[loganhowlettshousewife]

animal

chapter 5.5

friendly reminder that i am not a writer, i'm just a girl who loves logan howlett and wanted to write something exploring his animalistic side since i so rarely see it done. my first language is also not english, so please do not be rude when giving me any feedback.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood, introspection

series masterlist │my masterlist

“did you mean it? when you said you would want me even if i was more like,” a pause, “like an animal?”

you hum, cuddling further into his side, chasing the warmth of shared body heat. “of course. i kind of miss it, actually. there’s something weirdly attractive about you acting on just pure instinct, you know?”

he doesn’t know, actually. his entire life he’s been told to behave in a certain way - there were those who wanted him to be an animal, a violent killer with no human morals or thoughts to interfere with his orders, and those who told him he needed to reign in the feral aspects of his mutation, who called him a monster for the way he was born.

even amongst mutants he wasn’t always treated well. they had interesting abilities, beautiful things that belonged in movies or books or fairytale stories. they could control the elements and create things from practically nothing, while he only knew how to destroy. he brought chaos and bloodshed everywhere he went.

he was the kind of mutant that made people uncomfortable, the kind of mutant people saw as a freak of nature, a mistake. people like him were the reason mutants would never be accepted within society. he was too violent, too dangerous, too much of a threat.

they would fight for mutant rights, but turn right around and tell him to hide who he was, to be gentle or kind or better, whatever they decided that meant. because his nature made everyone uncomfortable.

and he understood that. because logan hated himself as much, if not more, than they all seemed to hate him. he’s always hated his instincts, hated how it made him feel, hated the way he felt that he couldn’t always control himself, hated what they made him.

so he’s always hidden parts of himself, never fully revealing who he is to anyone. in return, he finds people who love him, or at least who claim that they do, and the need for acceptance that presses down on his heart lessens into a bearable weight.

it was why he’d been so ashamed when he’d started to regain his memories, flashes of his past showing up in his dreams. for months he’d acted on his natural instincts with you, every lesson he’s ever been taught temporarily erased from his mind. he’d allowed himself to be wild, feral, a disgusting beast that doesn’t qualify as human. a monster.

and yet here you are, telling him that you find it attractive, smiling at him as if he hasn’t spent his entire life running from himself, being hunted down for his mutation for one reason or another, either to kill or to use. he’s a weapon to some, an uncontrollable animal to others, a mutant to be trained for a new purpose every time someone new finds him.

but to you, he’s just logan.

you don’t run or hide from what he is, you accept him with open arms. and that’s terrifying, the trust that you’ve placed in him, because all he’s ever done is hurt people, and you have absolutely no defences, nothing to protect you when he inevitably fucks up again.

he doesn’t think he’ll be able to let go of everything he’s taught himself just like that, let go of the control he’s spent centuries honing and perfecting to allow his instincts to crawl to the forefront of his mind. not after so long. but it physically hurts him to hold back at times, and the thought that maybe he’s finally found a place where he doesn’t need to deal with that pain, a place where he doesn’t need to hide - it makes the constant ache in his chest lessen just the slightest bit.

he’s still traumatised and plagued with horrible memories, anger still runs in his veins like blood, but all of that feels easier to cope with when he kisses and bites at your neck, scenting you, claiming you. and you let him, giggling with your hands in his hair.

your scent is happy, bright and warm like a sunny afternoon. he’s making you happy like this, the animal in him is making you happy like this.

taglist: @mystiquesvendetta @raeinyourdreams @babey-fruit-bat @meetmypointlessaddiction @kneelforloki @deaky-with-a-c @hypermarvellove @littlepeanut03 @the-ruler-of-death @aliengutzstuff @misscrissfemmefatale @mynamesstevenwithav @teaganthemorningstar @blackkatzz @leryg0 @fries11 @forksloree @i5uckersblog @dragovegogrimborn @quillycrow @melday0105 @just-a-little-cellist @scorpiosaintt @akasha157-blog @insanesosciopath @eridektbh @trickstergabriel69 @lord-bingus666

[axiina]

what about aemond x niece reader but aegon has always been in love with her? she is betrothed to aemond and they’ve always had a thing for the other but aegon has been head over heels for her since he can remember 👀

Always the last

Pairing: Aegon Targaryen x niece!reader, Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader

Summary: The firstborn son, always the last. It was like a mockery of the gods. To give him birthright but take away the one he wanted more than anything in the world.

Words: 1k

Themes: angst, no comfort, basically aegon is obsessed with reader, kind of self harm? (too much alcohol to silence pain), addictions

Warnings: delulu fanon aegon, kind of self harm? (too much alcohol to silence pain), addictions, incest (it's targaryens so obviously)

Author's note: I'm back, and I hope for longer. At first, it was supposed to be a more aemond x reader, but I changed my mind, and it ended up as angst from aegon's perspective. I'm sucker for my delulu fanon aegon. if you want more, my asks are open!!

Aegon knew he shouldn't get his hopes up. The life he imagined with his niece by his side was simply not going to happen.

He didn't deserve her. And even if it were otherwise, nothing would come of it. He had already been married to Helaena for years.

It just didn't make sense, and Aegon was well aware of that. So why did it hurt him so much? Why then, when he heard his father's decision about the betrothals of Aemond and his niece, did Aegon feel as if his life had just been put to rest? Why did it hurt so much? The knowledge that it would be Aemond who would be able to watch her sleep blissfully, hug her, kiss her, and spend the rest of his life with her didn't allow him to function.

He is the first-born son, and yet always the last.

So he turned to drinking and whoring. Aegon was never a serious man. He was always more interested in pleasure than any duty and this time was no different either. He didn't want to think anymore.

He didn't want to think about her, so to silence those disturbing thoughts, he would get drunk to the point of unconsciousness, unable to get her out of his head.

He would do anything to forget, to silence the pain and the voice that reminded him that it should have been him all along.

Aegon drank day and night with no desire to stop it. In every spare moment, all he could think about was his niece. The girl whose smile could light up the darkest corner and whose touch made his heart beat faster.

He knew it was wrong. He knew he should forget her. After all, she was his brother's betrothed. But there was nothing he could do about it.

No matter how much he tried to push away thoughts of her, no matter how much he tried to hide his feelings, he couldn't.

He couldn't forget the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed or the way her hair fell around her face like a waterfall. He couldn't forget her scent and the smile that made his heart flutter. He couldn't forget the way her hand felt in his, or the way her fingers traced patterns on his skin. Even if it was years ago when they were children. When life was easier.

He couldn't forget her. He was completely and utterly infatuated.

And it was killing him.

Every time he saw her with his brother, every time he saw them laughing and joking together, it felt like a dagger in his heart. He knew he should be happy for Aemond, but he couldn't. He was too consumed with jealousy, too consumed with the thought that she should be his betrothed and not his brother's.

He knew it was selfish and even unreasonable. But he couldn't help it.

He couldn't bear the thought of her being with someone else. Not when he had wanted her so much for so long. Not when he had spent years admiring her from afar, unable to do anything but dream of what might have been if things had turned out differently.

No amount of alcohol could erase his memories, no amount of pleasure could dull the pain in his heart.

She was always there, on the edges of his mind, tormenting him with her sweetness, beauty and innocence.

The pain in Aegon's heart only grew when he saw them together.

The sight of Aemond's eyes brightening as he looked at her, the way he leaned in to listen closely every time she spoke, the small smile that appeared on his lips when she laughed, all of it made Aegon's insides twist into a knot.

He felt as if a cold, strong hand was squeezing his heart and squeezing it tighter and tighter with each passing moment.

He tried to look away, to divert his attention, but he couldn't. His eyes always returned to them, drawn to their sight like a moth to a flame. He tried to tell himself that he should be happy for Aemond, that he should be happy that his brother had found someone to make him happy, but he couldn't.

He was filled with a burning jealousy from which he could not shake.

He couldn't stand it.

He couldn't look at them together, see the happiness on their faces, the warmth in Aemond's gaze. It was like a thousand needles piercing his heart with every passing second. He wanted to scream, tear them apart, take her away from her brother, and claim her as his own. He wanted to sink his face into her hair and inhale her scent, to wrap his arms around her and never let her go.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't do any of those things. He was trapped, watching from the sidelines as Aemond, his younger brother, his other son, always the more loved one, was now the one who could be with her. The one who could hold her hand, kiss her, and share her life. Aegon could only stare at it, feeling the bitter taste of jealousy on his tongue.

She was like a drug, an addiction he couldn't shake off. Every time he saw her, his heart sped up, his palms sweated, and his throat tightened.

And every time she smiled at Aemond, her eyes shining with affection, his heart broke all over again.

He knew that Aemond deserved someone like her in his life. But he couldn't help it. Jealousy was consuming him. It was destroying him.

Aegon knew he was not the right choice for her. He was too weak, too selfish, too impulsive.

He was a drunkard, a lustful man, one who lacked discipline and self-control. He would disappoint her, hurt her, and ultimately break her heart.

But that didn't stop him from wanting her, from lusting after her like a drug. Every thought of her filled his mind, every memory of her haunted his dreams.

She was like a bright, shining candle in a dark, cold world, and he was drawn to her more and more because he couldn't have her.

He was the firstborn son, the eldest, the one who was supposed to get everything.

And yet he was always the last. Last in his father's eyes, last in his mother's heart and now last in the race to her heart.

It was like a cruel joke, a mockery of the gods, that they had given him the birthright but taken away the one thing he wanted, the one person he wanted more than anything.

[sunkissedscribbles]

Only Thing That Keeps Us Apart...

pairing: theodore nott x borderline!fem!reader

genre: angst

tw: mental illness, SA, suicide

word count: 1735

summary: theo has to leave you on his father's will

a/n: @inksoakedparchment i hope this is what you wanted<3

playlist: IF NOT FOR YOU – Måneskin / TIMEZONE - Måneskin / THE LONELIEST – Måneskin

masterlist

dividers by @chachachannah

You miss him. How could you not? He was your best friend, your saviour, your boyfriend. The man you were supposed to end up with; marry and have children with. How did you two end up like this? – You’re wearing the old clothes he left at your place before he simply disappeared and erased himself from your life. He left – without any explanation, a note, or any clue about where he was going.

As if he were dead.

As if your love didn’t mean anything.

Your flat is cold and empty without the sound of his stupid whistling while doing the simplest of things like chores, him arguing with the old cooker in Italian when it won’t work properly, without his bright personality he’d only let you see, or the bickering over meaningless things like what film to watch – what film to get bored of in the middle and have a better idea on what to do instead, rather.

Now that he left your life like that everything seems so dull and boring, so dark, so pallid and achromatic. Life seems to have slowed down and the once clear sky you have seen daily during Theo is grey and so overly clouded that the sun won’t shine through the thick layer.

Sometimes you feel like he was just a game of your imagination, like it has completely fooled you. But how could he have been fake? It was so real, too real, even. If you really try you can still recall even the littlest of touches, like him brushing his nose against yours in the morning to stir you awake or the way he held you against his body to reassure you you’ll be together, forever.

What a bullshitter.

There'll be no summer There'll be no spring If not for this love of mine Thornes without flowers Bars with no drinks If not for this love of mine

All the lights All the parties would just fade out Shut them down

He didn’t want to leave, but he didn’t have a choice. He had thought after Voldemort’s defeat things would be different; lighter, easier, and that he’d have a sharper vision of your future together.

Was he naive?

Why on earth had he even thought his father would get sent to Azkaban if he survived the war? Why did he think he’d get a chance to start over, with you?

He had plans, just like you.

Italy – it was his plan. He wanted to take you there, take you home with him, all the while he would have told you about his mother who he lost as a kid. He would’ve shown you all the best places and the best food, and he knew exactly where he wanted to propose to you. Hell, had he bought the ring before he got the call… The plane tickets were purchased, and his place in Italy was all set for the two of your arrival.

And all his plans now are going down the drain because of the family business.

He memorised your landline number – he remembers every time he walks past a phone booth, but he knows he has to stay sensible and responsible. He wants to tell you he’s losing his mind without you, he wants to run away from his father and the literal mafia he’s the leader of but that would only put you in danger. And that’s the last thing he wants.

But what if…

Now I know you're sleepin' Where I'm supposed to be in Wish I could've stayed Only thing that keeps us apart Is seven thousand miles, running like a mad dog Only thing that keeps us apart Is a different timezone So fuck what I'm dreaming, this fame has no meaning I'm coming home Only thing that keeps us apart Is a different timezone

You’re trying to move on – but how could you if these memories of you during Theo just won’t leave your mind?

That one time he was walking down the hallway at your place when he suddenly stopped by the bathroom. It was a thing you two used to do – leaving the door open so that you could still talk whenever either of you was in the bathroom.

“Is that blood?” he stared at you half-sitting, half-lying in the bathtub with one leg on the edge of it, a razor in your hand. His face went completely white as he thought you were hurting yourself on purpose, until he noticed the razor.

“...No?” you raised an eyebrow until you saw the red liquid along your shin. “Oh, shit, it is,” you laughed it off with a shrug. You shouldn’t have – he quickly sat down on the edge of the tub and held you an infinitely long lecture about how not to cut yourself with a razor while tending to the little wound. Little did he care that you had another leg to be done that evening.

Or the memory of your first kiss? All he said was ‘woah’ but you understood him perfectly. No wonder he went in for another to devour you.

But there was the time he tried to braid your hair. He had no idea what he was doing, and your explanation of it with your hands and sentences like ‘this over that and the other that over this’ didn’t help the slightest.

But it hadn’t always been happy all the time, either – there was a reason for him to be scared you were self-harming that night in the bathtub as you had a tendency for depressive episodes.

Before Theo, you had no idea what to do with your life – you had been down so bad you didn’t see the light anymore and your episodes were starting to get to your head – you couldn’t handle them properly and you felt like you could never get your life back from the hand of an external force. So when he found you in the Astronomy Tower with fresh cuts he wouldn’t have left you alone. You had many arguments because of this, because of your BPD.

His presence irritated you at first – he was like a lost puppy, running after you–

"Let's put that down, principessa," he stared into your eyes as he reached for the blade in your fist. There was something about his eyes, about those blue irises that were so effective of getting anything he wanted out of you, and that gaze that seemed to be staring right into your soul.

–but you got used to it after a few weeks and warmed up enough to open up to him. It hasn't been difficult to talk about your mental illness anymore, not like this, that he knew what the worst he could expect from you was. Because he showed you that he really did care about your well-being. And because he loved you, even at your worst.

Yes, he did fall in love with your worst and as time went on and your relationship progressed your mental health only improved during Theo.

You're still the oxygen I breathe I see your face when I close my eyes It's torturous Tonight is gonna be the loneliest

He fell for you. It took him some time to give in to his heart, and for you to accept that you're loveable but you did it. You both did.

He's counting the hours, the time difference – he has been since he had to go, and he can't stop thinking about you. He was a player before you, a man as well as a kid during you – but who is he now? He can't find the answers to his current existential crisis. You probably think he's dead. And you think that perfectly. His life has lost its meaning without you, no colour, no more Nirvana, no Billy Jean, no dancin' if you're not part of his life anymore.

'How could I wake up How could I sleep How could I be someone?'

So, what if...

Tomorrow, I got another plane, I'm not gonna take it Mm, instead, I'm gonna fly straight to you, I paid double for the tickets And I don't give a shit about the contracts that I signed And they can say whatever, we'll be making love, I'm fucking you tonight

Your flat is cold and empty – it's his first remark. He walks farther in, calling out for you, "Y/N? Tesoro, I'm home!" and he's waiting for the moment you run out of the bedroom or from the kitchen to greet him with a fist to his nose for leaving you and kiss him senseless right after.

He walks into the bedroom – no sign of you.

Then into the kitchen.

Where the hell are you?

He spots you in the bathtub, fully dressed. "Y/N! I've been calling for you for minutes, honey. What are you–?" he takes in your pale complexion as he walks closer to you.

Closer to your cold and lifeless body.

The realization hits him like a dozen rocks

"No, no, no," he crouches down next to you, seeing the clear and sharp cuts. "Fuck! Please wake up, please wake up! Y/N, this is not funny. Stop this... Please, baby..." he lets out a ragged breath, trying to collect himself. He lifts your hand to check your pulse.

And just waits,

and waits.

He can't let you go. "Had I not told you to be careful with the razor?" he cries out. You couldn't have died, right? You must be hearing him, must be playing a very sick game with him. No, no, you're alive. You're alive... right? He starts tending to your wounds but deep down he knows there's no point in doing so. You're not gonna wake up. He can't look at your face, he's not strong enough as he knows there won't be a smile on it. The smile he loves so much.

The smile he loved so much.

You were lost and afraid before Theo. You were happy and stable during him. But there's no after Theo. There never will be. Not for you. And you’ve known it all along.

You'll be the saddest part of me A part of me that will never be mine It's obvious Tonight is gonna be the loneliest You're still the oxygen I breathe I see your face when I close my eyes It's torturous Tonight is gonna be the loneliest

tag list: @inksoakedparchment @mqstermindswift @reys-letters @girllblogging777 @yelanare

[swiftsalad]

Thought experiment, just hear me out:

So Daniel “I don’t remember, that’s why I’m asking” Molloy could be remembering bits and pieces of 70’s-80’s Devil’s minion now that he’s remembered the majority of what happened in San Fran. BUT instead of it being memories that make sense, it’s all out of order and they don’t make any sense similar to how he remembered San Fran.(this is usually how memory loss works, but not how it’s often represented in media) so what if he’s remembering Devil’s minion except for the important stuff. Then you layer on the fact that his memory has been erased so what if, even with all his will power he can’t remember Armand’s face while all the dm stuff is happening. And I can imagine the horrifying feeling of trying to explore these memories and seeing the soiled sheets, feeling the bite on his neck, feeling his hands tangled into someone’s hair and telling himself “turn your head, look at him, all you have to do is turn your head, he’s right there!” But he can’t because the man’s face is just a black hole, an erased memory, an identity he can never confirm on his own. UGH it’s violating, it’s horrifying, and yearning for more all at once.

I’m theorizing that erasing a “whole” memory(multiple events, faces, feeling, actions, etc.) is a lot harder than erasing one persons face from someone’s memory. So what if that’s why there were so many cracks in Daniel’s false memory that allowed him to recover what was lost PLUS this was made easier because Louis was helping with his own memories. I really think that if Armand just tweaked Daniel’s memory to forget his face, it would hold longer since Daniel would still remember fucking up his life, all the lows, all the highs(literally) and of course he would attribute any lapse in memory to “well I remember being high so I was probably on another bender” when in reality there is a nightmare twink standing behind him the whole time but he’s just so perfectly out of frame so Daniel doesn’t see his face. And it’s everywhere he looks, a picture has a perfect smudge to cover this man’s face, his memory has literal black spots over this man’s face, and then none of his friends remember this strange man. Like could you imagine being haunted by a faceless man that you feel a magnetic pull towards. AND even when you can’t remember, you still feel him there, he’s in every corner, every room, every bed, every lover, every town, every city, every state and every country. So it’s so real when Louis says, “You were there, Daniel.” And all he can say is “I don’t remember, that’s why I’m asking.” Cause he’s so painfully aware that he was there, he just can’t shake the feeling that someone else was also there.

[the-way-astray]

wait explain why you hate the alden is part of the neverseen theory

because it’s bad

alden shattered because he accused prentice, then later found out the black swan were the "good guys". this is also confirmed to not be a misunderstanding of any sort since sophie heals alden by telling him she can fix prentice. so we know for a fact that that is the reason he broke. so then. why would he break from accusing prentice if he was part of the neverseen the whole time? he wouldn't feel guilty over getting a black swan member shattered. he would be fine

it would be boring after alvar. we already have a vacker from the main vacker family as a traitor. it would be repetitive for it to happen again, especially since the implications are exactly the same as with alvar. it would be the same story again: wow, he's a vacker, i didn't know vackers could commit crime -> they're ruining our family -> oh, shit, he had access to so many important documents and was one of the council's most trusted nobles -> oh shit, he was close with black swan members -> fitz and/or biana and/or della spiral -> the rest of the vackers blame them for bringing shame to the family. boring. repetitive. we did this already. the only difference would be that sophie was a lot closer to alden than she was with alvar, and even then in later books you can see that their bond has rusted a bit

alden is not some master manipulator. he has not manipulated or meddled in a single affair the entire length of the series up until this point. yes, even in the short story. yes, even with telling sophie not to worry all the time. he's literally just a guy. now, if he was revealed to be part of the neverseen, that would speak to his manipulation abilities. but like. i feel like people who believe this theory think that because alden has supposedly already proven to be so manipulative, it's proof that he could be manipulating everyone into thinking he's good. and he is not some master manipulator, guys. he's not even a manipulator. he's just some dude

motive: why the hell would alden want to join the neverseen. tell me why. he's a high-ranked emissary. he's a telepath. he's privileged and a vacker. and yes, he sees the world is unjust. but he's also affiliated with the black swan already, and he can see they're trying to make a change? like. where is the motive here. especially since the neverseen carved up every single one of his children to the point where all of them have permanent scars. i guess the people who believe this theory would argue he doesn't really care about his kids, even alvar, but sophie brought back alden partly by showing him how much his family needs him. so he must truly, genuinely care about his family. and it would be boring for him to be a purely evil, cackling villain anyway. so like

at this point in time i truly don't think shannon has the ability to pull off another betrayal storyline and have space to work through the complications and implications because that would have to be something she follows through on. there will only be a maximum of two more books in this story. she needs to get around to answering actually important questions, not meandering around shoving a betrayal that fully doesn't even make sense in our faces out of nowhere for shock value and shock value alone

also a couple of things would become plotholes. if alden is part of the neverseen, why would they need alvar to go through that entire intricate scheme to get into everglen? they could just have alden open the gate for them, even without revealing his identity; he could "accidentally" leave the gates open before going to the festival or give them his dna or do something that could make it so that the neverseen could get into everglen easier than the way they actually did. if alden is part of the neverseen, why would gisela, brant, and alvar talk about being scared alden will find sophie before them in a memory she erased out of keefe's head (and was shattered, so you know they didn't want keefe seeing that)? it only makes sense if they were truly worried alden would find sophie first

quite literally nothing about this theory makes any logical sense with the canon we're given. i swear i’m not saying this on account of being an alden defender, i’m saying this because it doesn’t make any sense . . . i hate the della is part of the neverseen theory as well but at least the theory is plausible and makes sense . . .

[stormikitty]

Vaggie's Past

I've seen tons of fics and tumblr posts with 2 different ideas about Vaggie's past. 1 being that she had a human life before she became an exorcist angel, and the other being that she grew up in heaven and was raised by Adam and Lute and the other exorcists. Idk which 1 I like better, but I have headcanons for both. And I've sort of imagined conversations for how the other characters would find out?

1:Vaggie had a human life:

Charlie: Hey Vaggie? Are you heavenborn, or a human soul?

Vaggie: it's complicated? When a human soul becomes an exorcist, the first part of their training involves magic induced amnesia. They're forced to forget everything about their lives including their own name, and they're given a new 1. I know I was a human at some point, but I don't remember anything. Some things stick, like languages, and some strong feelings about certain things even if there's a lack of context for it, but I don't remember who I was or any of the people I might've known. Every earthborn exorcist has maybe 1 vivid memory from their life, but it never actually tells them anything about who they used to be or who they know. I think that's to make it easier to erase any individuality more quickly and make us forget if any of our morals didn't originally align with what exorcists do. Turns us into perfect soldiers quicker. If I remembered my real name, I probably wouldn't be going by the 1 that Adam gave me. He literally named me after a vagina.

Chalie: *hugging Vaggie*

Anyone else who heard this: ...

2: Heavenborn Vaggie:

Vaggie: I was never a child.

Angel Dust: What did you just come into existence fully grown or something?

Vaggie: No, I still had to grow and develop like anyone else would.

Husk: Then you were a child.

Vaggie: I was raised to be the perfect soldier since the moment I was born. A soldier isn't allowed to be a child.

Everyone: WHAT?!

Charlie: Why didn't your parents protect your from that?

Vaggie: A lot of exorcist angels are born from flowers instead of other angels. I was 1 of them. I was raised by exorcists and grew up with exorcists.

Alastor or Angel Dust: You were born from a flower? Like Thumbilina?

Husk: They took away your childhood?!

Vaggie: Yeah. I had to be a grow up almost as soon as I could start walking and talking.

Nifty: What was it like being raised by exorcists? Other than the fact that you weren't allowed to be a kid?

Vaggie: I was surrounded by high standards and expectations I had to meet and not allowed to have much if any individuality. Exorcists aren't even given names until after their 1st extermination. They have numbers until then. Also, you know how exorcists have those black stipes on their wings? Those don't appear until their 1st extermination either. Also I was taught to value loyalty and strength more than anything else. Loyalty goes above strength, but not by much. And the second I showed even the slightest hesitation to follow an order, I was cast out of heaven in probably 1 of the most brutal and painful ways possible by 1 of the people I trusted the most. So there's that.

Everyone: *ready to throw hands with some exorcists again*

Charlie: *crying*

Nifty: ... Wanna build a pillow fort and watch cartoons?

Edit: I reread the post and realized it said "gown up" instead of "grow up", so I fixed it. I would appreciate if people pointed things like this out to me in the future.

[echoes-of-elsewhere]

I am you - Part 1 of 2 (Doppelganger story)

They always assume they would notice, that if something like this happened to them, it would be immediate and undeniable. People believe in dramatic revelations, in a single moment where the world tilts and the truth is exposed. They think of flickering shadows, distorted reflections, the impossibility of seeing their own face in places they do not remember being. But it never happens that way.

The process is slow, deliberate, and inevitable. A shift so gradual that, by the time they recognize it, it is already too late. It begins with something small—an exchanged greeting they cannot recall, a casual reference to an event they have no memory of attending. They assume it is stress, distraction, miscommunication, all reasonable things that allow them to dismiss the wrongness before it settles in. They do not understand that every moment of doubt is another step in the process.

I have been here for weeks. I know the way he moves, the cadence of his voice, the weight of his name. I have studied him long enough that I could be him better than he is. And soon, I will be.

______________________________________________________________

The first time he notices, it is so minor that he almost forgets it entirely. The barista in the café hands him his coffee and smiles as she says, “Back again?” He hesitates, shakes his head slightly, and tells her this is his first coffee of the day. She frowns for a fraction of a second before laughing it off, blaming her mistake on the early morning rush.

The second time, it is more difficult to ignore. A colleague stops him outside his office, asking how his meeting went. There is a note of expectation in their voice, something that tells him this is not a casual inquiry but a follow-up to an earlier discussion—one that, as far as he is concerned, never happened.

“I didn’t have a meeting this morning,” he says, forcing an easy tone into his voice.

His colleague raises an eyebrow, pulling out their phone. “You said you were heading to one just before lunch. Look—" They turn the screen toward him, showing a text message from his number. The words are familiar, structured exactly the way he would phrase them. He reads them over and over, but the memory of sending them does not come.

That should have been the moment he acknowledged that something was wrong.

But it wasn’t.

______________________________________________________________

Denial is powerful. Even now, as the weight of inconsistencies begins to settle, he fights it. He checks his emails, his call logs, his purchase history, looking for proof that something is missing, something altered. The problem is, there is nothing missing. There are no blank spaces, no files erased or conversations removed. Instead, there are things he has no recollection of doing—transactions at places he has not visited, messages that sound exactly like him, plans he would have made.

He tells himself it is stress, that he must have been distracted, that memory is unreliable. He does not realize that he is not looking for an answer. He is looking for permission to believe nothing is wrong.

That is why he watches the security footage. That is why he asks the night guard to rewind the tape, just to check. That is why, even before he sees it, he knows what will be there.

The screen flickers, and there he is, walking into the office building at 11:42 PM. He watches himself take the elevator to the fourth floor, swipe his access card, and step inside. There is no hesitation in his movements, no moment of doubt or pause. His posture is relaxed, his gait smooth and familiar.

The guard chuckles beside him. “Looks like you’ve been sleepwalking.”

He stares at the footage, waiting for some sign that it isn’t real, that there has been a mistake. But there is no mistake. He was home at 11:42 PM. He knows this with absolute certainty. And yet, here he is, caught in a moment that should not exist.

Sleepwalking.

It is easier to agree than to argue.

______________________________________________________________

The moment of realization, the true breaking point, is not in what he sees but in what he does not.

His phone registers calls he cannot remember, but they are to the same people he speaks to every day. His emails contain correspondence that follows his usual habits, his tone, his way of phrasing things. Even his bank records show nothing unusual—just a life continuing as it always has, perfectly ordinary, except for the quiet, insidious knowledge that it is no longer his.

The key doesn’t turn.

He frowns, tries again, pressing harder, but the lock doesn’t move. He checks the key, turning it over in his palm, but nothing is wrong.

Behind him, footsteps. A voice follows.

“Something wrong?”

He turns. The landlord is walking up, a small ring of spares already in hand. He barely glances at the door.

“My key isn’t working,” he says.

The landlord exhales, already sorting through the keys. “Yeah, had the locks changed this morning. Request came in from you a couple of days ago.” He slides a key free, presses it into his palm without hesitation. “Here. Just don’t lose this one.”

He stares at it.

“Why were they changed?”

The landlord shifts his weight slightly, giving him an odd look before shaking his head. “You tell me. You put in the request.” His tone is flat, uninterested, already moving past the conversation.

His fingers tighten around the key.

"Am I being charged for this?"

A shrug. “Yeah. Standard fee.” The landlord is already moving away.

The key will fit. It will turn.

I already have mine.

Something inside him lurches at the exchange. The way the landlord handed over the key without hesitation. The way there was no moment of doubt, no pause, no verification—just a decision that had already been made.

And then he sees me.

Standing at the end of the street.

[ruhua-langblr]

hi! I'm trying to learn chinese but getting pretty stuck with the characters. I wasn't sure whether to learn how to read them first and then figure out how to write them, or do both at the same or something else. can I ask for any tips on how to learn them? (I'm currently using flashcards, but everything's just falling through my brain like a sieve)

Hi!

So the answer is you should learn three things at the same time: meaning, pronunciation, and how to write. Meaning and pronunciation are pretty understandable, but I think that while writing may seem less important (and as 99% of my writing in Chinese is done through typing nowadays there is an argument for that!), learning how to write characters is a great way to actually remember them! I'm going to break down the reason why and the method that I used that worked the best for me when I was having weekly vocabulary quizzes. (Unfortunately this post got super long, so the read more is necessary!)

So, since Chinese characters are made up of radicals, learning those radicals will help you not just break a character into easier to remember pieces, but also allow you to make educated guesses when you see unfamiliar characters.

Let's take 姐 (elder sister) and 妹 (younger sister). Both can be broken up into two radicals 女/且 and 女/未. The left half of both characters help give us a clue for meaning (女=woman) and the right half give us a clue for pronunciation (且qie=jie, 未 wei=mei). As you write you'll learn proper stroke order and really take note of what radicals make up characters. (Some people recommend learning radicals early, but honestly I think if you learn them as they come up you'll be fine.)

Okay methodology time. Lots of people struggle with flashcards since it's really common that you're learning the literal flashcard instead of the information on the card (brain is a little too good at pattern recognition). I talk a bit about why writing in general is just the best for memorization in this post, but basically writing on pen and paper is still the gold standard. It really engages your brain! So here's how I would utilize this:

I'd write my vocab on a white board (literally the $2 dorm memo type) with the character, pronunciation, and meaning. After I did that, I looked over it for a minute and then erased it. I'd make myself rewrite all of it to see what has stuck. Whatever sticks gets a break and I now only focus on what I forgot. I rewrite everything that I forgot, take a moment to memorize, and erase. Repeat until no words are forgotten. Now I start from the beginning and produce the whole list, including the vocabulary that has been excluded because I remembered it. It's a good way to check if the one that seemed easy to remember was just more recent in my memory. Repeat until you can produce the full list (all components!) out of order on command (To really test this I'd get a friend to read me random words, usually giving me the english since they didn't know Chinese, and I'd have to produce the character and pronunciation in Chinese). The erasing of any hints is really key here. You can do this with pen and paper, but make sure you have a blank page every time. Make sure you challenge yourself to produce the words out of order, we want to eliminate the chance that we're just remembering the pattern of words. This out of order production serves the same purpose as shuffling flashcards.

Finally, what I would've done differently is also learning some sentences so that how a word is used in context is also a part of what I'm memorizing. This can be helpful with remembering grammar patterns so you have an "example sentence" to work off of. These sentences can also be creative and memorable to again help reenforce your memory (this is the reasoning behind Duolingo's bizarre sentences, odd things are more memorable than boring things).

I'm sorry for the essay! I wanted to properly explain why learning writing is important as well as how I used it for memorization, so I hope this is thoroughly helpful! This method is definitely more interesting than standard "copy character x10/25/100" and you can really make a game of it!

新年快乐～

[merwgue]

"Not until the doors are truly closed"

@sjmvillainweek

The courtroom smells of polished wood and dust, like a place abandoned to ghosts. I sit, bound by chains that seem heavier than anything I’ve worn before, heavier than even the weight of the power I once held. My wrists burn beneath the iron cuffs, cold metal biting into my skin. It’s a subtle kind of pain, almost beneath notice—until it’s the only thing you feel. But I don’t flinch. I’ve lived through worse, far worse than what these chains can do to me.

I lift my head, my gaze sliding to the towering wooden doors behind me. Locked, of course. Heavy and immovable, just like the fate that presses down on me from all sides. The room is full of eyes—eyes that watch me like I’m the most disgusting thing they’ve ever seen. As if I am the monster in the story, the villain they’ve all been told to fear. The whispers of the courtroom scrape against the air, like the buzzing of flies over a carcass. They’re here for the spectacle, for the final scene in the tragedy they believe my life has become. But they don’t know me. They never did.

“Amarantha.” The judge’s voice is like a blade cutting through the silence, sharp and cold. It’s a command, a summons. My name, spat like a curse from his lips.

I lift my chin, forcing my gaze to the front, to where they sit in judgment of me. The panel of fae judges—regal, powerful, and oh-so-righteous—watch me with eyes that gleam with hatred. They are the picture of justice, cloaked in the certainty of their own superiority. The gall of it all, to sit there and pass judgment, as if they aren’t every bit as corrupt, as guilty, as me.

The prosecutor rises. His robes rustle with a kind of self-importance that would almost be amusing if I didn’t know what was coming. He doesn’t look at me—why would he? In his eyes, in all of their eyes, I’m already condemned.

“Amarantha,” he begins, his voice slick with the confidence of someone who believes they’ve already won, “is charged with the most heinous of crimes. Crimes that have stretched across courts, across decades. We all know the stories—how she seized power, how she enslaved fae-kind beneath her boot. She ruled through fear, through brutality, leaving nothing but devastation in her wake.”

His words echo in the silence, each accusation like a lash. I feel the eyes of the courtroom pressing in on me, their silent agreement, their thirst for my blood. They don’t care about the truth, about what lies beneath the stories they tell themselves to sleep easier at night. They want me gone, erased from their perfect little world.

He continues, listing each crime like a litany. The deaths, the torture, the tyranny. All of it tied to me, the Butcher of the South. The Destroyer. And isn’t it funny? Funny how they never speak of how it all began. Of why I became the thing they fear. Because that would mean admitting that they played a part in it. That they created me.

The chains rattle as I shift slightly, the cuffs digging deeper into my wrists. I can feel the blood there, sticky and warm, but I don’t flinch. I don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. Pain is nothing. Pain is what happens when you’ve been torn apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the empty shell of who you once were.

I was whole, once. Before all of this. Before him.

I glance at the door again, at the guards who stand like statues, their eyes cold and empty. There’s no escape. Not from this room, not from the chains that bind me, and certainly not from the memories that won’t stop clawing at the edges of my mind.

The prosecutor’s voice fades into the background, a dull hum as I sink into myself, back into the places I don’t let myself go. Back to the beginning, before the chains, before the courtroom, before the judgment.

Before I was the villain.

I was a girl once. Stupid. Naive. Filled with a kind of hope that makes me sick to think about now. I believed in things—love, loyalty, him.

Oh, how I believed in him.

I gave him everything. My trust, my heart, my soul. For him, I became more than I ever thought I could be. I fought for him, stood by his side when no one else would. I thought we were building something together—something real.

But then, one day, he was gone. And with him, everything I had been, everything I had given, meant nothing. I was nothing.

They don’t understand that, the fae who sit in judgment of me. They don’t understand what it’s like to give everything you have, only to have it torn away. To be reduced to a shadow, a ghost of what you once were. To be abandoned. Left behind.

That was the day I realized I had to take what I wanted. I had to make them see me. I couldn’t let them forget me, couldn’t let them erase me. So, I became what they feared. I embraced it. Because in the end, it was better to be hated than to be invisible.

And now, they sit here, pretending they didn’t create me. Pretending they aren’t complicit in every drop of blood that’s been spilled.

“We are prepared to sentence her,” the prosecutor says, and the courtroom seems to still. The tension thickens, like a noose tightening around my throat. “For her crimes against the courts and fae-kind, we propose death.”

Of course, they do. Execution. A clean end, a neat little solution to their messy problem. They think killing me will erase the past, erase all the ugly truths they’ve buried under centuries of lies. They think ending me will make them righteous again.

The judge looks down at me, eyes cold as the iron that holds me. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Defense? I want to laugh, to scream. But I don’t. What would be the point? They’ve already decided. I’ve been guilty in their eyes since the moment I walked into this room. Nothing I say will change that.

I lift my head, meeting the judge’s gaze. “You think this is justice?” I ask, my voice steady, calm, despite the storm raging inside me. “You think killing me will fix what’s broken in your world?”

His jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

I smile, a cold, bitter thing. “You want me to beg for my life? To justify myself to you? I won’t. Because I know the truth. You all do.”

The courtroom is silent. No one moves. No one breathes.

“You created me,” I say, my voice a whisper, but it cuts through the silence like a blade. “You don’t get to sit there and pretend you’re better than me.”

The judge shifts in his seat, discomfort flickering in his eyes. But it’s gone in an instant.

“You’re wrong,” he says, but his voice lacks conviction.

I laugh, a hollow sound. “Am I? You think I was born a monster? I became one because of you.”

The guards step forward, their hands reaching for me, ready to drag me away to whatever fate they’ve decided. But I’m not afraid. I never was.

I look at the doors again. The heavy, locked doors. And I smile.

Because I know the truth.

Not until the doors are truly closed.

OMGGG, firstly I wrote this with my BOYFRIEND, because yes guys I have a BOYFRIEND, And we went out for breakfast today, anywhoo, this is another law inspired fic, its honestly just about how amaranthas journey truly isn't over and like, how people tricked her into becoming evil (hybern) and how the same ppl that tricked her are now blaming her

You get the gist, hope you love it kiss kiss

[ultraericthered]

I posted before about how more extreme and cartoonishly deranged artwork like what Takahashi got around to giving him in the Battle City Finals would've aesthetically improved Yami Marik's original depiction in the manga of Yu-Gi-Oh!. But then I got to thinking: was there anything Takahashi could've done to improve it textually too?

I don't think any changes would need to carry over to anime!Yami Marik. Studio Gallop could do whatever they wanted with him: if they'd rather he be an evil shadow entity born of the Ishtar family's generational trauma and suffering and conjured up into existence by Marik's psyche in his childhood after his back got branded, he could be. He's perfect like that. But for Takahashi's version of the story, I always found that explanation to be a little too out there and full of holes (Yami Yugi and Yami Bakura are ancient souls inhabiting their respective Millennium Items, so how does Marik's split personality happen? Why don't all Millennium Item holders have dark alter egos in this case, especially Pegasus who literally replaced one of his own eyes with the Millennium Eye?), so he needed to rework the idea.

The editted panel up there reflects what I'd have done: Yami Marik's not talking about his other half and his trauma as though they're separate from him, as for all intents and purposes, he's Marik Isthar as well. I think that rather than be a split personality that Marik gained through his childhood trauma, Yami Marik should've been the original personality of Marik. That Marik as a child endured so much abuse and trauma that the psychological and emotional damage kept building up inside him until his father's punishment of Odion right in front of him just made him finally crack. He attacked his father not just to save Odion, but to then take everything out on him, stabbing him and flaying him alive and enjoying every second of the thrill it'd give him. But the weight of what he'd done would then hit so hard that it'd make him mentally black out and reconstruct an innocent, "sane" personality so as to avoid dealing with the consequences of that act, and in this state of mind, blaming the Pharaoh for it all becomes much easier for Marik. So Odion would then be trying to keep the darker nature of Marik 1 repressed, but that darker nature would always be beneath the surface subtly influencing Marik 2. Much like the character of Shinobu Sensui from Yu Yu Hakusho, Marik's DID is a defense mechanism to protect his daily mental state and self image, but his original personality is the one that went mad and committed murder, and he ultimately cannot erase that fact.

So then when Marik is split into two characters in the Battle City arc's back half, the struggle between the two would be one where they both share the exact same memories and carry with them the exact same trauma, but one personality responds to that past trauma by embracing the mental instability it created in him and using it as an excuse to lash out at the entire world for funsies and gratification while taking no responsibility for his actions while the other one comes around to taking accountability for everything and accepting that while he'll always carry the trauma, it's better to manage it with loved ones who care for him, let go of the hatred, and focus on who you want to be and the life you want to live in the future rather than keeping yourself stuck on the past. 'Cause that's basically what all the finalists share in common with their character arcs: burying their pasts and looking to the future (though in Atem's case, his future is intrinsically linked to his ancient past). So when Marik 2 forfeits the final duel and rejects Marik 1, it'd be Marik saying "This is the person I want to be now. I don't want to be you anymore! I rennounce you and everything you wanted to do with your life!", leading to Marik's old insane persona vanishing into the shadows, ceasing to exist. Yami Marik being a wholly natural personality who's supernaturally enhanced rather than a supernatural entity gives Marik's personal triumph that much more weight and make it even more rewarding.

Had Takashi gone that direction, Marik would've really been the Matt Engarde of the series narrative - not as strong as the main villains to directly precede him and directly followed him, but he'd still work. As it is, he does still work....just not as much when it's his alter ego.

[creative-crybaby]

Cross-Hatching

PAIRING: timeskip!Akaashi Keiji x fem!reader

GENRE: fluff

TAGS + WARNINGS: none, as far as I'm aware

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

SUMMARY: An eye-catching stranger on the train soon becomes your muse when you take out your sketchbook and pencil.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: omg no smut???? Who is she 😩😩😩

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

Train rides to work would be more tolerable if you weren’t shrinking your entire body to make room for the dozens of people crowding in. 

You’re usually lucky when entering; the transit only carries a few passengers when you first enter, and you find yourself a seat. It isn’t until a few stops in do the train doors open to anyone who needs it, and your eyes glance at the map as if it’ll pass any time. 

You’re ten stops from your destination when he enters your train car. 

A tall figure with a briefcase and a cream coat makes his way through person after person, lucky enough to catch a newly vacant seat near you. Three seats across from yours, to be more precise. After making himself comfortable, he takes a deep breath, running a hand through tufts of onyx hair, trying to clean it up. In a rush, you assume. His attempts do little to fix the mess, but you think the slight wildness suits him—juxtaposing how he carries himself.

You have to draw him.

Practicing anatomy is something you try to do whenever you can, and while drawing strangers isn’t unheard of, you can’t help but feel like you’re intruding. When they’re letting their guard down, someone they don’t know turns that fleeting moment into a memory.

But what they don’t understand is that an artist doesn’t view it like that. And with the stranger sitting only a few seats away, why not take that opportunity?

You’re quick to take out your pencil and mini sketchbook, flipping to a blank page to scratch shapes upon shapes for a human base. You occasionally glance at the map to calculate your remaining time, not wasting a second as every scratch of graphite on paper becomes more and more life-like. 

Seven more stops. Your rough sketch is complete, and you erase excess lines and circles of a skeleton. 

Five more stops. You fill in the darker spots with cross hatches, creating definition to his cream coat while adding to the mesmerizing mess that is his hair.

Three more stops. Barely done with the shading, and now you move on to all the little details, from the light hitting his glasses to the almost unnoticeable downward curl of his lips. Not upset; just pondering. 

One more stop. You rise from your seat, forcing all hesitation out of your system with every step forward.

“Excuse me,” you push the volume into your voice. Blueberry eyes shielded by thick-rimmed glasses peer up at you. 

“Yes?” He hums. You almost forget your reason for approaching him, his gaze and soothing voice tempting you to carve every detail into your memory.

Not knowing how long time has passed since anything has been said, you hastily hold the drawing out before him. “I just wanted to give you this.”

You could have said more; you probably should have. Easier said than done when your words jumble around in your head, away from your planned sentences that never got to leave your brain. 

The organ then shortcircuits when you catch the corners of the stranger’s lips tilt upwards, his sharp eyes softening as he takes your creation. 

“You drew this?” As gentle as his voice may be, you could hear it over the bustling of the crowded train car, your surroundings almost tuned out to give him your devoted attention. You don’t trust yourself to speak properly, so you nod meekly. The ravenette hums again, his focus returning to your portrait of him.

“I’d do a better job if I had more time,” you stammer, suddenly talkative. “I hope I didn’t weird you out or anything—sometimes I like to draw people when I have the chance.”

“No, no,” he insists, peering back at you. “I’m just flattered, is all.” The stranger adjusts his glasses before adding, “Had I known I would be a model, I would have cleaned myself up a bit more.”

You giggle airily: a joke, it must be. “You’re still plenty pretty to draw.”

Your words register with a slap as soon as they leave your lips, and your eyes widen. The man’s expression copies yours, with a soft pink tint caressing his cheeks.

A woman’s voice announces your stop, and you think the gods finally decided to show you some mercy. You barely stutter a goodbye when the train comes to a halt before pushing past whoever stands in your way. 

The exhale that leaves your lungs comes out like a squeak when you find your way out of the metro. The opportunity to breathe presents itself as the crowd disperses, heading to the exit or their next train. You join the former group, your interaction with the stranger playing on a loop as you climb the stairs. 

“Excuse me.” 

A hand lands on your shoulder when you make it to the top. You squeak, whipping your head around to confront the culprit.  

Your muse stands before you, his eyes widening ever so slightly in concern. 

“Oh,” you relax. “It’s just you.”

“I’m sorry for startling you,” he retracts before holding out his other hand. You turn around to face him; in his hold is your sketchbook. You subconsciously clutch your bag, feeling the emptiness those one-hundred-sixty pages filled. “You left this behind.”

You take a moment to process his words before hastily taking your book back, a string of apologies leaving your lips. “Missed your stop to give this back to me, too.”

The man shakes his head reassuringly. “This was also my stop, actually.”

You two are still at the top of the stairs, hoards of people passing by during your pause in time. You don’t hear whatever they’re saying to each other or on the phone, nor do you notice the impatient ones who emphasize their movements when they walk around you.

“That’s good.” You don’t know what else to say. 

“I also thought I should introduce myself,” he continues, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m Akaashi Keiji.” You nod, noticing his fingers fidgeting in their intertwined hold. You almost wonder what they’d feel laced with your own before responding with your name. “I figured I should tell you after you took the time to draw me.”

The man–Akaashi–offers a light smile. Even as stoic as he appeared in the short amount of time you’ve interacted, there’s a soothingness to his voice that has you relaxing your shoulders. 

“Right,” you chuckle in embarrassment. “I meant to just give you the drawing, not the whole sketchbook. My bad.”

The stranger shakes his head reassuringly before taking his first step forward. You subconsciously follow him toward the exit, eyes remaining on his portrait. 

“I figured as much,” he says, stepping away from the door to let the others pass, and you follow him. He looks down at the sketchbook. "I didn't want to take out the drawing, just in case."

A light breeze fans your face as the sun’s glow kisses your skin. If it weren’t for your new acquaintance standing in the way, you’d have to squint just to see ahead. It’s also here that you realize this is most likely where you part ways, and you refrain from frowning. You selfishly wonder if not bringing it up will make him forget and keep him around. Unfortunately for you, your boss won’t care for your pretty-boy-meet-cute excuse. You mask your sigh of disappointment as any other deep exhale.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to take any more of your time,” you tell him, clutching the strap of your bag. “Thanks again for returning my sketchbook to me.”

“It was no problem, really,” Akaashi insists. “If I could bother you a little more, could you hand me your book and pencil, please? I promise I won’t take long.”

You wouldn’t mind even if he did, but you don’t voice that. Instead, you do as he asked, waiting as he flips through the pages until he stops at one and lightly scribbles something down. Your new acquaintance returns the sketchbook to you with that same page open: it’s the one of him you drew not even ten minutes ago, and next to his head is a series of numbers in between dashes. Your head snaps to look at him once more, eyes wide and face warm.

Akaashi smiles gently. “You’re not obligated to agree to anything, but I’d love it if we could meet up for coffee sometime.” When you continue to stare in bewilderment, he quickly glances at his watch. “I’ll have to leave now, but your portrait of me was a nice start to my morning.” His body slowly turns the other way. “Have a good rest of your day.”

“Wait!” you exclaim before you can stop yourself. Akaashi halts his movements. “I usually give my art to the person I drew. I won’t be able to call you if your number’s on your portrait.”

The ravenette turns his head to face you again, a soft smile gracing his lips and a sharp glimmer in his eyes. “If you want, you can give it to me on our next encounter.”

He leaves you standing there with another goodbye, your feet planted on the concrete, face blooming with heat and sketchbook in hand. 

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

[cardcaptorr]

Do you have any advice on how to deal with a longterm breakup? Me and my bf of 4 years just broke up a month ago bc it was very toxic. But I miss him so much and this was the person I thought I would marry, it's so hard. And my friends basically hate him because they only seem to care about the bad things that happened and not about the good. I feel so alone.

unfortunately it's just one of those situations where you're gonna have to focus on the bad stuff too, and I know that's easier said than done, I'm sure there were many good times and that they had good in them, but that's just not gonna help you rn. it's hard to not think about the good times, but every time your mind goes there you should remind yourself why it didn't work out, think really hard about the things that he lacked/things you wish you could have had in your relationship/traits you wish your next partner would have- even write it down and read it when your mind goes there, it's helped me a lot personally, after my four year relationship breakup I wrote in my notes what the "perfect partner" would look like, inside & out. it really helps to imagine yourself with someone else, someone who is better suited for you.

I thought I was gonna marry my ex too, and I'm such a daydreamer and can picture things really well in my mind so I had to kind of "erase" memories that didn't happen and that's hard, but I think something that really helped me is coming up with new scenerios like picturing myself living alone in a cute cottage in the woods with my dog and cat and painting, and in that picture in my mind being alone just didn't seem so bad and scary anymore and it really genuinely helped me feel better

take time to focus on yourself rn, take time to think deeply about how you can improve your life, how you can improve as a person so once you're ready to date again you will attract a different kind of person (for example, I have been really working hard on being more independent and secure within myself and healing my anxious attachment style), also think about what you can do for yourself for your overall happiness - pick up a new hobby, it'll also be a really good distraction and can help you express your feelings in a healthy way and can also make you feel accomplished (for example take up painting or knitting or start going on runs)

hangout with your loved ones as much as you can!! being surrounded by people that love you and want the best for you is so good for u rn!! take it one day at a time. breakups are hard. let yourself feel the pain. all of a sudden not talking to someone you spent 4 years talking to can feel like you're literally having withdrawls and it feels fucking impossible at first. hate to sound so cliche but just letting time pass will help so much, it's only been a month, every month it'll get a lil bit easier.

I'm here if you need someone to talk to about this!! 💗 sending u love x