#“life is a hell of a thing to happen to a person.”

[l4ndoflove]

siren sounds

@ lando norris

caption after a full year of breakups and makeups, it's clear to everyone that you and lando aren't good for each other anymore... yet neither of you can let go

fc madisonbeer on instagram

tw toxic relationship (duh), manipulative behaviors...?

l4ndoflove first smau after my old blog got randomly deactivated kinda nervous (don't let this flop pls <3)

deuxmoi

♡ 13.2K ⌕ 9,992 ⌲ 311

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE... @.youruser and @.lando spotted arguing outside a club in Madrid around 3 am 📸

comments

user1 and the crowd is... not surprised?

user2 this is like the third time this month

user3 omg do they ever shut up

user4 two grown adults btw

user5 i think i've seen this film before...

user6 sooo what happened this time?

user7 probably just yn's jealousy kicking in

user8 🤡🤡🤡

user9 women ☕️

user10 are you seriously blaming her rn?

user11 @.user8 @.user9 she's literally SOBBING what the hell is wrong with you

user12 classic victim behavior

user13 🤢🤮

user14 i still don't understand why she stuck with him after all the shit he put her through

user15 oh so it's all his fault?

user16 it's nobody's "fault" they're both toxic af and clearly bad for each other

user17 then why are they still dating???

user18 believe me we've been asking ourselves the same question for one year

user19 who else can't stand them anymore?

user20 pretty much everyone

user21 they can't even stand each other so

user22 💀

user23 "break up!" we all say in unison

user24 ffs cut them some slack

user25 jeez calm down

user26 yeah nobody cares anyway

user27 remember that they are people too

user28 👏👏👏

user29 can someone please explain what's going on? i am sooo confused right now 🙏

user30 where's the paragraph guy?

tmz_tv

♡ 19.3K ⌕ 9,440 ⌲ 828

tmz_tv #YnYln broke down mid-concert while singing "Means I care", one of the hits from her latest album "So Close To What" 💔

Full story at the 🔗 in bio!!!

comments

tmz_tv VIDEO TRANSCRIPT BELOW ⬇️

tmz_tv *crying* shit, sorry... *wipes tears* sorry, i didn't mean to get all emotional *chuckles* it's just... this song means a lot to me, and–well, i wrote it for a very important person in my life *voice breaking* who i care about. a lot, actually *laughs* so much it hurts most of the time

user31 oh...

user32 babyyy ☹️

user33 ok now i feel bad

user34 we all know who this is about right

user35 lando count your fucking days

user36 he doesn't deserve her

user37 crazy how you all turned on him lol

user38 queen of emotional manipulation

user39 let her live omg

user40 no but imagine arguing with your "boyfriend" and then having to perform a whole album of songs you wrote about him

user41 she's stronger than me i would've gone back home to cry and eat ice cream

user42 girl same

user43 crybaby

user44 singers cry all the time...?

user45 it's called a performance just fyi

user46 no it's called fishing for attention

user47 the question is whose

user48 (not so) fun fact: lando was there too

user49 say what

user50 that explains a lot

user51 wait how do you know @.user48?

user52 someone took a video of him

user53 where can i find it?

user54 here's the link: https://x.com...

user55 what was he doing there???

user56 harassing yn as per usual

user57 apologizing ❌️ harassing ✅️

user58 apologizing how exactly?

user59 idk but he went backstage so i guess he at least wanted to talk to her

user60 hold up when did he go backstage

norrislando_fans

♡ 92.7K ⌕ 13.9K ⌲ 1,362

norrislando_fans Lando at Yn's concert 🎤

#landonorris #ynyln

comments

user61 uhhh

user62 WHAT

user63 bro

user64 i think i missed a few chapters

user65 we all did dw

user66 i'm sorry i can't take them seriously

user67 it hasn't even been a day 💀

user68 how tf did we get here

user69 they finally sorted their shit out

user70 that's not how things work tho???

user71 apparently it is for them

user72 "let's kiss and make up"

user73 history repeats itself huh

user74 somebody stop them please

user75 they can't keep going on like this

user76 wait why is everyone so mad!?

user77 yeah what's the problem?

user78 oh idk maybe the fact they treat each other like shit and then act like nothing happened two seconds later 🤡

user79 so? it's their business

user80 SOMEONE FINALLY SAID IT

user81 stop 👏 worrying 👏 about 👏 other 👏 people's 👏 lives 👏 thank you

user82 omg leave them alone

user83 fr they deserve some privacy

user84 *basic human decency

user85 okay but the way he looks at her 🥹

user86 AND THE HUG???

user87 my heart 😭😭😭

user88 i just realized he was holding her mic so she could touch him and now i'm crying

user89 idc what anyone says they actually look so cute together. y'all are just jealous <3

user90 ew no wtf

f1

♡ 835K ⌕ 10.1K ⌲ 1,399

liked by lando and others

f1 Welcome to Canada @.youruser 👋🇨🇦

#F1 #Formula1 #CanadianGP

comments

f1gpcanada It's a pleasure having you here!

youruser pleasure's mine ❤️

redbullracing Our lucky charm 🫶

♥︎ by youruser

mercedesamgf1 George 🤝 Yn

♥︎ by georgerussell63 and youruser

scuderiaferrari Red suits you @.youruser 😉

♥︎ by youruser

user91 omg she's stunning

user92 imagine being this effortlessly hot

user93 🔥🔥🔥

user94 🧯🧯🧯

user95 ugh who invited her

user96 clearly not lando LMAO

user97 ?

user98 "yn yln was reportedly seen near every single garage except for mclaren’s"

user99 wtf happened

user100 did her and lando break up again?

user101 already???

user102 they did approximately 50 times

user103 i'm not even surprised anymore

user104 what are they five?

user105 two 25-year-old children

comments on this post have been limited.

f1gossippofficial

♡ 88.6K ⌕ 12.2K ⌲ 1,466

f1gossippofficial Lando Norris and singer Yn Yln were filmed by a fan last night after the Austrian GP! Could they be back together?

comments

user106 oh hell nah

user107 i hope not

user108 i don't know and i don't care

user109 why do we even bother anymore

user110 why do THEY ever bother actually

user111 we were doing so well without them

user112 it didn't last long 💔

user113 honestly i'm surprised they even managed to stay apart for two full weeks

user114 new record fr

user115 can we please stop normalizing this?

user116 no one's ever normalized this bro

user117 i mean they kinda did

user116 touché

user118 okay but seriously am i the only one who finds these pictures mildly unsettling?

user119 no bc same

user120 there's nothing wrong with them?

user121 uhhh lando's hand placement???

user122 yeah well they used to date...

user123 that doesn't make it okay 💀

user124 she pulled away first just saying

user125 + the way he grabbed her face???

user126 🚩🚩🚩

user127 as ferrari once said, red suits her

user128 great so now we're romanticizing being stuck in a toxic relationship as well

user129 omg stop being so dramatic

user130 i promise you they're fine 🙏

user131 he was so gentle with her too

user132 lando's little forehead kiss >>>>>

user133 literally gave me butterflies awww

user134 yn doesn't look comfortable AT ALL

user135 someone tell us what happened pls

fallontonight

♡ 554K ⌕ 15.5K ⌲ 1,933

liked by lando and others

fallontonight @.youruser opens up about her complicated relationship with @.lando ❤️‍🩹

#FallonTonight

comments

fallontonight VIDEO TRANSCRIPT BELOW ⬇️⬇️⬇️

fallontonight JIMMY: so, yn *clears throat* i heard — everyone did, i think — *crowd laughs* that you and a certain formula 1 driver recently got back together, and i wanted to ask... is it true? YN: *sighs* you know what, jimmy? *chuckles* i'm not even sure myself *voice breaking* oh god, not this again *wipes tears* no sulking tonight, i promise *laughs* but... yeah. there's not much to say, really. we're still trying to figure it out

user136 what kind of question is this 😭

user137 why would he even ask her that when we all know she's been struggling!?

user138 she shouldn't have gone to his show in the first place if she actually was

user139 that makes no sense but okay

user140 how was she supposed to know

user141 @.user138 maybe she went there to talk about her career like everyone else

user142 sorry to break it to you but the whole drama with norris probably made her more famous than her own songs

user143 "yn yln has garnered over 15.1 billion career streams, multiple #1 top 40 hits, and a #1 album on the billboard 200 chart. she has received numerous accolades, including..." shall i go on???

user144 i think you've made your point

user145 all she does is cry and complain

user146 god forbid a girl has emotions

user147 y'all are so mean i swear

user148 karma 😂😂😂

user149 for... what exactly?

user150 being a whiny witch

user151 *bitch

user150 yeah that too

user152 get lost

user153 her or the haters?

user154 anti yn club ➡️ ♡ 260648

user155 what did she ever do to you?????

comments on this post have been limited.

youruser

♫ yn yln • siren sounds (bonus)

♡ 1.9M ⌕ 17.4K ⌲ 1,981

liked by lando and others

youruser i can't do this no more but i'm too attached to you. you know i'll be here till we're the last ones in this room

comments

sabrinacarpenter MANCHILD

♥︎ by youruser

addisonraee 🫂

♥︎ by youruser

haileybieber smile gorgeous 🤍

♥︎ by youruser

user156 wow she's so pretty when she cries

user157 what an odd thing to say

user158 "lana del rey coded" ahh comment

user159 pick me behavior

user160 can you stop criticizing her for doing literally anything? it's so childish

user161 she's the one acting like a child

user162 how???

user163 we already talked about this

user164 leave lando instead of posting him?

user165 it's clearly not that simple

user166 she still loves him

user167 okay but he obviously doesn't???

user168 according to who

user169 *cough* he didn't post yn *cough*

user170 that's so stupid

user171 i don't think @.user169 has ever been into an actual relationship before lol

user172 or it was just healthier than theirs

user173 they almost look fine in the 4th slide

user174 it's giving 2024 landoyn

user175 god i miss them so much

user176 my favorite (dis)comfort couple

user177 if not together why so close ‼️‼️‼️

user178 ikr like HIS HAND ON HER THIGH

user179 me next 🛐

user180 you're all missing the point here

user181 the caption 🥺

user182 IS IT A HINT TO A NEW SONG???

user183 sadly not it's just a leaked bridge

user184 she "released" it the same night she broke down mid-concert a while ago

user185 hearing it live was heartbreaking

fictionalfanatic123 living it must be worse

♥︎ by youruser

[orangestorapples]

Hot Take: Harambe's death wasn't the catalyst of where we are now. Let me explain.

I guarantee you absolutely fucking nobody knew who Harambe was before he was killed bc of that kid who fell into his enclosure. I remember hearing about it, going "oh this sucks why tf did they kill the gorilla over the kid falling in? Wtf were his parents doing?" And being a lot more concerned with what the fuck went wrong to cause it over it, well, happening.

We were always gonna end up here, whether or not Harambe died. Harambe dying is just what people use as an identifiable event where, around the same time, the internet was starting to get worse. If Harambe HADN'T died, i guarantee you that identifiable event would have been either the disaster of Dashcon 1, or the original run of Homestuck ending.

I'm not saying that as a fan of Homestuck, which I am, but rather because of the IMPACT Homestuck has had on internet culture that FAR OUTREACHES the death of a gorilla that I bet 99% of the internet don't even know what zoo he lived in. But I'm getting off topic.

People claiming the death of Harambe being the start of the "bad timeline" started out as a meme. Harambe doesn't affect you in your day to day life on the internet. Nobody actively thinks about the death of Harambe unless it's like, their Roman Empire, which the only reason WHY it became their Roman Empire is because people started saying it because it was funny. But when you say the same thing over and over again, people start to genuinely believe it, and it stops being a meme and becomes treated more as a fact.

The clusterfuck that was Dashcon 1, which happened in 2014, DEEPLY affected how people view fandom, online spaces like Tumblr, and people who enjoy generally anything that could be considered a part of online nerd culture like cosplay, video games, anime, etc. Tumblr wasn't called a hellsite nearly as widely, if at all, before then. Hell, you could even attribute the aftermath of the failure of Dashcon 1 as the Dawn of Modern Cringe Culture, which is STILL A PROBLEM on here and among younger, newer contributors to fandom in places like Tiktok. They are bringing back debates older members of fandom had put to bed A DECADE AGO because they haven't read the old texts, which is the fault of Covid and the mainstream-ification of fandom during the pandemic.

As for the end of the original run of Homestuck, which happened a MONTH before Harambe died, that marks the end of an ERA of the internet. Eight years is a long fucking time, especially online. Homestuck was there right at the birth of social media, right around the time when Youtube started to become more pervasive, Tumblr and Twitter were still just a few years old, and Instagram didn't even fucking exist yet. SMARTPHONES HAD ONLY JUST BARELY started to come onto the market, I didn't get my first smartphone until 2013, FOUR YEARS into Homestuck's run. Forums were still Where Fandom Gathered when it started, as seen by the mspa fan forums before they shut down. Homestuck was there for the transition from the 2000's mostly influenced by the 90's internet, to what we largely recognize as the present-day internet. You, yes you the person reading this, have made or read a Homestuck reference without realizing it AT LEAST ONCE. It is still one of the most influential pieces of media to affect online culture to date.

If Harambe's death hadn't been hella fucking meme-ified by the mainstream internet, or if it hadn't happened at all, we would still be here blaming something else for why internet culture is the way it is, because his death is largely inconsequential. It just coincidentally happened when shit was already happening around it, and the right people made it funny at the right time. At least that's my opinion.

I feel like OG Dashcon was a cultural shift for the worse for internet and fandom culture, much like the Death of Harambe in 2016, but the more I hear about Dashcon 2 in Canada, the more it feels like we are returning to the light. Cringe culture is dead and the Muppet Joker reigns supreme.

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (11)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

Simon had been through enough shit in his life that most things didn’t shake him anymore. He’d seen bodies torn apart, teammates blown to pieces, friends bleed out in his arms while he just sat there pressing his hands down harder and harder, like pressure alone could fix a gut wound.

He’d walked into buildings full of smoke and screams and blood and came out with his pulse steady, his eyes dry, and his mind already moving to the next objective. Fear had stopped being something he acknowledged a long time ago. Maybe somewhere between the fifth or sixth time death brushed shoulders with him and didn’t bother looking back.

But this…This was different.

Because no amount of blood in the field, no amount of bodies, no mission gone sideways or ambush or bullet tearing through skin had ever prepared him for the way his own fucking chest caved in at the sight of you on the floor, bleeding out faster than he could process what the hell had just happened.

And it was stupid because he knew what a gunshot looked like. He knew what it meant. He knew how much time you had. But for a few seconds, he forgot every protocol, forgot every training, forgot everything he ever learned about trauma response, and just… stared.

Because the second you hit the ground, it stopped being a mission. It stopped being war. It stopped being survival.

It became personal.

And it wasn’t even the pain in his shoulder that registered; he’d been shot, sure, blood still soaking into the side of his shirt, and yet it was like none of it mattered, none of it even touched him. It was the sound of your body collapsing. The way your eyes fluttered and couldn’t focus. The way your mouth opened, but no sound came out at first, and then it did, a choked inhale, a twitch of your fingers, and he felt it, that pain. But not in the wound, nor in the bone or the muscle or the nerve.

In his chest. Right there in his fucking chest.

Because your eyes, the ones he avoided looking at for so long, the ones that burned every time you challenged him, the ones that didn’t flinch when he barked at you during training, didn’t blink when he insulted you, didn’t soften even when he tried to make you walk away. Your eyes were fading now.

And for the first time in years, he was scared.

Not of dying, not of pain, but of losing you.

He’d always told himself it was easier to hate you. That keeping his distance was the only option. You were reckless and too loud. Too stubborn, intense, and too good. He told himself that, let himself believe it.

Every time you laughed with the others, every time you made a joke that got under his skin, every time you did something risky on the field and didn’t even look back to see if he was watching, even though he always was, he reminded himself why he needed to keep the wall up.

Because he felt things he wasn’t supposed to feel. Things that scared the shit out of him.

You weren’t just some new recruit. You weren’t just another soldier. You weren’t just some rookie tagging along. You had this fire in you, something that refused to dim even when the world around you both tried so hard to snuff it out, and somehow, that fire kept him going. Every time he thought about walking away. Every time he thought maybe this was the mission that would kill him. Every time he questioned if there was anything left in the world worth protecting. You showed up. Lit up every dark corner of his life without even realizing it.

And he hated you for it. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But now, as your blood seeped into the floor and your eyes fluttered shut and that fire dimmed right there in front of him, the truth slammed into him with more force than any bullet ever could.

He didn’t hate you. He loved you. And he might’ve just lost you.

Help came fast.

Not fast enough, though, but like angels sent from heaven or whatever poetic thing people said when they were desperate for a miracle, Price and the others stormed in just minutes later. Simon barely heard the gunfire, barely registered the movement, the voices, the sounds of boots on the floor, the way someone shouted “clear” down the hallway. His whole world had narrowed to you.

Price was yelling something, Soap too, and Gaz was already crossing the room.

But Simon couldn’t answer, couldn’t even move.

He was still kneeling on the floor, blood soaking into his trousers, hands shaking as they hovered uselessly over your chest, not sure where to press, not sure if he should move you or stay still. His shoulder burned, his arms felt weak, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the way your lips were parted like you were struggling for air, the way your lashes barely fluttered, the way the blood wouldn’t fucking stop.

Gaz was the one who finally knelt beside him, didn’t say anything, just looked at Simon and then looked at you, and something in his face changed. He went still for a second, and then he moved, lifting your body as if you were made of glass and whispering something under his breath that Simon didn’t catch.

And Simon followed. He didn’t even think about it.

Didn’t speak, didn’t ask where they were taking you. He just got up, his legs unsteady, hands coated in red, eyes locked on your face as if he were to look away, even for a second, you’d disappear.

Soap grabbed his arm to steady him at one point, but he shook him off. Price said his name, but he didn’t answer.

He followed Gaz like a shadow, one hand still pressed over the makeshift bandage clutched to your side, too afraid to let go. Every time your head lolled or your lips parted or your hand twitched, his heart seized in his chest again.

The hallways blurred. The walls meant nothing. Everything outside the shell of your body and the blood didn’t exist.

He didn’t remember getting into the car, but the next thing he knew, he was sitting inside, and you were in his lap. Someone had wrapped a towel around your torso, someone else shoved med packs into his hands and barked at him to press down hard and keep pressure, Ghost, keep fucking pressure, but none of that registered.

All he could see was your face.

Your eyelids were heavy, skin pale. You weren’t talking, you weren’t even blinking. And Simon... he couldn’t handle it.

Couldn’t breathe properly. Couldn’t feel his own wound, even as his shirt stuck wet and warm to his skin. He was soaked through with pain and panic and it still didn’t even touch what he felt seeing you like that.

He pressed down harder on your side, whispering things he wasn’t even sure you could hear.

“Stay with me.” “Just hang on.” “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He didn’t beg, but everything in him was screaming, broken screams that never made it past his throat. He just kept pressing down, kept his eyes on your mouth, your lashes, the twitch of your fingers when the car hit a bump.

And then someone else opened the door.

Voices. Shouts. Medical terms. Orders. And Price again.

And then hands reached for you, but Simon didn’t let go. Even as they tried to lift you from his lap, he kept holding on.

“Ghost,” someone said. “You need to let go now.”

He didn’t move. Just stared down at your face like he could memorize it in case—

No. Not in case. You were going to make it.

You had to.

But he still couldn’t let go. Not until someone reached in gently, one hand on his back, the other under your legs, and finally pulled you from his grip. He didn’t fight it. He just sat there with empty hands and blood everywhere, eyes stuck on the way your head lolled against the medic’s chest.

They ran with you. He didn’t move.

Didn’t even feel the pain in his leg or the heat in his shoulder or the wetness of his palms. All he could feel was the sudden loss of you. Like a fucking limb had been torn from his body, like something vital had been pulled from his chest.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

Simon Riley didn’t feel like a soldier. He felt like a man. A man who might’ve just lost the only thing that ever made him feel alive again...

Someone finally dragged him away.

He didn’t remember who. Maybe it was one of the medics who looked at him with wide eyes and blood-stained hands and urgency he didn’t think he deserved. But they took him down some corridor that smelled like bleach, into a small room with too-bright lights.

He sat there on the edge of the table while someone peeled his shirt away from the bullet wound on his shoulder. They asked him questions, tried to get him to speak, tried to get him to lie back and breathe and flinch when they poured antiseptic into the hole. He barely noticed any of it. He let them work and didn’t say a word.

It was just something he had to get through. A checkpoint before he could return to the only thing that mattered.

He didn’t even wait for them to finish everything. He stood up before they were done wrapping the bandage, grabbed a shirt someone brought him, and walked out without looking back. He could still feel his pulse thudding down into his fingertips, could still smell the blood on his hands even though they’d been scrubbed clean. But the pain was still on the other side of the compound, behind a set of doors, beyond the medical wing, where they were trying to keep you alive.

He didn’t care if they told him to rest. Didn’t care if his shoulder split back open.

He made it back to the hallway, to the room where they’d taken you, and sat down just to the right of the door, near enough that if anyone came out and said something, he’d hear it.

And he waited.

Minutes passed, and he didn’t move. He just sat there with blood under his fingernails and every muscle in his body clenched like he could keep you alive through sheer force of will.

That’s when he heard boots.

Price stopped in front of him, his arms crossed, looking down at Simon like he was weighing what to say.

“He’s still alive,” Price said finally, voice low. “They’ve got him. Took him to one of the secure rooms.”

Simon’s eyes didn’t move. His jaw twitched once. “Mark.”

Price nodded. “Yeah.”

“Take me to him.”

“Simon—”

“Take me. Now.”

Price exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You’re shot.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

Simon stood. His legs ached, his shoulder burned, and his whole body screamed to collapse, but none of that touched his voice.

“I’ll rest,” he said flatly, “when I kill him.”

And Price saw it. He saw the fury in his eyes, and didn’t argue after that.

He just turned and started walking, and Simon followed.

Simon pushed open the door without hesitation and stepped inside. Mark was sitting there, tied to the chair, his face bruised but his eyes sharp enough to make Simon’s blood boil. There was no fear in Mark’s gaze, only cold, like he knew exactly how much trouble he was in and didn’t care.

Simon’s jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, watching him, trying to hold back the anger that was coiling tighter with every second.

Finally, Mark broke the silence with a smirk on his face. “You think I’m gonna tell you anything? Not a single damn thing is coming out of me.” His voice was harsh. “You killed my wife. That’s one thing you’ll pay for. And trust me, yours is next.”

Simon stepped closer, eyes locked on him. His voice dropped, low and sharp. “Don’t mention my wife ever again.”

That was the last thread snapping. Simon didn’t hesitate. His fist shot forward, connecting hard with Mark’s jaw. The sound was sickening, a mix of bone and flesh that echoed off the walls. Mark barely flinched, just chuckled through the pain like it was some kind of game.

Simon hit him again, each punch fueled by every secret and every lie, every brutal moment he and you had endured. Mark laughed again, a low, bitter sound, not even trying to defend himself.

Then the door opened, and Soap came in, his voice cutting through the tension. “Simon, the doctors just called.”

Simon’s fist hung mid-air for a moment. His breath caught, muscles tightening and loosening all at once. Mark’s laughter faded as Simon turned toward the doorway, the fight draining out of him, replaced by worry or fear. Whatever it was, it crushed everything else.

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @gutsofgod @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608 @starryylies @silmarilniky @venavanup @lostintransist @m00nl1gh4 @fertilise-me @blush-haze @sigynxlokiwifelover @dollfwn @ravenduskabyss @soltwent @saik-k @skzthinker @strawberrygato @shaldaar @n-ae-vis @karagd13-blog @meowshiki @mangost33nlover @k4rmas-dvmb @piconico17 @batw3nch @danzer8705 @chompwoman @cr0wbrz @imjustheretofightforlove

[literaryavenger]

THIS IS WHAT SELF-DESTRUCTION FEELS LIKE

Summary: HYDRA wasn't always as confident in the Winter Soldier program so as a fail-safe, they created you. His perfect partner, his Shadow, his soulmate. After HYDRA's fall, he looks for you everywhere but when he can't find you he thinks HYDRA took the one thing that's always been his, the last good thing he had. But what happens when someone targets the Avengers?

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Hydra!Reader

Warnings: Language. Mentions of Bucky's and Reader's past and trauma. So much angst. My poor attempts at being funny. Descriptions of violence. HYDRA!Reader. Talks of self-harm and suicide. A lot of flashbacks.

Word Count: 3.8K

Requested by: @ordelixx Happy Birthday, Doll!🩷

A/N: This was an old request that was made and I decided to write for a friend's birthday. I had fun writing it and it gave me motivation to move my ass and keep writing. I needed a deadline, lol. So, enjoy!

Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist | Ko-fi

A scent that’s sweet and flowering even through all the blood and sweat, a voice that’s quiet and timid sometimes, fearless and sharp other times, soft hair even when it’s matted and unkept, and lips that he could just stare at for hours and die content.

That’s all Bucky can remember of you. He hears your voice, can almost feel your touch, dreams about you, about your warmth and your smell and your lips so close to his but he never gets to taste before he wakes up in cold sweats.

Because he never did in real life, so his mind can even begin to process what that would be like.

It doesn’t stop him from dreaming about you all the time though, from seeing your face when he closes his eyes and hearing your voice when everything is quiet and still.

But how could he not, when he spent the better part of a century by your side?

When the Winter Soldier trained you, broke you down and built you back up, gave you the only stability you’ve known for 70+ years, made you fall in love while he fell too.

And then he lost you.

1945

You open your eyes to see the ceiling, your head strapped to a metal table and your wrists so tightly tied that you can feel your skin start to bleed where the restraints dig in at every little movement you make.

You don’t know how it happened, one second you were walking home from your job as a seamstress at a boutique, the next you’re here, trapped and being injected with some red liquid that’s entirely too bright to be blood, and it makes your insides feel like they’re boiling.

It doesn’t matter how much you thrash and cry, that you scream until your throat burns and your voice fails. Nobody comes to help you, nobody even comes to check on you, and then it all turns black.

When you wake up again you’re on a cot this time, a thin mattress under you and no longer restrained. You slowly sit up, your entire body sore as if you’d run a marathon for three days straight, but you push past it as your mind starts rushing to find a way out of this cell. 

You look everywhere but don’t find even a window, the only way out is the locked metal door. You try to pull on it but it doesn’t budge and, out of frustration, you punch it. Your eyes widen when you see the dent you made, on metal, and you can’t help what wonder what the fuck they injected you with.

It takes a few hours before the door opens, a couple of guards armed to the teeth, which is the only reason why you don’t try your newfound power on them.

They take you to a spacious room and lock you inside, not a word said. As you look around, you catch some movement out of the corner of your eye and quickly turn around, just in time to see a fist flying towards your face and you miraculously manage to dodge it. But your relief is short-lived as you immediately get hit in the stomach. Hard. By a metal fist. 

That’s how you meet the Winter Soldier.

And that’s how your own personal hell starts. He trains you, which means just beating the crap out of you until you learn to give it back as good as you get it. HYDRA’s own modus operandi. And the worst part is, it worked.

It took months, but after training day after day with nary a break, having nothing to do but fight, you were bound to get good at it. And then the actual torture comes.

You fight the soldier, you dodge and get hit and hit back over and over, then you get tortured into complying and put on ice, then you get brainwashed and it all starts all over again.

Weeks, months, years. You’re not even sure how long it passes before you get a tact suit, a mask and a name. Shadow.

Mission after mission, the Winter Soldier and his Shadow work together as a well-oiled machine built for destruction. 

Brainwashing, torture, complying, training, mission, cryo, rinse and repeat. For decades.

Falling in love with the soldier was inevitable, really. HYDRA made you do everything together, even sleep on the same small, worn-out mattress on the floor of your cell.

 At first he’d sleep on it while you curled up in the opposite corner, crying silently. Then eventually he couldn’t take hearing your soft sobs anymore and one night he picked you up like you weighed nothing and dropped you on the mattress, settling down on the floor next to it like a guard dog.

Little by little he’d sleep closer and closer though, and the more you became like him, a ruthless, empty soldier, the less distant he’d be.

Eventually he moved to the mattress next to you and you started sleeping in each other’s arms most nights. It wasn’t even romantically at first, just two people thrown in the same, horrible boat in the middle of the sea with no way off of it seeking comfort in someone that understood.

It was rare, but there were moments where you started to almost, distantly, barely be a ghost of your old selves and those were the moments that sealed your fates. You’d whisper to each other at night, promising to stick together while Bucky swore he’d find a way to save you both.

But HYDRA made sure those moments never lasted long. The moment they saw the way you both held back during training, pretended to go down to end things sooner and be sent back to your cells, they wasted no time separating you, punishing you and wiping you all over again.

Still, you always seemed to find your way back to each other and fall back in love.

Until they didn’t.

2014

HYDRA needed Bucky to help them one more time with the launch of the Triskeleton, so they took him out of Cryo. The first thing he asked was, as always, about you but Pierce’s threat of killing you on the spot made him shut his mouth and obediently take his torture and brainwashing before carrying out his mission.

Fast forward to Steve unlocking Bucky’s memories while the Triskeleton was going down and Bucky escapes before HYDRA, SHIELD or anybody else can apprehend him.

His memories are a mess, he remembers a glimpse of who he used to be and vaguely remembers his time in HYDRA, and you.

He doesn’t know your name, he doesn’t know where you are or, frankly, even if you were real at all or just a figment of his imagination, but he has a faint concept of you and something inside him just knows that if he could find you, it’d be like the last puzzle piece that’d make everything else fall into place.

So he looks for you everywhere, every HYDRA base he can remember of, every safe house the two of you ever used, even every mission target just in case you try retracing your steps like he is and left some clue behind. But he finds nothing.

So he eventually starts seeking out ex-HYDRA agents in hopes that they have some information about you, although they’re all useless until he manages to find Rumlow, who now goes by Crossbones.

“Where is she?” Bucky slams Rumlow onto the wall of his safe house, his expression blank even at the sight of Rumlow’s messed up face.

“Where is who?” He asks mockingly, for which Bucky has no patience so he slams him against the wall again.

“Tell me!” Bucky snaps.

“She’s dead.” Rumlow says coldly and Bucky’s heart sinks but Rumlow isn’t done. “Pierce had clear orders. If you failed, we were to kill her. But I didn’t think that was enough, so I woke her up and made sure she knew exactly whose fault it was before I put a bullet between her eyes.”

Bucky sees red, his metal hand moving before he can register it and gripping his throat. But he freezes when he hears a jet in the distance. The Avengers found Rumlow.

He reluctantly lets Rumlow go and wastes no time disappearing. Unfortunately, Rumlow manages to flee the scene too thanks to Bucky’s unconscious warning.

But that doesn’t matter much to the supersoldier, his mind reeling and his heart breaking at the newfound knowledge that you’re gone. The one constant in his overly extended life is gone.

2016

Bucky ends up in Romania, still on the run from the Avengers, what remains of HYDRA and basically every government in the world. But life catches up to him and after the events of Civil War happen, T’Challa offers him refuge in Wakanda where he goes into Cryo again while Shuri figures out how to deprogram him.

In the meantime, the Avengers make peace with each other and, by the time Bucky’s free of Hydra again, they offer him a spot on the team.

Present Day

Bucky settles into a routine with the team, going on missions and getting acclimated to modern life in between, although he still thinks about you a lot.

Even if he knows logically he can’t blame himself for your death, it doesn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at him because he swore, to you and to himself, that he’d save you and he failed.

Still, life is good for a while. Normal.

Then weird things start to happen. Steve’s missions seem to always take on a deadly turn, Natasha seems to always lose control of the QuinJet and almost crash before she can manage to take control back, Bruce is constantly under stress and on the verge of Hulking out for one reason or the other, Thor gets confusing information about Midgard that lead to disasters during missions, Wanda, Pietro and Vision struggle with their powers and can’t figure out why, Clint stopped leaving the farm because he’s paranoid something will happen to his family, Sam’s gear breaks more often than not, Scott always loses his Pym particles even if he swears he’s never moved them and Tony’s suits keep malfunctioning inexplicably. The only one not affected seems to be Bucky.

It drives everybody crazy that they all seem to suddenly have bad luck, until Tony finds the source of all their problems. Someone hacked into his personal server and got access to the entirety of the Compound’s mainframe, FRIDAY and essentially everybody’s gear, mission files and everything that the team keeps in digital form, which is everything. 

The Avengers are being sabotaged, and they are not happy about it.

Tony manages to track the hacker to a remote building in the middle of nowhere in Russia and the team wastes no time getting into the QuinJet and taking off.

They quietly storm the building but find nothing and no one, every floor seemingly abandoned.

“Guys…” Sam says into the comms from the basement that he was tasked with clearing. “I found something.”

Everybody rushes down there and they all freeze when they see what Sam found, a hidden door behind fake metal shelves and on it is painted a red skull with six tentacles.

“What the…” Bucky frowns confused.

“Did you know this was a HYDRA base?” Steve asks quietly.

“No…” Bucky mumbles as he opens the door to the elevator, not remembering ever being inside this building at all. “I didn’t.”

The team goes down in the elevator, everybody on high alert now that they know HYDRA is involved, but even as the elevator doors open with a pained creak, the base seems abandoned.

“How can anybody hack us from here?” Sam frowns. 

“It’s all so… Dusty.” Scott adds with a grimace after running his fingers over a table.

“Stay sharp.” Steve orders, never lowering his shield. “Zola managed to keep himself alive in a bunker for decades and manipulate an entire century… HYDRA is never what it seems.”

“Steve is right.” Bucky adds, his eyes on a cup that they hadn’t noticed but can now see is still slightly fuming now that Bucky brought their attention to it. “Someone’s here.”

Everybody goes on the defensive, their weapons at the ready as they walk through the hallways, almost as if expecting whoever the hacker is to just jump out of nowhere.

And still, they jump at the sudden noise in the otherwise eerily quiet base and into the room it came from to find a row of file cabinets on the ground. Then the door is slamming shut, the lights turning off and the team looks around frantically but they can barely see until the emergency red lights come on and, suddenly, a figure is standing there.

Black fightsuit, skintight and full of buckles, like a straightjacket, a mask that’s more like a muzzle, a rifle strapped to the back, a knife in one hand and a handgun in the other. A perfect copy of the Winter Soldier, only with long hair made into a braid.

None of the Avengers have ever seen this person, but Bucky has. The suit, the hair, the stance, the eyes, even behind the mask… Your eyes.

It’s you, standing in front of them and looking right through him like you’ve never seen him before, like he’s never mattered to you, like you could not care less that he exists. But you’re alive.

2017

You open your eyes slowly, groggy and disoriented, but you know the drill by now. You stay still, waiting for the guards to take me from the cryo chamber so you won’t be punished, the only thing that’s drilled into your brain despite every wiping. So you wait. And you wait and you wait.

And you wait.

But nobody comes.

It’s drilled into your skull though, wait for orders or you’ll get hurt. So you stay still for hours, for days, until you finally have to accept it: Nobody’s coming.

Your body feels heavy, your mind refusing to move without explicit orders, but you know you have to eventually so you push yourself, move slowly, and get yourself out of the cryo chamber.

You search all over the base but it’s useless, there’s nobody here. You have no idea what to do, you don’t know who you are, where you are, not even your own name. But your brain seems to know, deep down, what you’re supposed to do.

So you unconsciously start the routine you know by heart: Train, be fed, wait for instructions, sleep, repeat. It’s inhuman, it’s psychotic, it’s robotic. But it’s what you do for weeks, then months, then years.

Without any supervision or torture, though, you eventually start drifting. You still strain, still keep yourself on HYDRA’s meal schedule, still wait for your orders. But while you do, you roam the base. You start snooping, looking through files you know you’re not supposed to look at, but it’s not like there’s anyone to stop you.

One day while you’re looking through the files of HYDRA’s enemies, you find the ones about the Avengers. Apparently they’re HYDRA’s number one threat, so you study them and assign yourself a mission: Destroy the Avengers.

But there is one person that isn’t in those files. Bucky.

Present Day

And, as you stare down your enemies, he is the one your eyes snap to when he says your name… Your name? 

Your name. 

And it all comes flashing back.

Every moment with Hydra, every moment with your soldier. Everything comes back… And so does your full programming.

You engage before your brain fully comprehends it, your body moving on its own as you launch yourself at the Avengers, fighting them like your life depends on it. Or better yet, like you want to take them all out, which you do.

So Bucky, out of desperation, focuses on making sure you don’t kill his team and they don’t hurt you instead of taking you down. Which is probably how you manage to escape, which makes the team extremely annoyed at Bucky.

“She could’ve killed us all!” Tony glares at Bucky on the way back.

“She literally could’ve, but she didn’t.” Bucky points out. “She chose to escape instead.”

“Oh, because that makes it so much better.” Sam scoffs as he rubs his shoulder.

“You guys don’t understand…” Bucky groans. “Did you know her?” Steve asks calmly, although Bucky can see even he is annoyed. “I…” Bucky sighs in defeat and nods. “I used to. She was my partner when I was the Winter Soldier. She’s brainwashed, just like I was. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“How do you keep defending her?” Natasha scoffs. “She just tried to kill us all.” 

“Look, I know who she is behind the programming.” Bucky says firmly. “Whatever you think she is, you’re wrong. I know her.”

Boy, was he wrong.

In the weeks that follow, you start coming up more and more on SHIELD’s radar, and not in a good way. Bucky convinced the team to let him handle you himself, so he set out to find you which wasn’t as hard as he thought given the fact that you’re doing nothing to cover your tracks, your kills getting messier and messier.

He tracks you down to the abandoned warehouse where you’ve been sleeping. You’re just coming back from another ‘mission’ when you find him waiting for you there.

You look at each other for a long time, both of you seemingly ready to snap at any time, before Bucky speaks, “Do you know my name?” “Winter Soldier.” You answer without thinking. 

“No.” Bucky shakes his head. “My real name.”

You pause, almost scared of saying it, then whisper, “James.”

Bucky can’t help but smile, even if it’s a sad one. Those few moments of clarity you both had during HYDRA, that’s the name he’d told you. That’s who he wanted you to remember, who he wanted to be for you.

“Why are you doing this?” Bucky takes a step closer, his eyes on the knife in your hands still dirty with your last target’s blood. “You’re better than this.” “Am I?” You scoff and throw the knife against the wall. “Because this is everything I’ve known for almost a century!”

“It doesn’t mean it’s you, it’s just who HYDRA made you be.” Bucky insists. 

“I’ve never been anything else, James.” You cross your arms. “I don’t know how to be anyone else.”

“I can tell you this isn’t the way.” He sighs. “Leaving a trail of death behind you? You’re only destroying yourself.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.” You shrug, clenching your jaw to keep your emotions in, something you’ve been doing a lot lately. “Maybe it’s what I need. Maybe I’m destroying myself so other people can’t.”

“That’s…” Bucky softens, taking another step closer. “That’s a terrible way to try to hold on to control.”

“It’s the worst kind of control.” You nod in agreement, looking away from him. “But it’s the only form I have.” 

Bucky stays quiet for a moment, just looking at you. He takes the moment to take in all your features like it’s the first time, you’re exactly how he remembers you and it makes his heart skip a beat. 

“Hey…” He takes another step, now right in front of you as he hesitantly cups your face and, even more surprising, you let him. “This is no way to live, doll.”

You glance up at him at the nickname, the one he only ever called you in the rare occasions he’d be more himself.

“I know what you’ve been through more than anybody. I was right there with you through the torture and the brutal training and the wiping, everything… I know it was hell for you as much as it was for me.” He says quietly, his eyes never leaving yours. “But here you still are, living despite it all.”

“But this isn’t living.” You whisper back. “This… This is barely surviving. I… I don’t know how to live in this world anymore. I feel like I have no place in it.”

“Don’t say that.” Bucky says quickly and shakes his head. “Don’t ever say that again. You have a place, your place is with me.”

“That’s all I am? The Winter Soldier’s Shadow?” You scoff.

“No. No Winter Soldier, no Shadow, no HYDRA.” He says firmly. “That’s not who you are. You’re the love of my life, you’re my soulmate. Your place is with me, living the life I promise I’d give you.” 

You look up at him for a moment, letting his words sink in before you sigh. “I just… I’m so tired, James.” You whisper. “I-I have nothing more left. All I want is to disappear and-and…” You trail off, looking away from him again. But he grabs your chin gently and makes you look back at him.

“Sometimes you think that you want to disappear…” He says softly. “But all you really want is to be found.”

He gently strokes your jaw, his eyes never leaving yours. “I found you. I’m here. I found you and I’m not leaving you ever again.”

You want to believe him, you really do, but it’s hard to think you can just change.

As if reading your mind, he smiles at you and adds, “I’m doing it, doll. I’m getting better, I’m giving back, making up for my past and adjusting to a world that moved on without me. And if I can do it, you certainly can do it too.”

“What if you’re wrong?” You ask weakly. “What if there’s no place for me? What if—” “Doll.” Bucky interrupts you. “You’re not alone. I’ll be there for you, every step of the way.” 

You hesitate, searching his face like you’re expecting the lies to jump out of his pores, but he looks just as you remember he looked at you when he promised you a normal life. And you’ve always trusted him, so why stop now?

“What… How did you do it?” You ask curiously.

“There’s this place… Called Wakanda.” He smiles at you. “That’s where some friends helped. And that’s where we’re going.”

You almost protest, tell him you’re not going anywhere, to leave you alone and let you continue down your self-destructive path, but the look on his face…

He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters, like he can’t stand being away with you a second longer, like you’re his sunshine in a life that’s been nothing but rain, his lifeline when he feels like he’s drowning.

It’s the same way he looked at you when he was himself during HYDRA and he’s the same for you, and you’ve been that for each other for eight decades.

And you know, deep down, that you’d follow this man to the ends of the Earth.

So you do.

[sydwritess]

Mirror Mirror on the Wall

Charles leclerc x fem!reader

Summary: You were always insecure, some days to the point where you can't even look in the mirror. One day, when you and Charles were at an after-party, someone had said something, something that made your night a living hell.

Second Person POV

Warning: swearing, big insecurities, suicide thoughts

Notes: requests are open!

All your life, you were told you had to look a certain way. Fit, skinny, pretty, you name it. But one thing that wasn't aloud for you was 'ugly.'

You thought you always had to stay pretty. But when you met Charles, he taught you that pretty was in all different forms.

But it's like your body didn't accept that. Didn't want to accept it.

Look in the mirror. Don't look in the mirror.

Step on the scale. Don't cry when you see the numbers.

Go to therapy. They don't know what their talking about.

Eat three meals a day. Stop eating, and you look fat.

Loose your weight fast. You need to stop throwing up.

Go for a run. Stop being tired.

Don't give up. Give up and admit your big.

Wear makeup. You look like your trying to hard.

All of it comes spinning down around you like a hurricane in the Florida Keys. Thundering and lightening words around you stuck in your head. Not leaving until you scream your way out.

Scream and scream and scream until you are heard. Until you are acknowledged. Until the people around you feel guilty for what they have done. What they have said

Spiraling. Spiraling alone, but your not alone.

You were in a club full of people, celebrating Lando's big British Grand Prix win. Charles wasn't by your side.

You were at the bar while he was talking to Lando. Your thoughts spiraling as you look around the room.

Tight dresses.

Heavy makeup.

High heels.

Red lips.

Skinny figures.

Fancy suits.

Hair done perfectly.

Everything but you. All of it, not on you. You wish and hoped. But you didn't fit the part. Today was one of the worst days for you. You didn't even feel like getting out of bed, but you did it for Charles.

The bartender walks up to you, pouring you another glass of wine. "Ma'am, are you okay?" She asks. You could see the worry behind her eyes.

You look at her. Silently. "Yeah, just... thinking." She nods her head and smiles, walking down the bar to tend to other customers.

You see two girls to the side of you looking at you. You look down at the drink your were holding in your hands. Then you hear them laugh.

Not today. Just not today. It was already the worst day for you this week.

"Charles isn't with her because he's embarrassed of her." The blonde snickers.

"I would be too. Looking like that... I feel bad for him." The brunette says.

"If I ever looked that ugly, I'd ask for someone to shoot me." The blonde says. They both laugh and walk away from the bar.

Tears were filling in your eyes. Little did they know... some days you really wished you were dead. And that made it worse.

"Hey, sorry, Lando and I got caught up." Charles said, sitting next to you.

You didn't move. Didn't look at him. Didn't breathe. It wasn't until then. That hand. That single, loving hand that made you feel everything was placed on your back.

You shrug it off, slowly getting out of your seat and walking straight to the bathrooms. You lock the door behind you, your fists white, leaning you against the counter as you look down to the floor.

Don't cry.

Don't open your eyes.

Don't move.

Don't. Look in the mirror.

But it happened. The tears were flowing down your checks. The voice's echoing in your head. That voice.

And you did it. You looked in the mirror. You started sobbing. Trying to maintain your cries by putting a hand over your mouth, but you couldn't.

You hear a light knock on the door. "Mon amour, what happened?" You hear the deep voice say. It was the person you didn't want it to be the most. You don't answer.

"Chèrie. Please open the door." He says. You slide down against the wall onto the floor, covering your face so he wouldn't hear your cries for help.

His voice was low. "I don't know she won't open the door." Charles says, talking to someone.

"Y/n, please open the door." Charles pleads. You're still silent. Then, the door opens quickly. Charles walks in, shutting the door behind him before rushing down by your side.

"Your okay. I've got you Mon amour. I've got you." He says. He pulls you into a hug, embracing you tightly against him. All you do is cry.

"Chérie what happened?" He asks. You cry, not being able to find the words.

"I don't know how you can love someone like me." You choke.

"Mon amour, what do you mean? I love you so much."

"I just don't get it. Your here- Your here surrounded by all of these people. Surrounded by all of these beautiful girls." You say, pausing your words. "And you still go back to me?" You ask.

"It's not about if I want you. I love you. I don't want just anybody Chérie. I love you so much you don't understand. And I may be surrounded by them, but I know who they are. They're just here for one night, and they won't even remember it the next morning. They are nothing compared to you." He says.

"Please, why is this all of a sudden? I thought you were doing well today."

"I can't."

"Please." He begs. "Please, if this was caused by someone, then we have to do something." He says. You sit there in silence. Your mind is moving too fast for your body to keep up. You feel your body start to get heavier, falling more into Charles.

"Hey, hey, are you okay?" He asks. You nod your head weakly.

"No, what's going on?" He asks, pulling away from you, holding your shoulders tightly. You can't look at him. Your vision going in and out.

"Did- did you eat today?" He asks suddenly. You don't say a thing. "I'll take that as a no." He gently lays you flat on the floor.

"Shit, hang on." He says. He opens the bathroom door and walks out. It takes him a minute before he quickly walks back in, Lewis was straight behind him.

"We need a cold towel." Lewis says. You close your eyes, the pain and tiredness flowing through your blood.

You feel a hand run through your hair. Charles's hand.

"I'd suggest taking her home. She's not well." Lewis says, pressing the cold cloth to your forehead.

"Do you mind grabbing a drink for her? I don't care- whatever's down there, please." Charles says.

"Yeah, I'll be right back." Lewis says. He gets up from next to you and walks out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

"Y/n." Charles says slowly, running his hand through your hair. "Why would you do this to yourself?" His eyes were watery.

"I'm sorry." You say, your tears falling once again. "I'm really sorry."

"You've never been this bad before. I just want to know what's going on so I can help." He says. Suddenly Lewis walks in with a couple of glasses of water.

"Text me if you guys need anything else. I'll be still be here." He says

"Thanks, man." Charles says. He nods his head before walking out, shutting the door again.

You try to sit up but your body wasn't fully there yet.

"Hey, lay down for now. I've got you." He says, gently pushing you back down. You lay back in silence, staring at the ceiling above you.

Charles gently smooths your hair back with his hand. Your tears continue spilling over the edge, working up more and more at the thought of today.

"There were these girls at the bar." You choke out. Charles nods at what you say, making sure you know he's listening. "And they were saying some things."

"What things Chérie?" He asks gently.

"Like..." You trail off, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath before opening them again. "Like how you weren't next to me because you were embarrassed of me. And..."

"And they said that - that if they looked like me, they'd want to be dead." You say slowly, your voice cracking on each word like it was thin ice. You couldn't even look him in the eyes anymore.

"Oh, Mon Amour... I'm so sorry I was not there." He paused. "I love you so much. I was just away from you because I was talking to Lando. I am never embarrassed of you."

"I know."

"Did you ever feel that way before? About... dying." He asks. You slowly nod, feeling ashamed.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I didn't want you to see me that way. I didn't want you to see me like... I don't know." You say.

He sighs, running his hand through your hair still. "Can I tell you something?" He asks, you nod.

"When my brother was in school, he got bullied badly. Sometimes, to the point where he would skip school and say he was sick. One day, when I got home from practice, I found him passed out in his room and called the police and my family, and they took him to the hospital. And after that we stayed with him for a good month. I was the one staying there day and night because I was scared he would do it again." He took a shaky breath.

"I don't want that to happen to you. What I found out that day... it took a piece of me away. And I don't want you to go through that. I don't want that to happen to you." He says, pausing, sitting still. "Or else I would seriously have to kill someone." He says, smiling slightly.

"I'm sorry." You say through tears. He gently grabs your hands, pulling you up so your sit up against the wall. You hug him tightly. "I tried to get better." You choke out.

"It takes time to get better. I understand that. We can get through this together, you don't have to do this alone." He says gently, rubbing your back.

"You shouldn't have to put up with this. You've got to much going on."

"I'm not putting up with it. I'm helping you. I would never think of it as 'putting up with it.' And my life can wait if it means seeing you happy at the end of the day." He pauses, pulling away from you, looking you in the eyes. "You are not some burden in my life. And if you need a reason than I will give you millions."

He pauses, letting out a breath. You sit in silence.

"You are so caring towards everybody. You may not see it but you give everyone a chance... some may not deserve it, but you give them it. You are the most beautiful person in the world, you may not see it now but you are. When you question yourself and compare yourself to other girls, it breaks me to see you doubting yourself all the time. You are the most beautiful girl in the room, outside of the room, in the world and you should act like it. Those other girls don't even know the half of the beauty you have within you. And, seriously... I don't know how you do it but you putting up with me and my friends... that takes some real courage right there because I can tell you want to leave the room some days because of our dumbasses."

You laugh slightly, your smile breaking through.

"And let's talk about forgiving. How many times have I messed up or how many times have I done something wrong but you still stayed. You still stayed with me and forgave me for what I did. How many times have I not noticed or not paid attention to what you were going through or what was upsetting you but you were still there for me. You still stayed with me, pushing your problems aside for me when I should have been there for you. I mean it when I say that I would do anything for you. I would pause everything I would got going on if it means helping you and getting you on your feet. I would cancel every race for you. Every meeting for you. You are the most important person in my life. I could never just sit around and watch you struggle by yourself if I was there. When I tell you that I will help you, I will. because I love you and I would not loose you." The room goes silent. Looking into each other's eyes.

"Real-"

"Really. I love you so much mon ange. I don't want to loose you."

"I promise I'll get better." You whisper.

"You don't have to promise anything, we will work together to get through this."

You nod your head. Charles stands up and reaches his hand's down to you. You grab them lightly and pull yourself up. He intertwines your left hand with his and opens the door up, but you stand still.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't go out there."

He holds your hand tighter. "It's okay, we can go out behind the building, no one will be there."

You nod your head a little bit and he guides you out of the room and down a hallway towards the back of the building. It was a quiet hallway, no one around, you came to around that Charles opened and you walk outside. The cool air felt refreshing on your skin.

"Where are we going?" You ask quietly.

He stops in his tracks, making you bump into him. "We." He hold ups your intertwined hands. "Are going to Olive Garden. Since it's like the only place open." He smirks.

He continues walking with you until you see his car parked out front. "We can't eat this late." You giggle, tapping on your watch that says:

9:00 P.M.

"Oh yes we can. And we will. I will order everything on the menu for you." He smirks, opening the passenger side door for you. You laugh as he runs around the front of the car, quickly getting in.

"I'd probably throw up from everything on the menu." You joke.

"If you do that... I will count it as a good way to start this journey together." He says lowly, with a smile. He grabs your hand and starts driving off away from the club. In the littlest way... reminding you he loves you.

©sydwritess

Hey loves! Bit of a sad one (blame me... feeling emotional lmao) but I hope you like it! Requests are open!

[dreamygirl19]

The Pain of Protection

✮ Summary : When Baekjin threatened Humin's loved ones, he didn't have a choice but to join the Union, thinking he projected them from pain. But he painted them even more.

✮ Contains : Angst, fluff/comfort

✮ Pairing : Park Humin x reader

✮ Word Count : 3575 words

The late afternoon sun, usually a cheerful splash of warmth in Humin’s life, felt like an oppressive weight. He stared at the flickering screen of his phone, the unread messages from you piling up, each one a fresh stab to his gut. Your bubbly emojis, your cheerful “Hiiii!”s, your worried “Are you okay?”s—they were a testament to the sunshine he was now forced to extinguish.

It had started subtly, insidiously. The whispers, the knowing glances, the uncomfortable silences when Baekjin’s name was mentioned. Humin, ever the optimist, had tried to brush it off, to believe that his vibrant world was immune to the encroaching shadows of the Union. He was wrong.

The call had come on a Tuesday, a day that had dawned with the promise of a study date with you and ended with the chilling realization that his life, and yours, was no longer his own.

“Park Humin,” the voice on the other end was smooth, unhurried, dripping with a quiet menace that made Humin’s blood run cold. It was Baekjin. “Heard you’re quite the social butterfly. Always surrounded by friends, aren’t you? And that girlfriend of yours… she’s quite captivating.”

Humin’s breath hitched. He clutched the phone tighter, knuckles white. “What do you want?” he managed, his voice a low growl.

Baekjin chuckled, a sound devoid of humor. “Simple. I want you to join the Union. Your little group, you’re strong. Useful. And I appreciate potential.”

“I’m not interested,” Humin spat, his mind racing. He thought of Sieun, of Gotak, of his entire friend group. He thought of you, your infectious laughter, the way your hand fit perfectly in his. He wouldn’t drag them into this cesspool.

“Oh, but you are,” Baekjin purred, the sweetness in his voice making it all the more terrifying. “Because if you don’t, well… things happen. Accidents. To people you care about. To that pretty girlfriend of yours, for example. Imagine her walking home alone one night, and suddenly… she’s not alone anymore. Or perhaps her grades start slipping, strange incidents at school… a broken leg here, a scraped face there. Nothing too serious, of course, just enough to make her life, and yours, a living hell.”

Humin felt a cold dread spread through him, colder than any winter chill. He pictured your bright eyes clouded with fear, your sunny smile replaced by a grimace of pain. The images flashed behind his eyelids like a horror film. He imagined you crying, alone, and he wasn't there to protect you.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he whispered, though his voice lacked conviction.

“Oh, I would,” Baekjin said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, filled with a chilling finality. “And you know it. Think of it as a small price to pay for their safety. Join us, and they remain untouched. Refuse… and I make no guarantees. The choice, Humin, is entirely yours. I’ll send you the details. Don’t disappoint me.”

The line went dead, leaving Humin in a suffocating silence. He stood there, phone pressed to his ear, long after the dial tone had ceased. His perfect world had shattered into a million irreparable pieces. The laughter, the camaraderie, the effortless joy he shared with his friends, with you—it all felt like a distant dream.

He had no choice. For them, for you, he would walk into the darkness. But he wouldn’t drag them with him. He would push them away, create a chasm so wide and deep that they couldn’t follow, couldn't get hurt by the monsters he was now forced to associate with. The thought alone was a torment, a slow, agonizing death of his own spirit.

The transformation was swift and brutal. The vibrant, extroverted Park Humin, a boy who laughed easily and drew people in with his magnetic personality, vanished overnight. In his place was a ghost. His once bright eyes were shadowed, his easy smile replaced by a perpetual frown. He stopped answering calls, ignored texts, and when confronted in the hallways, he offered only curt, monosyllabic responses before rushing away.

You felt it first, a chill seeping into your bones. At first, you thought you had done something wrong. Had you said something? Had you been too clingy? Too loud? Your mind replayed every interaction, every shared laugh, every quiet moment. But no, everything had been perfect, hadn’t it? He had been so affectionate, so loving, so Humin.

Your texts went unanswered. Your calls went straight to voicemail. You tried his house, but his dad always said he was “out” or “busy,” his voice laced with an uncomfortable tension. Desperation clawed at you. You cornered his friends, but they seemed just as bewildered, their usual boisterous group now quiet and fragmented without him. Sieun looked troubled, Gotak frustrated, and Juntae seemed to shrink whenever Humin’s name was brought up.

Days bled into weeks, each one a fresh wave of heartbreak. You walked through your classes in a daze, your grades slipping, your usual effervescence replaced by a quiet despair. You missed his sunshine, his warmth, the way he would playfully tease you until you giggled, the comfort of his hand in yours. You missed him. You cried yourself to sleep most nights, the pillow damp with silent tears, the aching void in your chest growing larger with each passing day.

One dreary afternoon, as a light drizzle began to fall, you were walking home, your head down, lost in your own misery. You rounded a corner near the old abandoned arcade, a place you used to frequent, when you saw him.

Park Humin.

He was standing with a group of older boys, their faces hard, their postures menacing. He looked different. His clothes were darker, his hair a little messier, and there was an undeniable tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t even looking at them. He was staring blankly at the ground, a familiar hollowness in his eyes.

Your heart, which had been a dull ache for weeks, suddenly jolted, a painful lurch that stole your breath. A sob caught in your throat. All the pent-up grief, the confusion, the searing pain of abandonment, welled up inside you, hot and undeniable.

Without thinking, without a second’s hesitation, you ran. Your legs propelled you forward, blurring the distance between you. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the rain.

“Humin!” you choked out, your voice a raw whisper of his name.

His head snapped up, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he saw you. For a fleeting second, a flicker of something raw and exposed crossed his face – pain, regret, maybe even a desperate longing. But then, it was gone, replaced by the familiar blank mask.

You launched yourself at him, a desperate, heart-wrenching leap. Your arms wrapped around his neck, holding on as if your life depended on it. Your face buried in his shoulder, you sobbed, the sound muffled by his jacket. “Humin… what’s wrong? Why are you doing this? What did I do? Please… please talk to me…”

His body, initially stiff and unyielding, seemed to hesitate for a fraction of a second. You felt the slight tension in his muscles, the almost-response. For a hopeful, agonizing moment, you thought he might reciprocate, might hold you, might whisper a comfort.

But he didn’t.

His arms remained at his sides, unmoving. He didn’t shift, didn’t embrace you, didn’t offer a single word of comfort. His silence was a deafening roar in your ears. The other boys with him had turned, their gazes cold and assessing, a silent warning.

You clung to him, your tears soaking his shirt, but the lack of response was a crushing blow. It was as if you were hugging a stone statue, cold and unresponsive. Your sobs grew more desperate, but still, he remained impassive.

Finally, slowly, painfully, you pulled back, your hands still clutching his shoulders, your eyes, red-rimmed and brimming with fresh tears, pleading with him. “Humin, please… just tell me. Please…”

His gaze, when it met yours, was empty. Devoid of the warmth, the affection, the love that had always been there. It was like looking into the eyes of a stranger.

Then, with a subtle shift, he gently, but firmly, detached your hands from his shoulders. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t explain. He simply turned, his back to you, and began to walk away, his friends falling in step behind him.

You watched him go, your heart splintering into a million pieces. The rain seemed to intensify, mirroring the storm inside you. You stood there, alone in the street, the image of his unfeeling back burned into your mind, feeling utterly, irrevocably broken.

The Union’s grip was a suffocating vise around Humin’s throat. Every day was a battle, a constant struggle against his own conscience. He saw the brutality, the senseless violence, the casual cruelty. He participated in it, forced by the threat that hung over his loved ones like a guillotine. Each punch thrown, each cold word uttered, felt like a betrayal of everything he was. The guilt was a constant companion, gnawing at him, slowly eroding his soul.

He was a phantom, moving through his days, hollowed out and dead inside. The image of your tear-streaked face, your desperate plea, your heartbroken eyes as he walked away, haunted his waking hours and tormented his dreams. It was a torment he had inflicted, a necessary evil, but a torment nonetheless. He hated himself for it, for the pain he had caused you, for the sunshine he had stolen from your life.

He was sitting alone in a dimly lit corner of the Union’s hangout spot, the usual cacophony of their voices a dull hum in the background, when the silence suddenly fell. He looked up, his eyes meeting a furious, determined glare.

It was Sieun.

Sieun stood there, hands shoved into his pockets, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and concern. He looked different too, tired, worried. He didn't say anything, just stared at Humin, his gaze unwavering, challenging. The other Union members, sensing the tension, had fallen silent, some watching with amusement, others with a predatory interest.

“We need to talk,” Sieun finally said, his voice low and tight, barely containing his fury.

Humin simply grunted, turning his head away. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

Sieun scoffed, a bitter sound. “Nothing to talk about? Are you kidding me, Humin? What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Humin’s hand clenched into a fist under the table. He knew. He knew perfectly well.

“What I’ve done is my business,” Humin retorted, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. He was trying to push Sieun away too, to make him understand that this was a line he couldn’t cross, a path he couldn’t follow.

Sieun took a step closer, his voice rising, resonating with raw emotion. “Your business? Your business? Y/n is a mess, Humin! A complete and utter mess! She cries herself to sleep every night! She thinks she did something wrong, that she drove you away! She blames herself, Humin! Can you even begin to imagine how much that hurts? To see her, the brightest person I know, walking around like a ghost because of you?”

Humin’s breath hitched. His carefully constructed wall of indifference wavered, a hairline crack appearing. He pictured you, not just tearful, but self-blaming, your spirit crushed. The image twisted the knife in his gut.

“She’s heartbroken, Humin. Absolutely devastated,” Sieun continued, his voice softer now, tinged with a desperate plea. “She doesn’t understand. None of us do. You just… vanished. You cut everyone off. You became… this. You broke her heart, Humin. You broke all of our hearts.”

Humin squeezed his eyes shut. The words hit him like physical blows, each one echoing the pain he had caused. He had known, intellectually, that she would be hurt. But to hear the raw, unfiltered truth, to hear the extent of your suffering… it was unbearable.

“She jumped into your arms the other day, Humin,” Sieun said, his voice laced with disgust. “And you just… walked away. No explanation. Nothing. Do you know how that looked? Do you know how much that destroyed her? She thought you hated her.”

The memory of your desperate embrace, your sobs against his shoulder, his own frozen inaction—it slammed into him with renewed force. He had felt your body trembling, your tears soaking his shirt. He had felt the desperate hope in your touch, and he had deliberately crushed it. He had wanted to hold you, to explain, to beg for your forgiveness, but he couldn't. He couldn't risk it.

He opened his eyes, meeting Sieun’s unwavering gaze. The anger in Sieun’s eyes was still there, but beneath it, Humin saw the deep concern, the hurt, the fear for his friend.

“I… I couldn’t,” Humin choked out, his voice hoarse, a confession he hadn’t meant to utter. “I couldn’t tell her.”

Sieun’s expression softened slightly, a flicker of understanding replacing some of the anger. “Why, Humin? Why are you doing this to yourself? To us?”

Humin looked around the room, at the bored faces of the Union members, at the cold, predatory eyes of Baekjin’s cronies. He felt the suffocating weight of their presence, the invisible chains that bound him. He thought of Baekjin’s chilling threat, the casual way he had spoken of harming Y/n.

A sudden, overwhelming surge of disgust, of absolute, unadulterated loathing for this life, for this place, for what he had become, washed over him. He had sacrificed his happiness, his relationships, his very soul, for a twisted form of protection. And for what? To be miserable, to be a tool, to constantly fear for the people he loved?

He had had enough.

He slowly rose from his seat, his eyes still fixed on Sieun. The decision, though terrifying, felt liberating. It was a clarity he hadn't felt in weeks.

“I’m done,” Humin said, his voice low but firm, resonating with a newfound resolve. “I’m done with all of this.”

A ripple of unease went through the room. Some of the Union members stiffened, their expressions turning menacing.

Sieun’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise and dawning hope. “Humin…”

Humin ignored the others. He looked at Sieun, a silent apology, a desperate plea for understanding, passing between them. He didn’t need to say more; Sieun understood.

With that, Humin turned and walked out, his steps purposeful, a ghost of his old self, but now with a spark of his old fire ignited in his eyes. He didn’t look back. The murmurs and threats from the Union members faded into the background as he pushed through the door and into the cool evening air.

He didn't know what would happen next. Baekjin wouldn't let him go easily. There would be consequences. But at least now, he was fighting for himself, for his friends, for Y/n. He was fighting to reclaim his life.

Humin ran. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to get away from the suffocating darkness of the Union, and he had to get to you. His lungs burned, his legs ached, but he pushed himself harder, the image of your broken face propelling him forward. He needed to explain. He needed to apologize. He needed to make it right.

He didn’t stop until he reached your street, your house. The lights were on in your window. He hesitated for a moment, suddenly terrified. What if you wouldn't listen? What if you couldn't forgive him? What if he had truly destroyed everything?

Taking a shaky breath, he walked up to your door and knocked, the sound echoing loudly in the quiet evening. He waited, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

After a moment, the door opened a crack, and your mother’s kind, worried face appeared. Her eyes widened when she saw him, a flash of surprise, then concern.

“Humin? Is everything alright, dear? We’ve been so worried about you.”

“I… I need to see Y/n,” he managed, his voice raw.

Your mother’s gaze softened. “She’s… she’s in her room. She’s been very upset, Humin. Please… be gentle with her.”

He nodded, a silent promise. She opened the door wider, and he stepped inside, his legs feeling like lead. He walked towards your room, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He could hear soft sniffles from inside.

He pushed the door open gently.

You were curled up on your bed, a blanket pulled around you, your back to him. The room was dimly lit, and the air felt heavy with unspoken sorrow. You stirred at the sound, slowly turning your head.

Your eyes, still red and puffy from crying, met his. For a long moment, you just stared at each other, the silence thick with unaddressed pain. Your expression was a mixture of shock, confusion, and a fragile hope that he feared he had long since extinguished.

“Humin?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, as if you were afraid he was a figment of your imagination.

He took a step into the room, then another, until he was standing by your bed. He dropped to his knees, not caring about the awkwardness, only needing to be close, to convey the depth of his regret.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice cracking, filled with an anguish that had been simmering for weeks. “I am so, so sorry.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, and you quickly averted your gaze, turning your head away. “Why, Humin? Why did you do this? Why did you leave me? Why did you act like I was nothing?” Your voice broke on the last word, the pain clear and sharp.

“I know,” he whispered, reaching out a trembling hand, but hesitating before touching you. He didn’t deserve to. “I know I hurt you. And I hate myself for it. You didn’t do anything wrong, Y/n. Nothing. It was all me. It was never you.”

You finally turned back, your eyes brimming with fresh tears, but now mixed with a flicker of confusion. “Then why?”

He took a deep breath, the words finally tumbling out, a torrent of confession. He told you everything. About Baekjin’s call, about the threats, about you. He recounted the chilling details, the cold fear that had gripped him, the impossible choice he had been forced to make. He explained how he thought pushing you away, becoming a monster in your eyes, was the only way to keep you safe, to protect you from the darkness he was forced to inhabit.

He described the suffocating dread of the Union, the soul-crushing violence, the constant struggle against his own conscience. He told you about Sieun’s confrontation, about seeing your distress through his friend’s eyes, about the final breaking point that had propelled him to leave.

As he spoke, he saw the emotions warring on your face: shock, disbelief, then dawning comprehension, and finally, a heartbreaking understanding. Tears streamed down your face, but these were different tears now, tears of empathy, of relief, of sorrow for him.

When he finished, the room was silent except for your ragged breathing. He looked at you, his eyes pleading for forgiveness, for just a glimmer of the hope he thought he had extinguished forever.

You reached out, your hand tentatively touching his cheek, your fingers tracing the tear tracks on his face. Your touch was hesitant, but incredibly gentle.

“Humin…” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You should have told me. We could have faced it together. I would have understood. I would have helped you.”

“I know,” he whispered, leaning into your touch, relief flooding through him at your words, at the warmth of your hand against his skin. “I know now. I I was so scared. I just… I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. I thought this was the only way.”

You slid closer to him on the bed, your hand moving from his cheek to cup the back of his neck, gently pulling him forward. Your eyes searched his, a world of understanding passing between you, a silent promise in their depths.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whispered, your voice fragile but firm, unwavering in its conviction. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He wrapped his arms around you, finally, pulling you into a tight, desperate embrace. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling your familiar scent, a scent that was inextricably linked to safety, to home, to love. He held you as tightly as he dared, as if afraid you would disappear, as if afraid the nightmare would drag him back into its clutches.

You held him just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair, a silent promise of support and unwavering presence. The tears flowed freely from both of you now, tears of raw pain, of profound relief, and of a fragile, hard-won hope that flickered to life in the quiet room.

He had been immersed in darkness for too long, but now, finally, he felt a flicker of light, a warmth slowly spreading through his frozen heart. It wouldn't be easy. Baekjin was still out there, and the terrifying consequences of his actions were still to come. But he wasn’t alone anymore. He had you, the one constant in his chaotic world. And with you by his side, he knew he could face anything.

꩜ Masterlist

꩜ One shots requests opened

[diaryofarseny]

The past of Arseny is filled with luxury. With clothes from popular brands all around the world, a palace where you can go for a long walk without even being outside, exquisite food made by the maid of the house, a wealthy family and not even a clue about how much money they’re actually making. No price tags in his head. Not a single thought about what it would be without all the fancy stuff. No worries about the basic needs of life. Just some rich people issues. Just some family drama. Competition. Behaviour. Gossip. Blablabla.

But don’t be fooled. His past life in Germany was marked by scenes no one should ever endure. He lived through hell and it‘s shadows still haunt him to this day. All these years he was a victim, fooled. Things happened. Some fucked up shit he rather would forget. But he can’t. He tries to hold himself together, but the past claws it’s way back and it fucking kills him. Every single time.

He’s safe now. At least that’s what he tells himself. And he’s no longer in his hometown. No longer with his family. No longer anywhere near the ones who hurt him. Arseny is surrounded by people who love him, who see him, who believe him and who actually listen. But now he’s facing different problems. There is no silver spoon. For the first time he has to worry about things regular people worry about. Bills. Rent. Groceries. Issues he can’t fix with money or some connections. Shit he never had to think about before. And it’s humbling. Exhausting. Sometimes even humiliating.

His story isn't over yet. The past is still exposed, pages wide open and the future holds so much more. More challenges, more changes. Come and be a part of it. Find out what happened to him and what lies deep within. His gift has not yet awakened, but the cage is beginning to crack.

TW: harsh language, selfharm, suicidal thoughts, selfhate, sexual violence, trauma, supernatural elements and more. Please take care of yourself when visiting this blog!

MDNI • no personals • Semi-active • Novelist (German only) • Smalltalk in Ger/Eng • Replies may take time – I will let you know if there are delays.

OOC only for plotting. • Crossover depends on chemistry – not guaranteed. • Muse is not human – please keep this in mind for plotting/story development.

Feel free to message me if you want to plot or drop a starter – I’m open to various genres, dark or light. No random OOC chatter, please.

[inkedtension]

Love? whats that?

Inosuke x reader. enjoyy!

Wisteria blooms haunt your dreams. Their scent still clings to your fingers no matter how many times you scrub. At the chemical plant, you were a ghost among fumes and formulas, extracting poison from sacred trees with surgical precision. That life was stripped away when demons razed your town to ash.

You didn't scream. You survived.

Shinobu Kocho found you barely breathing beneath broken beams, your blood soaked into the soil. You had a pulse, and worse—a brain worth salvaging.

"Come to the Butterfly Mansion," she said. "You're wasted on factories."

So now you spend your days grinding flowers into death. Crafting demon-specific toxins. Staring at pestles and powders, comforted by the order of chemical reactions.

Until he crashes into your life.

Literally.

"YAAAAH! WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!"

The door slams open and a whirlwind of limbs and animal hide crashes into your table, scattering glass and ash.

You stare at him, blinking.

"You absolute baboon."

The boar-masked boy cocks his head. "Did you call me a bamboo?"

warning, without reason, always with some absurd question:

"Can I eat this?"

"Will this make me stronger if I drink it?"

"What happens if I bathe in this goo?"

He picks up things with his mouth. Tries to fight jars. One time he tried to bite a vial of wolfsbane.

His name is Inosuke Hashibira. You learn it after Shinobu yells at him for traumatizing you and tells you to “be kind; he was raised by boars.” You think it’s a metaphor. It’s not.

He is feral. Loud. Constantly shirtless. Bursts through doors. Doesn’t understand “personal belongings” or “locks.”

“I LIKE THIS ROOM!” he shouts a week later, arms flung open, standing in your doorway. “IT SMELLS LIKE SPICE AND BURNY STUFF!”

“That’s arsenic, and if you inhale too much, your lungs will liquefy.”

“COOL.”

From then on, he visits you every day.

Sometimes barges in to watch you mix things.

Sometimes tosses mushrooms onto your table and goes “THESE KILLED A FOX. WANNA USE ‘EM?”

Sometimes tries to spar with the mannequins you test bandages on.

You hate it.

And, somehow, you don’t.

It starts with a stick.

He slams it onto your table during lunch one day, triumphant. “STRAIGHT!”

You blink. “What?”

“This stick. I found it. It’s super straight. Look!” He holds it up beside a ladle. “STRAIGHT! I found it and thought of you.”

“…Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“I saw a crow give another crow a stick once. And then they sat on a tree together and didn’t fly away! They just stayed there and squawked and bumped beaks! So I got you a better stick.”

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

You take the stick.

“Thanks,” you say, quietly. “It’s…very straight.”

He beams.

The next week, it’s a rock.

Perfectly round. Flat on one side, smooth like it was polished by the gods.

He smacks it down in front of you with childish glee. “It’s like your forehead!”

“…Thanks?”

“I licked a bunch of them to find this one. It tastes different. That means it’s rare!”

“You—” You drop your pen. “You licked rocks?!”

Zenitsu walks in at that exact moment and screams. “Inosuke! You’re courting her like a cave goblin! Girls don’t like pebbles!”

“I DO WHAT THE CROWS DO,” Inosuke roars, arms flailing. “AND SHE DIDN’T THROW THE STICK BACK!”

Tanjiro leans in from the hallway, concerned. “That…does kind of mean something in bird language.”

Zenitsu is having a meltdown. “That is NOT how you treat a lady!”

for some reason… you don’t hate it.

Tanjiro finds you in the hallway, trying to pry Inosuke off you.

"He JUMPED on me," you huff.

"It was an ambush!" Inosuke yells, arms still latched around your waist.

"Inosuke," Tanjiro says gently, peeling him off. "That's not how we show affection."

"WHY NOT? IT WORKED ON HER, DIDN'T IT?!"

Your face burns.

Zenitsu nearly combusts.

You try to ignore the way your face burns when he brings you things now. When he growls at anyone who walks too close to you. When he takes down demons twice his size just to drop a bloodied claw at your feet like a housecat begging for praise.

You can’t ignore it when he gets injured. You always patch him up yourself, knuckles brushing bare skin, jaw tight as he pretends not to notice how you linger. He always stares, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed.

“You like me,” you murmur once, testing.

He snaps upright, eyes wild. “NO I DON’T—!”

“Mmhm.”

“I—YOU—STOP MAKING MY CHEST STUPID!!”

Tanjiro looks at you gently one afternoon as Inosuke charges into the room shirtless, holding up a smooth shell like a trophy.

“He’s… trying really hard,” Tanjiro says, smiling softly. “You’re the first person he’s ever liked like this.”

Zenitsu groans from the corner, covering his eyes. “I can’t watch this anymore—he’s gonna hump her leg one day and call it a proposal—”

You hum, turning the shell over in your palm.

“He’s sweet,” you admit. “In his own barbaric way.”

They gape at you.

You set the shell down beside the round pebble. Your collection grows.

Sometimes, at night, you hear scratching at your door. He never knocks—he claws.

And sometimes…you let him in.

He doesn’t speak much then. He lays beside your futon, back to back, breath heavy with exhaustion and unspoken want. You don’t touch—but the air is thick with promise.

You can feel the warmth of his body, the pulse under skin. The soft grunt he gives when you murmur, “You did well today.”

Eventually, the grunts become softer. He starts saying your name instead. Not loud. Just under his breath, like a prayer he doesn’t know the meaning of yet.

*

You’re used to being needed.

You always thought that’s what you were made for—being useful, efficient, quiet in the right ways, explosive in the ones that counted. You weren’t trained for nurturing. But somehow, the Butterfly Mansion turned you into a tree.

A big, broad-shouldered one with sarcastic eyes and hands always stained purple from grinding nightshade.

And now? You have branches.

Or rather—children. Miniature war gremlins.

Sumi, Kiyo, and Naho treat you like a sacred beast. You lift them up on your shoulders so they can “spy from above.” You braid their hair in thick, quick weaves. You make disgusting teas when they’re sick, and they whine about it while drinking every drop. You once stitched Sumi’s scraped knee during a thunderstorm, and she burst into tears—not from pain, but from the “honor of being operated on by Papa Y/N.”

(That nickname has stuck.)

They run into your quarters without knocking. They tattle to you about Zenitsu crying in the laundry bin. They bite Inosuke when he’s annoying you.

You adore them.

Inosuke stomps into the hallway one afternoon, tracking muddy bootprints and screaming your name.

"Y/N! I FOUND A FANG-SHAPED ROCK! IT'S THE ULTIMATE GIFT! COME OUT AND FIGHT ME FOR IT—THEN I’LL GIVE IT TO YOU—"

He’s met with a flying sandal to the face.

“SHE’S BUSY!” Kiyo shrieks, standing on a table with a spoon like a sword.

“YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO TREAT A LADY!” Naho joins her, charging Inosuke at full speed and ramming into his shin.

Sumi climbs him like a mountain goat and yanks his ear.

“WE’VE READ THE RULES! STEP ONE: KNOCK FIRST!”

“WHAT THE HELL—” he bellows, flailing with all three clinging to him like angry barnacles. “GET OFF, YOU VIOLENT FAIRIES—!”

They scream in protest. You arrive just in time to see Kiyo dangling from his boar pelt by her teeth.

"Inosuke," you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Did you bring another dead bird?"

"NO. IT'S A ROCK. FANG ROCK. FOR YOU."

He thrusts it toward you like a prize. It does kind of resemble a canine tooth. You hold it like a delicate diamond.

“You’re being mauled by toddlers,” you murmur. “Is that part of the presentation?”

They’re at war now.

The girls demand he apologize with a haiku. Inosuke tries to respond with a headbutt. Zenitsu drags him off by the ankles. Tanjiro—ever the patient peacemaker—tries to explain why jumping on women isn’t appropriate unless you’re being chased by a demon or on fire.

"She doesn’t even hate it!" Inosuke protests, lips pouty. "She lets me stay sometimes!"

“You... sneak into her room without permission!” Zenitsu screams.

The next time the gremlins see him, he’s sitting very politely on the engawa steps.

You’re inside, brewing a very complex demon paralysis poison that requires total silence.

The kids peer at him through the hallway.

“…What’s he doing?” Kiyo whispers.

“Waiting,” Naho says suspiciously.

Sumi squints. “Planning?”

They tiptoe in. One of them pokes his leg. Another throws a tiny leaf at his face.

Inosuke twitches—but doesn’t move.

“I’m...being good,” he growls. “She said she needed silence.”

They freeze. Sumi tugs his sleeve. “You’re... learning?”

He glares. “Shut up.”

Kiyo nods approvingly. “Acceptable.”

Naho hands him a leaf. “Peace offering.”

Sumi jumps on his shoulder again. He doesn’t even flinch this time.

“Wanna help us scare Zenitsu?”

“…HELL YES.”

*

Inosuke’s idea of being subtle is announcing at full volume:

“HEY, DON’T LOOK AT HER!! SHE’S MINE!”

The first time he yelled it, it was because a male crow sat too long on your windowsill.

The second time, it was Giyuu. The poor man was just complimenting your new antidote formula.

And suddenly, Inosuke flew out of nowhere, snarling, limbs flailing mid-air.

“BACK OFF, FISH MAN! SHE’S GOT A SMELL ONLY I GET TO SMELL.”

“...I don’t even know what that means,” Giyuu muttered, dodging out of instinct.

You stared blankly. “Inosuke.”

He looked up from where he’d landed in a crouch. “WHAT.”

“Go outside and count to ten.”

“...TEN IS WEAK.”

“Then count to whatever number you think is the strongest.”

He brightened. “A HUNDRED THOUSAND.”

And stomped away, chest puffed.

But it only got worse when people started noticing.

“You look so happy these days,” Aoi commented one morning. “Did something good happen?”

Before you could answer, the wall behind you exploded—Inosuke had kicked straight through the paper screen.

“YEAH SOMETHING GOOD HAPPENED—ME!! SHE’S WITH ME!! LOOK!!”

He shoved his face between you and Aoi’s and grinned like a wild dog who found a bone.

“DON’T BE JEALOUS, LADY,” he added dramatically, “NOT EVERYONE GETS A WOMAN THIS STRONG AND PRETTY.”

Aoi blinked. “…I was just asking if she got more sleep.”

You shoved a rice ball into his mouth before he could start describing your 'shiny eyeballs' again.

You were feeding Nezuko a peach. She was sitting in your lap, legs dangling, chirping like a happy sparrow. Tanjiro was smiling peacefully nearby, trimming flowers. Zenitsu, naturally, was swooning in the grass.

“She’s… so beautiful,” he whispered. “Like an angel…”

Inosuke, overhead in a tree, perked up.

“Who?”

“Nezuko-chan, obviously,” Zenitsu sighed, starry-eyed. “She’s the most beautiful—”

“WRONG.”

A thunderous voice shook the trees. Inosuke leapt from above, did a backflip, landed next to you, and pointed both fingers at you like you were a god.

“MY WOMAN IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BEING TO EVER EXIST. MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN THE SUN. THAN FIRE. THAN... THAN THE STRONGEST MUSHROOM.”

Zenitsu jumped up. “Excuse me!? Nezuko-chan is the literal embodiment of moonlight!”

Inosuke roared, “MY LADY GLOWS IN THE DARK TOO!!! I CHECKED!!!”

Tanjiro choked.

You calmly handed Nezuko the rest of your peach and stood up. “I’m going to get more tea.”

Zenitsu slapped the ground. “Her smile could bring demons to their knees!”

Inosuke pounded his chest. “HER SCOWL MAKES MY HEART EXPLODE!!”

Zenitsu shrieked. “She smells like plums! What does your girl smell like!?”

“ACID. AND GLORY.”

They almost fist-fought right there.

Later that evening, after Nezuko had curled into your side for a nap and the Little gremlins had finished tying Inosuke’s shoelaces together in protest for “unruly yelling”, he sulked by your door.

You opened it to find him crouched, arms full of wildflowers, half of which were crushed.

“...They’re dead,” you said.

“SO WHAT! THEY WERE PRETTY. LIKE YOU.”

You stared. He stared harder. His cheeks were red under the mask.

“Are you mad?” he asked suddenly, voice lower than usual.

You sighed, crouched down, and pulled him close by the collar of his haori. “I’m not mad.”

He blinked fast. “You’re not?”

“I’m flattered.”

He beamed. You swore the stars above tilted.

Zenitsu: “Nezuko’s eyelashes shimmer like snowflakes!”

Inosuke: “Y/N’s arms are so nice I wanna BITE THEM!!”

Tanjiro: “Can we all agree they’re both very pretty—?”

Nezuko: MMPPHHHHHH!!!

*

It starts with him leaning against a porch post beside Tanjiro, under the silver moonlight. Tanjiro's sipping some warm herbal tea. Zenitsu, bored, twitchy, and always in need of drama, glances around and says—

“Y/N’s pretty, sure,” he said, “but not that pretty.”

Tanjiro’s teacup froze midair. “Zenitsu.”

There’s a rustle behind the pillar.

A growl. Then a war cry.

“I HEARD THAT, SPARKY!!!”

Out lunges Inosuke, shirtless, barefoot, and feral. Eyes wide, a log still tied to one arm like he’d rolled out of sleep mid-dream and landed in a rage. He looks murderous.

“YOU DARE SAY THINGS ABOUT MY WOMAN??” He lunges. Zenitsu shrieks.

“AAHHHH I WAS JOKING!!”

“TOO LATE FOR JOKES, YELLOW LANTERN!!” He pounces.

His mask was off. His rage was not.

“UGLY?! YOU THINK SHE’S UGLY?!”

Zenitsu shot back with both hands in surrender. “I never said—!”

Inosuke pointed a finger so dramatically, it nearly bent reality.

“HER EYES COULD MELT ARMOR.”

“W-what—?”

“HER HAIR SHINES LIKE A DEADLY VINE IN SUNLIGHT!!”

“...That’s not even—”

“AND HER FACE—HER FACE IS A GIFT FROM THE MOUNTAIN GODS THEMSELVES! UGLY?!”

Zenitsu tried to hide behind Tanjiro, but Tanjiro was frozen in place, tea still midair, like his soul had left his body.

Inosuke stormed forward, each stomp loud enough to rattle the wood.

“HER SCOWL IS DIVINE! HER SILENCE? ART! HER HANDS COULD CRUSH YOUR HEAD AND MAKE TEA AT THE SAME TIME!”

Zenitsu wailed. “I WAS JUST MESSING WITH YOU!!”

“WELL SHE’S MY WOMAN AND I WON’T STAND FOR SLANDER—”

Tanjiro finally moved. “Inosuke!! Stop!! You’re waking everyone—!”

“I WANT TO WAKE EVERYONE!! LET THE WHOLE MANSION KNOW!! SHE’S BEAUTIFUL!!”

“Inosuke please—”

“I’LL BITE THE WORD ‘UGLY’ OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!!!”

In your room –

You’re half-covered in your blanket, pillow pressed to your face.

You were awake the second Inosuke screamed.

And now you’re full-body giggling, face flushed, breath wheezing, while Nezuko looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. Again.

“...He’s insane,” you whisper between laughter.

Nezuko tilts her head, then gently pats your shoulder like there, there.

Then a window crashes open somewhere and you hear:

“IF SHE'S UGLY THEN THE MOON IS UGLY TOO—YOU WANNA INSULT THE MOON, HUH?!”

You fall back into your futon, cackling silently, kicking your feet like a girl in love.

Outside, Zenitsu is still screaming.

Tanjiro’s holding him in a headlock.

Inosuke is standing shirtless on a bucket, pointing to the sky like he’s making a historical declaration.

“SHE’S SO BEAUTIFUL, I CAN’T EVEN LOOK AT HER TOO LONG OR I FORGET WHERE MY HANDS ARE.”

Zenitsu wheezes. “THAT’S NOT—THAT’S NOT EVEN A COMPLIMENT!!”

“YES IT IS!!”

....

a/n: did you know that crow boyfriends really be out there like “hey babe, I brought you a stick.” And the crow girlfriends go, “omg 🥹 you shouldn’t have.”

[emmasmoke8]

I had an AU idea that was supposed to be my take on toxic Sonadow, but I’m a coward, so it definitely grows more wholesome as it goes on

It starts with an accident. I haven’t fully worked out all the details, but to defeat a world-ending threat, they make a bomb-like thing with Sonic’s speed. Mistakes are made, and a lot of our main cast dies alongside the world-ending threat: Tails, Amy, Knuckles, Eggman, Rouge, Vector, Espio, and kind of Omega (his body is destroyed but his consciousness is backed up and later put into a new body) and Metal (while his consciousness is also backed up, he refuses any body that isn’t ‘his own’). On top of this, Sonic no longer has his speed

Sonic is angry at Shadow in the immediate aftermath, but he quickly sinks into depression. He gets drunk a lot (because he can now without his speed). He has no care for his life

Shadow, on the other hand, desperately needs to keep Sonic alive. He isn’t fully aware of why, but he just needs to prove that he can save people, isn’t a monster, doesn’t lose literally everyone.

That goes on for a bit where the two of them are basically punishing each other (I have a line in mind where Shadow asks Sonic, “why are you punishing me?” And Sonic responds with, “you’re punishing yourself.”)

Their first turning point is after a few hang-out sessions with Cream and Charmy, Sonic tells an angry, grieving Charmy that what happened was an accident. This acceptance doesn’t cure everything. He’s still angry and blames Shadow for being weak, but it’s a step in the right direction

They keep taking steps. Shadow and Sonic move to Angel Island to protect the Master Emerald. Vanilla, Gemerl, and Cream step up to completely clear away Badniks and dismantle Eggman’s empire. Charmy reforms the detective agency with Mighty and Ray. Year by year, they all heal and move on

And then—because I’m a coward, remember—everyone who “died” comes back. They find a completely different world. Everyone they knew is older. People like Sonic are far more somber. It’s a very confusing experience

And oh boy is it angsty as hell. Sonic and Charmy need confirmation that the brought-back person they’re talking to isn’t a hallucination. Speaking of Charmy, he has this whole dynamic with Mighty and Ray, and it’s definitely a trick to seamlessly pull Vector and Espio back into it. Shadow is like 10x more protective. Cream is, too, actually. After losing a lot of her friends and then seeing the remaining ones deteriorate, she’s got issues of her own to work on

Eggman almost immediately starts rebuilding his empire, but Sonic just leaves him alone. He hasn’t had his speed in years, hasn’t fought in a while, either. He just leaves it to the others until he’s encouraged to start running again and has to deal with all of that

Because I can’t write an unhappy ending for shit, things do get better. They’re never the same. There’s still A LOT of growing pains and awkwardness and trauma, but it isn’t all bad all the time

[agustdsluv]

when it happened to me.

summary | he was asked if he ever regretted not holding on tighter to his first love. and jungkook—quiet now, softer around the edges—said, “she wasn’t just my first love. she was my real one.” and when they asked “do you think she knows?” he didn’t answer. he just thought about porch lights, cheap coffee, her laugh echoing down his street, the way she said his name when she was tired. and the way the world ended— when it happened to him.

“you’re not wasting time stuck here like me”

inspired by Sydney Rose’s “we hug now”

paring | jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings | best friends to lovers to strangers ( second chance later on?) angst, soft heartbreak, emotional whiplash, themes of loss, unresolved feelings, nostalgic imagery, quiet grief, they both need to figure they’re feelings out, time skip, distance, and just heartbreak, emotional withdrawal, they need to communicate fr, they both love each other sm

word count: 2.9k

notes: omg I don’t know why am having so much fun writing this. I just love this couple so much and I’m already attached to them even though I literally just wrote all of this today. The next part should be out in the morning cause I am a little too tired to edit right now. I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. stayed tuned for part 3!

MAIN M.LIST

part 1. | part 2. | part 3.

He still dreams about that street.

Not Seoul. Not stages or spotlights. Not the endless planes or pristine studios.

Not the sleek apartments with too much silence. Not the hotel rooms that all start to look the same after a while.

Not the city that made him, but the one that raised him.

But that cracked sidewalk in Busan.

The one lined with rusting mailboxes and wildflowers that grew in sidewalk cracks like they refused to be forgotten.

The one he skated down every summer, barefoot, sunburned, wild, free—

with Y/N shouting after him to slow the hell down before you eat concrete.

He never did slow down.

Not then. Not ever.

Maybe that was always the problem.

That’s where it started.

Before the followers, before the fame, before the silence.

Before things got complicated.

When life was simple—just neighborhood barbecues and late-night convenience store runs and laughing so hard his chest ached.

When all he needed was her voice in the dark and the sound of cicadas filling the summer air.

Her window light used to stay on until 2 a.m.

Always that soft yellow glow through the blinds. A signal. A safety net.

Most nights he’d throw pebbles—not because he had something to say, but just to see her face.

Just to catch her sleepy grin through the screen and hear her whisper-shout, “Idiot, my mom’s gonna kill you!”

He loved that. Every time.

He loved that window. That street. That version of his life where the only thing that mattered was if she’d sneak out and sit on the curb with him.

To remind himself he wasn’t alone in the world.

Because back then, she was his world.

His anchor. His favorite person.

The one who knew his real laugh, the one he didn’t show on camera.

The one who believed in him before he believed in himself.

And then he kissed her.

And then everything unraveled.

He knew the second he kissed her that nothing would be the same.

The air was thick with summer, sticky with the scent of sea salt and fireworks that had fizzled out hours ago. Their breathless laughter had softened into silence. His heart pounded like it was trying to break free from his chest, and hers felt close enough for him to count every beat.

It wasn’t planned.

It wasn’t some cinematic build-up or whispered confession under the stars.

It just… happened. A shift. A second too long when their eyes met. A moment when his gaze dropped to her lips and didn’t move. A heartbeat where neither of them pulled away.

And he leaned in.

He kissed her.

He knew the second it happened that something fragile had cracked between them—like ice underfoot or glass just before it shatters. Something sacred and old and familiar had changed its shape forever.

But he didn’t regret it.

Not when her lips tasted like watermelon gum and bravery.

Not when she exhaled into his mouth like the world had stopped spinning just for them.

Not when her fingers curled into his hoodie like she didn’t want to let go. Like letting go might break her too.

Not even when she pulled back, blinking like the whole sky had flipped upside down.

He stared at her. She stared at him.

The silence was loud. Loud enough to hear every memory they’d made. Every movie night. Every stupid dare. Every secret they’d passed between each other like treasure maps folded into fists.

“What now?” he asked, scared, but trying to sound cool.

Trying to steady his voice even as everything inside him trembled.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

And that was it.

Neither of them said but I want to find out.

And maybe that was their first mistake.

Maybe the real tragedy wasn’t that they kissed.

But that they were too afraid to admit they wanted more.

He still remembers that hug.

The one outside the Canton coffee shop.

It had been drizzling, just enough to make the sidewalk slick and the air clingy. He’d watched her cross the street toward him, hands in the pockets of her jacket, her hair pulled back in that loose way she always used to wear it when she didn’t feel like trying. Something about it knocked the breath from his lungs. Familiar. Distant. Like déjà vu he couldn’t touch.

It was barely a hug.

Two strangers in an awkward half-embrace, like they’d bumped into each other at a college reunion instead of once planning their future on his roof at 3 a.m.

Their arms didn’t quite know where to go.

His hand ghosted her back before retreating too quickly. Her chin barely grazed his shoulder before she pulled away. It lasted maybe two seconds—two seconds that somehow stretched longer than the years since he’d last touched her.

It messed him up more than he expected.

Because they never used to hug.

They were the kind of best friends who leaned into each other without thinking. Who sat shoulder to shoulder on the curb eating gas station ramen like it was gourmet. Whose arms slung around shoulders without a second thought.

She used to fall asleep with her head on his chest during movies, and it was normal. Easy.

It had never needed permission before.

Never needed hesitation or boundaries or air between them.

But now it felt like glass.

Too fragile. Too sharp.

He felt like if he held on a second longer, she’d shatter in his arms. Or maybe he would.

He laughed too hard over coffee.

Every time she spoke, he overcompensated, like if he smiled wide enough or cracked enough jokes, she wouldn’t notice the way his hand kept trembling beneath the table. He pretended like he wasn’t dying a little every time she looked down instead of at him. Like it didn’t sting that she stirred her drink too long instead of filling the silence with the way she used to say his name.

He kept looking for her. The real her.

The one who used to kick his feet under the table and tease him until he blushed.

But she was buried under politeness now. So was he.

He left wondering if she could still hear all the things he never said.

And maybe worse—wondering if she ever cared to listen in the first place.

He thought she was better off.

He told himself that a lot.

On sleepless nights, in the back of crowded vans, under fluorescent practice room lights, he’d repeat it like a mantra. Like if he said it enough times, it would become true. Like it would soothe the gnawing ache in his chest that never really left.

Y/N had always been softer, steadier.

The kind of person who found joy in little things—secondhand books, burnt toast, dog-eared journals. She found beauty in stillness, while he was always chasing the next thing, running on adrenaline and late-night ramen and the constant pressure to be more.

He used to joke that she’d end up running a cozy bookshop and marrying some professor who drank tea and wrote poetry.

She’d laugh and roll her eyes and call him a dumbass, but he kind of meant it.

Because she deserved that. Something gentle. Someone who wouldn’t ruin the quiet.

So when the texts got shorter and the calls fewer, he assumed she was just… moving on.

And maybe she was.

Maybe she’d found someone who fit better into the soft corners of her world.

Someone who didn’t keep missing birthdays or falling asleep mid-text or canceling plans with a simple “Sorry. Schedule changed.”

It hurt, but he let it happen.

Because if she was okay without him, he wasn’t going to get in the way.

Wasn’t going to reach out and make it harder.

Wasn’t going to be selfish—even though every cell in his body screamed for him to do something, say something, fight for her.

Instead, he focused on training. On music.

On becoming someone she could point to and say, “Yeah, I knew him. Once.”

A name on a screen. A memory in passing. Nothing more.

He tried to convince himself it was just a small thing that happened.

A summer fling. A teenage mistake. A moment that faded with time.

That she wasn’t stuck.

That he was the one who held on too long.

That she had closed the book while he kept rereading the same page.

But the truth?

The world ended when it happened to him too.

He just never told anyone.

He read her poem three months after it came out.

It was late—2 a.m., maybe 3. The studio lights buzzed overhead, and he was halfway through recording background harmonies when someone called him over, scrolling on their phone.

One of the guys in the company showed it to him, not knowing.

Just another moment in an ordinary night.

“This girl wrote about someone who used to wait under her porch light every summer night. Isn’t that kinda romantic?”

He laughed a little, distracted, until the guy shoved the screen in his hand.

“Read it,” he said. “Feels like something you’d write.”

So Jungkook read it.

And he didn’t even breathe while reading it.

The words were soft and sharp all at once—nostalgic in a way that twisted something in his gut. The imagery hit too close. The rhythm. The tone. The way she described the quiet kind of love, the kind that lives in shadows and empty driveways and porch lights that stay on too long.

Because he was that porch light.

That waiting.

That memory burned into a poem she never thought he’d see.

He knew it before he finished the first stanza.

He could see it: his old hoodie hanging off her frame, her eyes shining under summer moonlight, the slam of a screen door as she stepped barefoot onto her porch.

She didn’t name him.

She didn’t have to.

He stared at the last line for an hour:

“I still check the porch light, even when it’s off.”

He read it over and over, mouth dry, chest tight.

And in that moment, everything he’d buried came rushing back—her laugh echoing down his driveway, the weight of her hand in his, the way she used to sit on the roof beside him and talk like the future was something they’d share.

And that’s when he realized—maybe she wasn’t over it either.

Maybe she never was.

Maybe the silence hadn’t meant indifference.

Maybe it had meant heartbreak.

He doesn’t believe in fate. Not really.

He’s seen too much randomness in the world—missed flights, wrong turns, chance auditions that turned into careers. He’s learned that most things don’t fall into place—they get pushed, pulled, scraped together by effort and exhaustion. Fate, to him, has always sounded a little too neat. A little too easy.

But when he saw her in front of that 7-Eleven, hair wet from the rain, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like she used to wear them—it felt like something divine.

Like the universe paused and said: Here. This is your moment.

She hadn’t changed much, not really. A little older. Eyes softer. But still her. Still that version of home he carried in his bones. And for a moment, time didn’t just stop—it rewound. Back to summer nights and porch lights and things they never said out loud.

He almost didn’t say anything.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His hands clenched at his sides. He thought: If I stay quiet, maybe she’ll walk past and it won’t break me.

But she turned.

And smiled, small and sad and soft.

“Hey,” he managed.

His voice barely cleared his throat. But she heard it. Of course she did.

“You look good,” he said, because what else do you say to the person who owns your favorite memories?

He wanted to tell her she looked like the past and the present and something he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to want.

But all that came out was something simple. Safe.

She said it back.

Then nothing.

Just rain and silence and years between them.

The drizzle had picked up again, blurring the neon signs and car headlights into watercolor streaks. A gust of wind tugged at her sleeves, but she didn’t move to fix them. He noticed her nails were still painted that pale, chipped pink she always used to wear.

“I saw your poem,” he said, finally.

The air tightened.

“I didn’t say it was about you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. But something flickered in her eyes—like a door opening just an inch before closing again.

He wanted to say more.

So much more.

Wanted to say: I still write songs that sound like you. I still miss the way you said my name when you were tired. I still look for you in every city I go to.

He wanted to ask if she ever felt it too—that hollow ache when she passed a place they used to go, or when an old inside joke drifted into her head at the worst possible time.

But instead, he asked if she was okay.

Because that’s all he could manage. Because some truths are too big for rainy sidewalks and 7-Eleven storefronts.

And when she smiled and said she was, he hugged her.

Let himself hold on one second longer.

Just long enough to remember how it used to feel.

Just long enough to wonder if she was holding on, too.

He never told her what happened from his side.

Not when they stopped texting. Not when the calls turned into echoes. Not when she looked at him that day in Canton like he was someone she used to know, and not someone who once knew her better than she knew herself.

He never said: I pulled away because I thought you deserved better.

Because I was scared I’d ruin the one good thing I had.

He wanted to.

There were nights he almost did—half-written texts that never got sent, voicemails he deleted before speaking.

He used to sit in hotel rooms staring at the blank screen of his phone, whispering the apology she never heard, like maybe the walls could carry it to her.

Never admitted how lonely Seoul felt after Busan.

How the city buzzed with noise but still felt empty without her in it. How fame filled the space in front of him but not the one inside his chest.

How he missed the stupidest things—the way she hummed while brushing her teeth, or how she used to narrate bad movies in a British accent until he cried from laughter.

How no one ever made him laugh the way she did.

Not even close.

How sometimes, on tour, he’d stand under unfamiliar stars and wonder if she could see them too.

If she ever thought about that night on his rooftop.

If she remembered the way the wind carried her hair into his face while she whispered, “I think you’re going to be big someday. But I hope you don’t forget me when you are.”

He hadn’t forgotten.

He couldn’t.

She lived in the quiet corners of every song he wrote and every city he landed in. The ghost of her always showed up just before the lights came on.

She thinks he forgot.

She thinks it was just a small thing.

But it wasn’t.

It never was.

It was everything.

And it still is.

Someone once asked him if he ever regretted not holding on tighter to his first love.

It was during an interview, off-camera. A casual conversation in a dressing room between sets. The question wasn’t planned—it just slipped out, the kind of thing people ask when the room feels safe and the lights are low.

Jungkook paused.

The makeup artist had just stepped out. His team was busy on their phones. He sat still, sipping lukewarm tea from a paper cup, his fingers tracing the rim as if searching for an answer buried in the steam.

And Jungkook, quiet and a little older now, said:

“She wasn’t just my first love. She was my real one.”

He didn’t smile when he said it.

He didn’t need to.

The weight in his voice said enough.

The guy asked, “Do you think she knows?”

It was a simple question.

But it landed like a stone in his chest.

Jungkook didn’t answer.

Didn’t say how many times he’d hovered over her contact name.

Didn’t mention the poems he’d bookmarked under a fake username, or the song he never released that still sounded like her.

Didn’t admit that every time he passed a 7-Eleven or saw porch lights flicker on at dusk, something in him twisted.

He just thought of porch lights.

Cheap coffee.

Her laugh echoing down the street like music only he could hear.

The way she said his name when she was tired—gentle, half-asleep, like a secret.

And the way the world ended—

When it happened to him.

[isa-ghost]

Was being insane with @gyaru-tau in Discord DMs after this post happened and I cooked a 5 course meal so good I have to share it here.

rpPhil's life is so fucking. Painful. In that classic immortal way, but it took so so long for him to get to that point.

And I've been insane like this many times before.

But I wrote an overview of his timeline from start to end and it's so... Oh my GOD. I'm not normal about this cubito at ALL.

We know Hardcore reincarnates itself. So does Phil but retains his memories. Hundreds of thousands of days alone. In several iterations. To us it was 5 years. How many Minecraft days was it? That's how long it was for rpPhil.

Thousands of years from Season 1 to now. Season 1. Season 2. Season 3. Season 4. SMPE. DSMP. QSMP. And that's without us knowing exactly how long prior to Season 1 that The Beginning takes place. And without knowing what The Middle & The End will contain when we finally get those. Where in the timeline those 3 fall.

Thousands of years of isolation. He was alone even before Kristin took him in & made him her angel. He was young then. How young? Probably 20s-30s.

From then to SMPE he was alone aside from crows & deities. SMPE he finally started traversing universes, meeting people & forming attachments, experiencing warmth & friendship & all the other things that socializing with other people rather than gods & crows could give him.

And it was okay. He mostly attached to Techno, had nothing to worry about, fellow immortal. FitMC is cool, maybe they'll meet again.

But he's alright going back to Season 4 between ventures to other universes to socialize. It's like indulging in chocolate or alcohol every now n then, a treat. He can go without it, it's just a lovely thing to have.

Somewhere along the way he has a son with Kristin (only cWilbur is his son, no other Wilburs). It's new & scary but it's alright. He's raised properly, goes off on his own. Normal parent things, normal emotions that come with it. He's accomplished a wonderful thing, raising another person to maturity until they're ready to start their own adventures & forge their own path.

And his son does. But it goes wrong. So he comes out of isolation again for the first time in a year.

And it is Hell. His son has spiraled in the time he's been gone & there was nothing he could do about it because his son's letters was all he had to go off of. How much sooner could he have picked up on the Off things in his correspondences? Regardless, he's too late, his son demonstrates a massive act of monstrosity in front of him. Phil is overwhelmed with thoughts & feelings. How did it get this bad?

And then his own son begs him to be put out of his misery. This wasn't explored in canon, but technically as Phil & Kristin's kid, cWilbur was a demigod, & maybe immortal too since both of his parents are. Infinite canon lives & he didn't know it. But this world is too much for him & he's become an alien in his own skin, so who better to take him out than the man who helped bring him in?

Phil has SO MUCH else reeling through his mind, no clue how to proceed from this point, he obliges. He is the hands of his first major loss. And it will never stop haunting him. But at least Techno is here. He clings to that while he wrestles with it all. And from that point onward, he's villainized by association, wanted only ever for what he can provide & nothing else. Used. A tool. A convenience. This is why he was disinterested in coming out of isolation for thousands of years. Mortals & even other immortals can be savage, selfish assholes, & he wants nothing to do with them. If it weren't for Techno, he'd go home.

They make the Syndicate & take in people who slipped through the cracks & were done wrong or hurt like the two of them. It's a good thing, they remind him that not all people suck. So he settles.

But eventually Techno leaves. Which is fine, he's immortal. … And then it's not. Because immortals aren't invulnerable. Phil sticks it out for the Syndicate, they deserve it. And they all leave with Kristin's help. The end.

He's glad to be home in Season 4. Alone, where he can't be used or neglected & disrespected.

And then QSMP happens. And it's a chance to see some people he knew & had Okay opinions on. So sure. It's been a few months, he has fresh eyes.

And this time, it's wonderful. He's wanted for himself. Appreciated, sought out, loved. He meets old friends, makes new ones, learns new things, it's amazing.

He gets that second chance, to do fatherhood again & this time make sure the world doesn't hurt them or turn them into monsters. And he does a damn good job at it despite everything that happens.

For an entire year, he's treated like a person by others, goaded into not isolating so much, checked on, supported through hardships & trauma, the list goes on. So this is why immortals socialize despite the inevitable truths. He gets to redeem himself after failing his first child, life in this universe goes so, so fucking well for him. Even when horrors unimaginable happen to him & his friends, he sticks it out & stands up instead. And it feels good. So even when things get awful & confusing & tense & so on, he keeps going. This is the simultaneously beautiful & ugly thing called life that everyone goes on about.

But despite everything. After all the work he put in, blood sweat & tears shed, etc. He loses his kids anyway. He's forcibly ripped away from his friends because this universe is caving in on itself. All the things he endured for the sake of that love & warmth are for nothing. Now just more scars alongside the ones he earned in an effort to keep this good thing he had.

So he goes home, a miserable & heartbroken wreck. Bitter. And that's when the immortal apathy starts. And so if trPhil is also mainPhil, all of this is why he was so apathetic and distant and pissy and unbothered by everything and interested only in Fit, Sneeg, and woodcutting.

[alicelufenia]

Very good points!

As entertaining as it is to think of the player as an outside force controlling Kris (with all the personal horror implied), I think this cuts to the heart of why that's entertaining and not genuinely horrifying.

In short: it's roleplaying.

This analysis more than anything else is making me rethink the narrative around Kris and the SOUL. That we may not actually be playing a foreign soul or entity controlling them. Theories like their soul being replaced, or a younger Kris textually summoning a "demon" to control them for purposes unknown may be fun to think about, but may be missing the forest for the trees.

The forest being "it's fucking confusing and scary to be a teenager dealing with dysphoria, an identity crisis, self doubt, maybe a heaping helping of self loathing, and sometimes you just wanna leave all these confusing feelings in a cage and dissociate for a while."

Besides, the game has never actually hinted at or implied that we're NOT playing as Kris' own, original Soul. Heck, Ralsei says as much right from the start.

And while the fluffy boy can be cagey to a fault, he's never exactly lied to us about anything he knows. Furthermore, it always physically hurts Kris to remove their soul, they start to tire after being soulless for too long, and they collapse to their knees after the soul has taken damage and re-enters their body. Finally, no matter how conflicted or upset they are at it, they always put the soul back.

The only oddity to this interpretation is, well, the Weird Route, where it really does seem like their being controlled by some outside force. First of all, the weird route is, well, weird. Things aren't happening as they should in that route. But even there, outside interactions with Noelle, where I believe Kris' perceptions of reality may be understandably warped, things are still "normal", outside of how Kris is perceived by others. In the First Sanctuary, Gerson can comment on how listless and detached Kris is acting, having to "go through the motions" even when it feels like the world is ending. For all the special knowledge about Kris characters like Gerson and Ralsei demonstrate, none of it hints to Kris being completely unable to control themselves or make decisions.

Perhaps, just as the Dark Worlds are made "retroactively real" through the power of the fountains, all of these conflictions and unexamined feelings of otherness and guilt, manifest in Kris as "someone else." The Angel of the prophecy perhaps, some explanation that Kris can ground themselves to, in an attempt to understand their own life. And that, is what we are roleplaying as.

Seems very in line with a trans teen who has suffered trauma and let their social and emotional connections wither and fade over time, now having to reconnect and rebuild those relationships. Putting myself in that role, it makes sense to me that they would seem off and strange to everyone who knew them from those darker times.

How many trans folks who get in touch with old friends soon find them treating you like a stranger? Are you putting on an act, or was everything about how you interacted with them before an act? This can be especially frustrating if you're doing your very best to be better, but all they want is the old you.

Hell, sometimes even you want the old you; to indulge in old habits and activities you did while still figuring yourself out. Something about Kris ripping out their soul and locking it up so they can do something indulgent, like eating or drinking something they love or playing the piano, something their old friend group always enjoyed about them. Until eventually, as they've grown on their journey, they can experience those old joys as the person they are now.

I get it.

not "the player is evil for playing deltarune" or "Chara is MAKING ME play the weird route and EXP grind", but a secret third thing: "it seems ludicrously allegorical that an adversarial player/character relationship dynamic is being forced on a dysphoric transgender teenager with a hidden double life and conflicted motives"

[julesisashifter]

hi, i exist. here’s this.

because, in truth, recognition of this event was overdue a long, long time ago. and also, because i felt like it. so.

…i had a dream. with doctor strange (not like that, thank you.)

…only it wasn’t a dream. it felt… transformative, and not performative. thank fuck.

it felt lucid. because it was. until it wasn’t.

now i won’t go spilling all of what this man said. because, even though he’s a reality away, i still believe in confidentiality, no matter the person.

however, i will share what happened (as i’ve been trying to do, yet i still yap in the form of texts an astounding amount. okay, now, here’s what happened.)

long story short: after several attempts of fuck-knows-how-long-i-attempted-to-shift-to-my-dr-for,

mr. strange shows up. (yeah, strange indeed. because. the kicker? i don’t have a marvel dr. ironic, indeed.)

i remember him just… looking at me. studying me, but not in a creepy way. he was merely practicing the art of holding space for me, and having more faith in me than i can deem worldly necessary.

yet, he still had it. he was still present with me.

& had taken me right under his wing, and showed me how to make the portal. it’s an otherworldly feeling to know that… i did that. first try. and i can do it again, if i truly want to. this pertains both to shifting, and something supernatural outside of myself, making the portals.

and if i can say one thing besides holy-fuck-those-portals-are-an-arm-workout? (just in my experience)

…i respect strange, so much. truly. deeply. he seemed to have understood that i’ve been through it, because he was the least threatening man i’ve ever met across dimensions, minus my significant others. which. in my opinion, says a lot. like the fact being…

…that he cares, without wanting something in return. which is so refreshing. truly.

actually. he did want something.

he wanted me to shift, just as much as i, myself, wanted to.

so. i did it. i stepped through the portal. i laid in my bed, in my dr (it’s redacted, because this dream happened in june? may? it’s been a while. and, as a shifter, my drs come and go until i find where i’m supposed to end up, because my aim with realities is that i want to find simple, run-of-the-mill, regular life realities to settle down in, as was always my goal. that may not be the case for others, which is valid, yet it is for me.) and fell right asleep in a cuddle pile with my boyfriends. yes, plural.

and yes, they teased me about it when it happened. (but a bitch — me — was exhausted. and needed sleep. and they’re cozy. sue me, i don’t give a fuck.)

but all of this is to say?

you’re loved, supported, cared for, and truly seen, in more realities than just one. in more than just here, in this reality. you never know who’s pulling for you to win it all. truly. stop thinking that everything is against you, when so many people, so many elements of this earth, are pulling for you. for your victories. let this statement hold weight, or don’t. whether or not you believe in it can never sway the validity of this statement.

btw, honorable mention (because i feel as though this is just… painfully true to his character as a person) …it was really sweet, when i made my portal. strange teared up, a happy smile on his face like he’d seen me perform a miracle of a lifetime… and i could sense him biting so hard on his tongue to not outright ask me ‘can i adopt you?’ lol. he’s well respected and adored by me, just for that. hell, just for being there. (if you shift for strange, leave the thirsty comments out of this post, thank you lmfao. i love you, but this is not the post, not the place.)

but yeah. i don’t know who needed to hear this. see this. feel this. sit with this. but you’re welcome, for whoever needed this more than they knew. :)

btw pt.2 — you don’t need luck. subliminals. guided mediations. meditation in general. pinterest. notion. crystals. methods. none of it. at all. i know that this has been said before, but it doesn’t hurt to be said once more for good measure. because, no matter how much you don’t believe in the validity of this statement as well — it’s still true. all in all,

you.

just.

need.

you.

you’ve got this, and i believe in you. don’t believe me? go shift anyways. because this thing, shifting, is rigged. you can NOT fail. at all. i’m not kidding. try, but you’ll only succeed. not because i say so, but because it is so.

alright, enjoy your lives. live truly, and have fun while you’re at it. i love you. bye :)

[wannabedragon-yep-lumenemporium]

We all cried during this episode, okay, we know that.

But while reading all the different reactions to the same emotional turmoil we experienced with this finale, I asked my self: why did we cry? There are themes and scenes that touch our mind differently, things that remind us of some deeper desire of us, some old childhood memory or some unresolved event. And for each one of us is something different, deeply rooted in our origins and personality. It's interesting to talk about psychology and notions, but mental health awareness means most importantly to normalize feelings. After abuse, you start your life again once you're free to live your feelings, you break out from depression once you start to see the colorful emotions of the world again.

So I thought to prepare a silly little poll to share how we all felt during this episode.

Our complex feelings cannot be summarized in a poll of course, but seeing other people sharing similar emotions, asking ourselves "why did I felt like that?" might be interesting. U wanna try? :3 of course polls are anonymous and if you want to express some other considerations or thoughts anonymously, send me an anon question and I'll post it 💛

These are the some of the options I thought about, but the point is not me hitting the mark 💀 rather, is to find your own way to process such an emotional episode, alone, or "along with" others.

Personally, this episode made me tear up, but I wasn't sobbing like I did with other episodes, it didn't hit some core wound, rather some core hope of mine. I think I was moved by all the things I listed, but so much more by such a fully satisfying happy ending. Because in stories, rebels always die. Because impossible love usually ends. Because mistakes are paid dearly. Not on Rick and Morty. This is a universe were good things can live happily. Not by some kind of magic, but because people work together to make this happen. Characters in Rick and Morty put aside their differences and the past to create something better, like love. That's why I love Unmortricken, that's why I love Evil Morty: in life, there are things more important and powerful than hate. Yes, this will always make me tear up. Because I wish so much that life could be like this all the time, I'm still that kid that wished for everyone to get along in the end, to stop being mean and selfish and petty, and just starting to truly help each other. Bruh I'm tearing up even while writing this stuff 💀 but it's not a sad tearing up, because I know someone in the world thought "hey let's make a tv show where people try to do better and put narcissism aside". So it was a satisfied tearing up, something that scratched my soul in the right spot 💀

[lilythelitten]

Deductive Logico’s Volume 1 Arc: A Character Analysis/Headcanon Dump by Lily the Litten

I wanna say two things, before we begin:

1. This is just my take on the character. It isn’t the “correct” way to view Logico, it sure as hell isn’t the canon way, and your opinions and headcanons are not worse (or better) simply because they don’t match mine. If you find yourself completely disagreeing with everything I say, that is totally fine and I respect your opinion. The only incorrect take on canon is Logico and Irratino being completely platonic :P (Of note, while I’d rather not have any arguments over this kind of thing, I’m happy to discuss my thoughts further, or hear how others’ HCs differ from mine—as one can tell by going through the Lily’s Ramblings tag, I do love rambling XD)

2. I’ve mentioned this in previous posts, but just as a reminder because it’s really important to why my Logico’s character arc is the way it is: in my verse, School of Mystery is canon. Logico and Irratino’s first meeting was back in college, and Irratino inviting him to the Institute was in the hopes they could reconnect. There’ll be some vague spoilers for SoM down below, so if you haven’t gotten to that yet and want to go into it completely blind, you might want to check back in later.

Oh, and obviously—spoilers for Volume 1 down below. Like, the whole thing.

Now let’s go. ( @the-laws-of-physics-were-harmed since you asked to be tagged for this ^^)

Logico is cynical—he tends to immediately assume the worst of people, which manifests itself in his standoffish, grumpy, often mean demeanor. Logico is stubborn—when he decides on something, he digs in his heels and refuses to move, no matter the evidence to the contrary. Logico is prideful—not to Indigo’s extent, god no, but he’s smart, he knows he’s smart, he thinks he’s the smartest person in the room, and that can backfire.

These are the generally agreed upon flaws for Logico in fanon, with the third most often subject to a fan-by-fan basis. But for me, all of those are superseded by his biggest issue, the one that caused him to shut out the world, and the one that nearly destroyed him:

Logico is a coward.

Let me explain.

From a young age, Logico has always used logic to make sense of the world. (With a name like that, I suppose he’d kind of have to :P) It worked, mostly…but emotions were a whole other story. Emotions aren’t the kind of thing you can just logic your way through. They’re messy, and complicated, and knowing they’re irrational doesn’t stop you from feeling them. By extension, people are messy and complicated—a child dropping their ice cream is genuinely the worst thing that’s ever happened to them, a single change in tone can make the difference between a compliment and an insult, and feelings change so frequently it’s hard to get a read on them.

Logico didn’t know how to handle that. So he shied away from it. He was too scared to take that risk, talk to people, involve himself in the chaos of everyday life—so he didn’t. Maybe if he had, maybe if he’d learned to suffer well, things would’ve gone differently. Or maybe they wouldn’t. We’ll never know.

He’d never fit in back in his hometown. Too shy, too awkward, too introverted, too…other things, that he’d never mention to anyone. And after…certain events that I’m trying to keep close to my chest until later (I gotta have SOME surprises for you people), home didn’t feel like home anymore. Logico couldn’t stand it. The memories of what had been, the wistfulness of what could be, the suffocating silence of now—it was too much. So he applied to Deduction College, and once he was accepted, took off as soon as he could.

This was something Logico had looked forward to all his life. For as long as he could remember, he’d loved learning new things, applying them—but more than that, this was where he could fit in for once. This was a place where he could belong. So, for the first time in years, he took that leap of faith.

And Deduction College ruined him.

Seriously, look at the endings of each year. Every single time, poor Logico gets the rug yanked out from under him by someone he’s close to. And, yes, senior year was actually a frame-up, but still. Good job, School of Mystery, you fucked up a perfectly good deductive. Look at him. He’s got anxiety :V

So—yeah. School of Mystery, in my verse, is basically the reason why Logico is the way he is. In the span of four years, he went from an awkward but still bright-eyed student, eager to find his place in the world, to a jaded, embittered, miserable shell of a man who’d had his trust thrown back in his face one too many times. You should’ve known better, he insisted to himself. No one has ever liked you without personal gain involved. Why did you think college would be different?

If you’d just used logic, you never would’ve been hurt.

You would’ve seen who they were, and avoided them.

You wouldn’t have been so desperate to be liked.

If you open up, you’re letting them destroy you.

…

Well, fine.

And thus began Logico’s time-honored tactic of “running away from his problems” :V

(Really, that one arguably began when he went to Deduction College in the first place, but this is when it becomes an issue.)

He moved out to his own apartment. He didn’t, like, say goodbye or anything, he just left a letter behind saying he’d left. Changed his phone number, took it out of the phone book so no one could track him down. And endeavored to forget everything about college, everything except the lessons he learned—so the memories couldn’t hurt him, and neither would forgetting.

Maybe one day, Logico told himself, he’d finally be able to relax. He’d finally be secure enough in the world that he could start feeling things again, have human connections. But that wasn’t an option yet. He hadn’t recovered yet. He wasn’t ready. Best to just stick fully to logic.

The truth was—what he wouldn’t admit to himself—he was afraid. Afraid that he’d be shut out, ignored, that all putting himself out there would do would put him in the crosshairs of people who wanted to use him. It was always there, in the background (thanks, anxiety) but Deduction College had caused it to grow like tangled brambles, choking out everything else and hurting whatever was inside. It’s funny, sort of; Logico fled into an Iron Maiden and convinced himself it couldn’t be worse than whatever he was running from (that being relationships with other people :P).

Turns out this isn’t a good way to live, and as the years went by, Logico found himself…resenting people. It didn’t make sense, none of these people adhered to logic the way he did, how were they happier than him? (Why didn’t he feel better even though he’d managed to forget the painful parts?) The reason, of course, was that they let themselves feel things, both the good and the bad—unpleasant things still happened, but they could survive them. Logico didn’t like that answer, because it meant admitting he was wrong, and that meant he’d have to figure out what the actual problem was, and…he was afraid of that, too. Of basically dumping out the whole box of ugly emotions to sort through them. (Really, a lot of Logico’s problems stem from his desire to avoid short-term pain…and tendency to forcibly repress his issues rather than face them head on.)

So Logico went with Option B: they’re only happy because they’re not smart enough to recognize why they shouldn’t be happy. This mindset is asinine, but damn if Logico didn’t cling to it like a lifeline, holding onto it so hard he started to believe it. And then started saying it to people. Lord knows we’ve all known a person like that, or—god forbid—been a person like that.

In this sense, I draw a comparison to Indigo—they’re both kind of bullies, but for different reasons. Indigo legitimately thinks he’s above everyone else and has no problem saying so; Logico knows he isn’t above everyone else, and settles for tearing them down to his level so he can feel better. (“I might be struggling to get rent in on time, but you tried to kill someone with a straw, so who’s really winning here?”)

How long would this have gone on? I don’t know. Probably forever, to be fully honest. As much as Logico told himself he would, I don’t think he’d ever be able to pluck up the courage to come out of his shell. And even he started to realize that, whether he acknowledged it or not. His barbs became more dry, less acidic. He carried with him the resigned air of a man who knew this was his entire lot in life. He figured that one day, he’d likely just get offed in a dark alley by a criminal he was chasing, and a few people would show up to the funeral and start talking about the weather five minutes in.

Irratino’s invitation changed everything.

As mentioned above, Logico had completely forgotten college. Irratino never did. He had a lingering crush that refused to die and meant every other relationship he tried didn’t work out. Something had to change—either Logico would return those feelings, or reject them. Either way, Irratino would have his closure. Hence, the invitation.

He…didn’t expect Logico to have completely forgotten him. That was not part of the plan. Logico, for his part, found Irratino the most annoying individual he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. He was everything Logico hated—bubbly and irritating and so damn devoted to things that did not exist—and everything Logico envied—happy and successful and liked by pretty much everyone who knew him. Their working relationship was, uh. Tense, to say the least.

Eventually, though, Logico realized he was being a complete dick for no reason and—gasp!—apologized. (Irratino was shocked too :P) So began the building of…uh, whatever relationship they needed to have, because at this point, “strictly professional” was out the window. Acquaintances? Yes. Rivals? In a less hostile way, sure. Friends? …maybe.

And maybe it’s because he was actually making the effort to be nicer, maybe it’s because Irratino by all accounts legitimately enjoyed his company (why? Logico’s difficult, he knows he’s difficult, what does Irratino see in him, exactly?), but the more time Logico spent with him, the more the ice started to crack. Not just with Irratino specifically, either; Chapter 2 basically sees him opening up more in general, letting himself feel things instead of repressing them. He doesn’t even notice it at first; for some reason, Irratino makes it seem…not normal, but not scary.

I actually have a specific scene in mind: the coffee shop. In which Logico and Irratino actually talk about these kinds of things—have a proper heart-to-heart. Logico admits he’s not good with emotions—too messy, too complicated, too irrational. Irratino, meanwhile, thinks that’s the very thing that makes us human, in all our messy, complicated, irrational glory. This is when Logico starts to clock that he is sharing a lot more sides of himself to Irratino than he probably should. He doesn’t recognize the changing emotional energies because repression + fear of rejection = I’ve seen toasters more emotionally intelligent than this man :P

Anyway, uh. Case 50 happens. It’s very sad. (Less so if, like me, you’d played the website before reading Vol. 1 and thus were just waiting for Irratino to turn up again :P) And oh boy, if you thought Logico handled trust issues badly, his grief is even worse. He wants to run, but there’s nowhere to run to—everywhere, everything, reminds him of Irratino. He can’t hole himself in his apartment, he knows that’ll just make the grief worse. He chases revenge because if he doesn’t, then the ugly emotions will catch up to him. (He’s always running, isn’t he? From his fears, from his past, from everything.)

Side-note, early in Chapter 3, Logico is Bad At Motives™️ because—say it with me now—feelings are messy and complicated! But he gets better as time goes on. Maybe even starts recovering too. Maybe—just maybe—his fears are not the end of the world.

…so anyway Case 75 sends us back to square one :P

Yeah, all this started because of a rug pull, no WAY the one in Volume 1 wasn’t going to make everything substantially worse. How could you fall for this again?! Did you really forget everything college taught you?! Logico is pissed—he’d spent all this time trying to open up to people, trying to be nicer, hoping maybe he could be happy for once in his stupid life and Irratino threw it all back in his face again. Maybe he shouldn’t have repressed college so much, if he had then he would’ve remembered Irratino and known to avoid him.

Things get rough out here, that’s what I’m saying. And when the going gets tough, Logico gets going. By which I mean “runs away and holes himself in his apartment”. He probably would’ve spent the rest of his—likely short—life there, curled up in bed and feeling sorry for himself, when Midnight called.

Remember when I said Logico was bad at motives? Yeah, the first few cases of Chapter 4 are even worse in that regard. Logico’s character development kind of undoes itself—you need to protect yourself, you can’t let this happen again—so we are right back to him being a bitter, better-than-you jerk. Midnight’s presence does not help in this regard—they get along well, but having an echo chamber for your better-than-you thoughts does not encourage positive character development :P The calls to Irratino are also a lot more awkward and icy than in canon. Logico is pissed Irratino faked his own death to run evil schemes behind his back; Irratino is pissed Logico condemned him too fast without even bothering to hear him out. Early Chapter 4 is rougher than Chapter 3, somehow :P

Finally, things come to a head; I don’t know when specifically, but it’s on a phone call. Irratino asks why Logico keeps calling him when he hates him, and Logico can’t really answer that. Maybe part of him knows something’s wrong, with this whole situation—if you knew, Irratino asks, then why didn’t you say anything? Logico argues it would be illogical—he couldn’t exactly act on a hunch.

“No. You just ran away. Like you always do.”

And that is the exact moment Logico realizes his problem.

Because Irratino’s right. He ran, back then. He’s always run from his problems. When things at home got difficult, he ran to Deduction College. When college turned out sour, he cut contact with everyone and started over entirely. And when he and Irratino started getting closer, when their relationship started to go beyond friendly…well, maybe “Irratino is guilty” was the lie he’d wanted to believe. Because if Irratino was guilty, Logico didn’t have to risk getting hurt again. He had an excuse to flee.

Every step of the way, he’d let his fear drive him. Control him. Consume him. And where has it gotten him, exactly?

Depressive spells. Long nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is all there is. Quiet obscurity. Miserable. Alone.

It’s funny. This whole time, he’d thought he was protecting himself from what could hurt him. But he’d been so focused on—so scared of—what could hurt him that he was blind to what was hurting him.

Okay, we’re gonna fast-forward a bit—the realization Irratino is, in fact, innocent. Now, Logico has a choice here. A) Keep this fact secret, let an innocent man suffer, but hey, it’s easier and he’s never been ready to do the hard thing, has he? Or B) Do something he is entirely not ready for, that being going to Irratino and admitting he was wrong—in more ways than one.

(Okay, I-I realize it might sound like I’m pinning the fault for Irratino’s bad decisions onto Logico, but—I’m not, Irratino messed up too, I’m fully aware of that, we’re just focusing on Logico here because this is the Logico character arc post ^^;)

And that leads to the big epiphany: Logico will never be ready. But waiting isn’t going to fix that. He either does this despite his fears, or he never does it at all.

In his first big choice of the irrational option, Logico picks option B.

This is huge. This is Logico finally abandoning the thought patterns that made him and the people around him miserable. This is his biggest step towards changing for the better, towards finally letting happiness in. He finally accepts the complicated, the messy, the irrational, the esoteric. It’s a big thing, that’s what I’m saying.

Fast-forward to the end of the book. This post is too damn long as is, so I’ll give a quick summary of what precedes this: Logico figures out Midnight was behind the whole plot, Midnight tries to appeal to him to let the other suspects take the fall in exchange for a cut of the profits, and Logico…well, I don’t know if he would’ve taken the deal even pre-character development, but after it? The answer is “absolutely not”. Bye, Midnight. We’re never gonna see you again barring another prequel :P

Anyway, uh. For most people, the remainder of the story is just “oxymorons kiss, roll credits”. But for me, it’s actually extended a bit: see, Irratino’s kind of…come to the same conclusion Logico himself did, all those years ago. That being that he’s done nothing but hurt the deductive and refuse to acknowledge this, and his return to Logico’s life was when everything started going wrong. So that night, Irratino tries to end their friendship for good. Logico will never have to hear from him again.

This is basically the last test of character. Irratino is offering Logico exactly what he would’ve wanted at the start of the story: an escape route. A clean break from the past, no lingering resentment or heartbreak. All it’s going to cost him is another human connection—and isn’t it better, to be saved from the possible pain? Logico pre-character development would definitely have taken this offer (“okay, cool, don’t slam the door on your way out”). Now, though? Irratino’s giving him what he wants…when he doesn’t want it anymore.

Logico has grown. He’s figured out what he needs. And he’s realized that this—losing Irratino, letting his best chance at happiness slip through his fingers all over again—isn’t it. If Case 94-95 was when he finally accepted the irrational, this is when he embraces it. Confesses to Irratino, with no idea what’ll happen next or how he’ll take it or even if it’ll be enough to convince Irratino to stay. It’s terrifying when he says it. It could be complicated. It could be messy.

It could be beautiful.

Luckily for Logico, Irratino didn’t actually want to leave anyway. Also luckily for Logico, Irratino returns those feelings. Happy ending!

So…yeah. Logico has no idea what’ll come next, or even if this’ll work out (it does). But that’s okay. He doesn’t have to. He’s not alone anymore. He doesn’t have to run anymore. Unpleasant things will still happen, but he can survive them.

He doesn’t have to be afraid anymore.

[shamusneverdies]

Even in the newest episode he's not exactly nice or kind, just...less horrible. He mostly complains to pomni when he's not being a jerk to her, rather than having an actual conversation. He uses her to vocalize what he keeps bottled up in his head because nobody will listen to him. When he is talking to her after or before the stargazing adventure, its obviously to annoy ragatha, or get a reaction from pomni.

In gangles nominee video (i think that's what its called) she starts off normal, minding her business happily as she lists her special interests. When Jax interrupts her, says he invaded her privacy, he calls her names, tells her everybody is going to judge her, and brings her to LITERAL TEARS!!!!! When he leaves, gangles self confidence goes with him, and thinks she doesn't deserve to be voted for. She specifically says "dont vote for me, i dont deserve it." GIRL YES YOU DO DONT BE MEAN TO YOURSELF-

Whenever he gets a chance, he's not just being a jerk, he's causing people to see themselves as undeserving of kindness or rewards. (Like gangle and ragatha) All of these horrible things he's done, and yet people try to excuse it because he lost a friend. While kinger is RIGHT. THERE.

It genuinely pisses me off because this is very much a problem irl. The classic "the bully is making this person's life hell just because something bad happened to them." I understand that Jax has been through a loss, something that is extremely hard, but that DOES NOT give him a pass to be awful to others.

(Sorry, this was mostly a rant because I got mad at Jax during the nominee video >:I)

Just a healthy reminder that Jax losing Ribbit isn't an excuse for any of his actions. Kinger lost his wife, and he's the sweetest soul to the others. Everyone copes differently, and that's part of the beauty of Digital Circus, but people excusing Jax's actions because of his grief but shaming Ragatha for being a child of abuse is just fucked.