#Love Notes from the Hollow Tree

[dk-thrive]

One day, your skull will be as empty as a conch shell on a fence post, full of wind and gentle quiet. Today, it’s a cauldron of ghosts. Flesh and electricity. Water and memory. A machine that makes reality. Now. Here. Your skull is the garden where fact flowers into meaning.

— Jarod K. Anderson, "Now. Here.: in “Love Notes from the Hollow Tree” (Timber Press, May 27, 2022) (via Alive on All Channels)

[godzilla-reads]

The whole collection!

[silentaffirmation]

It's 11:27 p.m. and oh look, it's @cryptonature healing my brain with his poetry once again:

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

* * * *

One day, your skull will be as empty as a conch shell on a fence post, full of wind and gentle quiet.

Today, it’s a cauldron of ghosts. Flesh and electricity. Water and memory. A machine that makes reality.

Now. Here. Your skull is the garden where fact flowers into meaning.

(From the poetry collection "Love Notes from the Hollow Tree" by Jarod K. Anderson.)

[via "alive on all channels]

The Skeleton Dance (1929)

[wormandzeewriting]

Universe.

A monument to life

Tasting the atmosphere with renewed vigor

You encapsulate the entire idea of everything

It's imperfections and love and horror

Why are you so vast?

You are dark and empty and many things, surely

They long to be with you again

To be part of you again

But to think about it

I have to face that we are truly

One in the same

Atoms are only a million pieces of this puzzle

But I suppose

Then that would be a million that we share

In comparison to the trillions, quadrillions, hextillions

It's not a lot

But it's a lot to me

It provides some solace to know that

Even if you are everything

And I am nothing

We used to be many things together

Not everything, not everything

But out of the trillion, quadrillion, hextillion things

That are different about us

I'm glad that

At least

I got to share a million things

With you

[ervotica]

please don’t go, i love you so

pairing: young!coriolanus snow x reader

warnings: a lil toxic!coriolanus, he’s rough with r, possessive talk, quite tame in this but imma tamp it up soon, a bit of making out and being lovey

note: i do not careee about who likes this character or who doesn’t okay i am writing about him because he is literally one of the hottest men i’ve ever seen, kay? i’m not here for moral dilemmas thank u, enjoy (yes i will follow up w smut and my young!coriolanus snow reqs are OPEN!) please please remember to comment and rb, it helps me so much!

hunger games masterlist

Coriolanus is possessive.

It sickens him to his very core, sends nausea rolling like a wave through his chest; he’s not a child. Yet, the mere sight - thought - of you engaging with any other man, even innocently, is enough to have him seeing red: white-knuckled, muscles drawn taut like a bowstring, ready to eliminate any and all threat standing between him and his girl.

It's the way those boys look at you. As if you're a piece of meat, a toy to play with that they're just begging, aching to sink their teeth into, to leave a permanent mark on. The boys in this district are barbaric- that's what Coryo thinks anyway. It's disgusting, the things that he knows they think about you.

It's been a long day in District Twelve. Coriolanus' grey jumpsuit rubs and itches and his skin crawls with an uneasiness settled at the pit of his stomach. It's a warm day, his skin sticky as he peels the top half of the jumpsuit from his slender arms and ties it neatly around his waist. The grass by the lake is damp with the leftover dew from the morning.

He catches sight of you amongst the trees, weaving and bobbing through the undergrowth as you do, your lithe fingers brushing against leaves. Your head dips and then raises as his tall figure creeps into your peripheral vision. A smile graces your features, real and earnest with all your teeth.

There’s a slight waver in your countenance when you catch Coriolanus’ own expression; his brows are knit, pushing his forehead into a crease, lips pushed together tersely.

You walk straight into his arms, balancing yourself on one leg and pushing your shoulder underneath his armpit. You needle your way in, your forehead rested against his chin, so close you can feel his breath against your face.

“Hi, gorgeous,” you murmur. You reach up to push out the ridge in his brow and your thumb traces the bridge of his nose in a way that couldn’t be perceived as anything other than unbridled affection. “Something wrong?”

His slender fingers settle against your waist. You shiver at the contact when he spins and pushes you back into a tree. The bark digs into your back as you shuffle to meet his eyes— his eyes that have suddenly clouded with something dark and possessive.

“What is it?” you ask again; your voice is becoming more strained the longer he stays quiet, your own hands snaking up his arms like vines and squeezing.

He shakes his head and drops his face to look at you properly.

“Nothing. I have you.”

“Okay.” You click your tongue, tilting your head at him. His face gravitates towards yours, breath hot and mixing with your own. “You gonna kiss me or what, handsome?”

He doesn’t need any encouragement, surging forward to catch your lips between his own; his hands are rough, kneading the soft flesh of your hip. His other makes its way up to your jaw, fingertips pressing so hard you’re sure he’s branding you. You’ve never been kissed like this, with such fervour and passion and need. You gasp into his mouth and your arm wraps around his neck to pull him further into you.

“Coryo,” you pant.

“Shh,” he forces out, his fingers suddenly an iron grip around your neck; the hollow of your throat is bared to him and bobs under his cruel touch.

“Coriolanus, that hurts,” you say, strangled. His eyes are alight with a fire, a blazing inferno roaring in his head as he squeezes your throat and laughs.

You wheeze, clutching at his wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip. He obliges you, running a thumb over the indents he’s left in your soft skin to smooth them away.

“You know I’d never hurt you, right?” he asks. His head drops to the juncture of your neck, arms hooking loosely around your middle as he relaxes into you. “I just wanted to feel you. To know you’re mine.”

The incident is forgotten as soon as it ends. He has a charm in that sort of way; you don’t see his faults even when he shows them to you clear as day. You’ll never see what’s right in front of you even if he wants you to.

“Of course I’m yours, Coryo. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“The way they all look at you here…” He falters. “Like they all want you. Like they want to take you away from me. You’re mine- they have to understand that.”

“No one could take me away from you,” you giggle, your temple resting against the tip of his shoulder so you can duck your head to meet his eyes. “I know where I belong. And that’s right here with you.”

“Good.” He mouths at your neck like a man starved, arms coming right up until they’re hooked just underneath your own. He pulls away heaving for breath.

“Wanna show me just where you belong?”

[iydiamartinx]

GOD SAVE THE PROM QUEEN II

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @omi-resources word count: 2.6k synopsis: Crowned prom queen, she waits for Jason Todd—never knowing he died that night, betrayed by the mother he hoped would love him. a/n: Still angsty but happy-ish ending!

Jason didn’t come here often.

He told himself there was no point. No use in standing over old stones and pretending it meant something. The dead didn’t care for flowers. And he was never very good at pretending.

But sometimes—on quiet, grey evenings when Gotham’s skyline blurred into a jagged scar against the clouds—he found himself here anyway. Standing still. Hands buried in his pockets. Breathing in the damp, earthy petrichor scent of graveyard.

The wind always smelled like rain here, even when the sky held back. Like the world was trying to weep for him, but couldn’t quite bring itself to shed the tears.

It was peaceful, in its own bleak way.

Silent in the way only graveyards could be.

And yet, no matter how long he stood there, staring down at polished stone and his own name carved deep into the granite, he never felt like he belonged on either side of that grave.

Jason Peter Todd.

Beloved son.

Gone too soon.

He scoffed under his breath. The sound was rough. Bitter.

Bullshit.

He was neither beloved nor gone.

What stood here now was just what was left behind of the boy he’d once been. Not alive. Not dead. Just… stuck. Practically, a ghost with blood in his veins. 

And yet, here he stood again—staring at the marble that tried to summarize a life in three hollow lines. A stone that meant to mark an end, but never came close to telling the story.

But today… today was different.

There was a bouquet already there. 

Fresh. Still wet with morning dew. Peonies, lavender, and black calla lilies—the exact mix he used to see you draw in the margins of your notebooks.

Jason’s breath caught as he knelt down beside them, knees pressing into the wet earth. He reached for the bouquet with a kind of reverence, fingers brushing over the stems before finding the folded note tucked between them.

Still miss you, you pain in the ass.

– Always, Y/N.

And just like that, the air left his lungs.

He didn’t need to see the signature. He knew that handwriting better than his own. The looping curve of your Y. The confident, slanted cross of your T. He’d watched you scrawl it on the back of his hand a hundred times during lectures—hearts when you were happy, flowers when you were feeling soft, and sarcastic jabs when he annoyed you.

You still came.

After everything.

After all this time.

After how he heard how he hurt you.

It hit him harder than the crowbar ever had.

From his place by the grave, half-hidden by shadows and trees, he saw you.

You were walking toward the exit now—coat cinched tight against the late-autumn wind, hair pulled back, shoulders squared the way they always were when you were trying not to feel too much. Your heels clicked lightly on the path, a steady rhythm against the hush of damp leaves and distant city hum.

You looked older. More refined. Sharper around the edges. Like time had carved you into something tougher.

But you were still you.

He could see it in the way you paused before leaving, glancing back at the headstone like it still had the power to hurt you. Like you hadn’t made peace with it—even after all these years.

And in that moment, something inside him began to shift.

You were no longer the girl with the silver crown and crushed corsage.

That girl had died the same night Jason Todd did.

Now you were the woman people called terrifying behind closed doors. The one whose heels echoed through Wayne Tower like a woman on a mission. Bruce Wayne’s right hand, the assistant no one dared to cross. Sharp-eyed. Ice-voiced. Efficient didn’t even begin to cover you. Ruthless might have been closer.

No one handed you crowns anymore. They handed you problems—and you solved them.

“Three board members in the conference room. Two more on video. Coffee’s on the table—black, extra shot, because I know how this morning will start.” You placed the folder in front of Bruce with a flick of your wrist, barely pausing. “Your notes are inside. Don’t ad-lib. Shaw’s already looking for excuses to delay the merger.”

Bruce gave you a long look over the top of his glasses. He didn’t say thank you. He never did. But then, he didn’t need to. You were his best weapon behind the scenes, and you both knew it. There was a reason why the employee called you the Ice Queen, and were more scared of you than they were of Bruce Wayne himself.

You left the room before the door even fully shut behind you.

Later that afternoon, you were back at your desk—one heel slipped loose beneath you, phone cradled between your shoulder and ear—you barely looked up from your screen.

“I’m not moving the board meeting again because Shaw’s having a midlife crisis,” you snapped, scrolling through the projected quarterly. “He’s had three decades to prepare for his hairline receding, and that is not a justifiable excuse to stall the merger—”

A sharp knock on your desk broke your concentration.

Your eye twitched.

You let out a long, irritated sigh. “The final answer is no. Now I need to go.”

You hung up without waiting for a response and finally turned your attention to the source of the interruption, expecting yet another intern who couldn’t read a calendar.

But it wasn’t an intern.

He leaned just slightly on the edge of your desk—not enough to be disrespectful, but enough to suggest he didn’t mind waiting. He wore a leather jacket that had clearly seen better days, paired with worn boots and dark hair tousled by wind and time. A streak of white cut through the strands near his temple—unmistakable, and in need of a trim.

He didn’t look like he belonged in Wayne Tower.

And he sure as hell didn’t look like he was here for a scheduled meeting.

Your eyes narrowed, every instinct flaring to attention. Something about him caught at the edge of your memory—frayed the edge of something you’d tucked away years ago.

He tilted his head, gaze moving over you in a slow, thoughtful sweep. Not lecherous. Not even flirtatious. Just… observant.

Still, your expression didn’t budge. You raised a brow, tone clipped and dry.

“Can I help you?”

He blinked, like shaking off a thought. “Maybe. Not sure yet.”

Your jaw tightened. Cryptic wasn’t a language you spoke anymore. Truth be told, you didn’t have the patience for much these days. Somewhere along the way, you’d adopted Jason’s no-bullshit approach to life—only without the charm and biting humor that had once softened his edges.

“Is there a reason you’re at this desk, or are you just in the mood to get escorted out?”

That almost made him smile. Almost.

“I was just looking around,” he said simply. “Place has changed a lot.”

You didn’t answer, still sizing him up.

He glanced around the room, then back to you. “Didn’t expect the assistant to be running the tower.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair, arms crossing. “You’re not the first person to make that mistake. Most of them don’t last long.”

That earned you a small nod. Respectful. Not mocking.

Then his eyes met yours again.

And this time, he looked. Not at the expensive cut of your suit, not at the stack of color-coded schedules or the headset you’d tossed onto the keyboard. And for a second, something in his expression flickered. A flash of something soft. Grieving. Nostalgic.

But it passed.

“You got a name?” you asked, tone even but no longer impersonal.

He hesitated. Just long enough to make you notice.

“Jay,” he finally said.

You nodded once, pushing down the strange knot in your chest. You tried to ignore how that reminded you of another who’s long dead. 

“Well, Jay,” you said, gesturing with your pen, “unless you’ve got a meeting or an appointment, you’re done looking around.”

“I figured.” He straightened a little, not pushing back. “Just curious. That’s all.”

He turned, stepping away with a nod.

You watched him go. And long after he was gone, that strange, electric prickle stayed curled at the base of your spine.

You didn’t know it yet.

But the boy you buried four years ago had just walked back into your life.

He left without pushing.

No clever remark. No lingering glance. Just a quiet nod and the soft, fading sound of worn boots tapping over marble tile.

But hours later—long after the last intern had clocked out, after the boardroom lights had dimmed, and the final elevator chimed shut—you were still thinking about him.

Jay.

You didn’t know what unsettled you more—his calm, unassuming presence, or the way his face lingered in your mind like a half-finished memory. Familiar, but off. Like an old photograph left too long in the sun, its edges faded, the details too blurred to fully get a good look.

You tried to forget it.

You had bigger problems to handle than cryptic strangers in weathered leather. Tower politics. Corporate vultures. Logistics. Mergers. Deadlines.

But three days later, he was there again.

In the east corridor outside Bruce’s office, half-shadowed beneath the soft white light of the hanging fixtures. Talking in low tones with Alfred—Alfred, of all people.

You’d only caught the tail end of it as you turned the corner. Alfred’s voice, warm and measured. And Jay’s… quieter than before. Almost cautious.

Your steps slowed. Not by much. Just enough to get another look at him.

Alfred glanced your way first, ever perceptive. He gave you that small, knowing nod he always did—acknowledging everything without needing to say a word.

And Jay only turned away, as if he hadn’t meant to be seen.

But before he gave you his back, your eyes met for the briefest second.

And something in his expression faltered. Hesitation. Maybe even regret.

Then he turned and slipped away.

No words exchanged. No excuses made. No cryptic remarks. But everything about this situation felt off to you, like you were missing an important detail.

You didn’t call after him.

Didn’t confront Alfred.

But the thread tugged.

Subtle. Persistent.

The kind of thread, you didn’t let go of until you unravelled it.

You didn’t mean to go looking.

You told yourself it was just cleaning. Just a lazy Sunday and a little long-overdue organization.

But your fingers hesitated when they brushed the edge of an old box at the back of your closet. One you hadn’t opened in years. Not since you moved into this apartment. Not since before you learned how to build your armor from pressed suits and five a.m. coffee.

The lid creaked.

Inside were fragments of a girl you no longer let yourself remember—

Notes passed under desks.

A half-finished journal.

A dried corsage, fragile and browned at the edges, still curled around a faded ribbon.

And tucked beneath it all… was the photo.

Worn. Creased. The corners soft with time.

Jason Todd. Sixteen. Captured in front of the Gotham Academy library, hoodie unzipped halfway, hair wild from the wind. One hand in his pocket. The other flipping off the camera with that shit-eating grin that had made you laugh even as you rolled your eyes.

Your stomach twisted.

You sat down, slowly, the box on your lap, the apartment suddenly too quiet.

Your eyes stayed on the photo. Then drifted to the memory behind it—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand brushing yours as he walked you to class, the way he’d rest his head back and smirk when he caught you staring.

And then…

That face.

That same smirk.

The man in the lobby.

The one with the jacket.

The one who called himself Jay.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

He was dead.

He was dead.

But your chest was tightening, your pulse loud in your ears.

Because it was.

It was him.

Older and harder but still him.

The boy they buried four years ago.

He wasn’t a memory anymore.

Jason.

Your Jason.

You didn’t knock.

You stormed into the East Wing guest suite at Wayne Manor where you figured out he was staying, bypassing Alfred and Bruce and the rest of the kids with a glare that could level buildings. No one stopped you.

Jason opened the door expecting someone else—Tim, maybe. Or Dick. One of the people he was still learning how to be around again. He hadn’t prepared for you.

You slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot.

“You son of a bitch,” you hissed, eyes already glassed with unshed tears. “You let me think you were dead. For four goddamn years.”

Jason didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t flinch.

“I was dead.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare use that like an excuse when you’re clearly here.”

You shoved him hard, hands balled into fists against his chest. He didn’t move to stop you.

“I buried you,” you choked out, the words scraping past the lump in your throat. “I visited your grave. I cried over you, Jason. I—” your voice cracked, “I loved you. Do you have any idea what that did to me? What it took to keep going after that?”

His expression didn’t shift, but his voice came quieter, rawer.

“I didn’t know how to come back into your life.”

You laughed—sharp and broken. “But you came back for him, didn’t you?” you snapped. “For Bruce. For the rest of the family. You came back for all of them—just not for me.”

His eyes flinched at that.

“I watched you,” he admitted. “At the grave. The first time I saw you again, you looked… different. Stronger. Harder. Like you didn’t need me anymore.” He swallowed, gaze dropping briefly before finding yours again. “And I—I’m not the same. I’m not who I was. I’m broken, and you… you don’t need someone like me in your life.”

You shoved him again. Fiercer this time. “That’s not your call to make,” you hissed. “You think I cared? I didn’t care then, and I sure as hell don’t care now.”

“I know,” he said, softer. “You were always too good for me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent and relentless. Years of grief and fury pouring out in streaks you couldn’t stop.

Jason stepped toward you, slow and careful, like a man afraid that one wrong move might send you running.

“I wanted to come back,” he whispered. “A thousand times. But I was angry. And lost. I thought I lost you the second that bomb went off. I didn’t know who I was when I woke up. I didn’t know what was left of my old life—if there was anything left to come back to.”

You shook your head, tears streaking silently down your cheeks. “You were mine. That’s who you were. Just like I was yours.”

The silence that followed stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid. Years of grief. Of longing. Of questions that never got to be asked—let alone answered.

Then—tentatively, like he wasn’t sure he still had the right—Jason reached for your hand.

You let him.

And when he pulled you into his arms, you didn’t resist.

You just sank into him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For the crown. For the dance. For everything I never got to give you.”

“I don’t care about that stupid dance,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you might slip away. Like he needed the contact to believe this was real.

And for the first time in four long, fractured years, you let yourself breathe.

Not like someone surviving. Not like someone holding their grief together by sheer force of will.

But like someone who had finally, finally reunited with the other half of their soul.

← Previous Chapter

Tag list: @swagangelllamawolf, @lou-diaries, @salvatt1

[bodyalive]

* * * *

One day, your skull will be as empty as a conch shell on a fence post, full of wind and gentle quiet.

Today, it’s a cauldron of ghosts. Flesh and electricity. Water and memory. A machine that makes reality.

Now. Here. Your skull is the garden where fact flowers into meaning.

(From the poetry collection “Love Notes from the Hollow Tree” by Jarod K. Anderson.)

[via “alive on all channels]

Distracted. https://vimeo.com/683711803

[unkindcorvid]

Love Notes from the Hollow Tree by Jarod K. Anderson

[jigglyjeon]

stuck -> jjk

summary: you get stuck in a tree trunk when an unsuspecting predator stumbles across you. oh no!

pairing: mountain lion!jk x raccoon!fem reader

rating: R18+ MATURE, minors please do not interact

genre: hybrid au, smut

word count: 2.8k

warnings/tags: slightish dub con, cunnilingus, predator/prey, creampie, mating, knotting, overstimulation

notes: i wasn't going to reupload any of my old fics but i edited this one and thought why tf not lmao! while we wait for my angsty love sick jk roommate au? who said that

⋆ ࣪.  masterlist  ˖ ࣪⭑

As a wild hybrid, you’re lucky enough to have an owner that lives nearby the forests in a little cottage; it’s a quiet life, but it’s fulfilling for you and your needs as a raccoon. You had many brothers and sisters living with you that Yoongi had adopted over the years, but you were the first of many and the only raccoon too.

During the day he went out into the town for work, bringing home food for him as well as all his hybrid pets. You would grow bored, to say the least, and as a distraction you would venture into the forest to play, usually alone, since nobody really liked to do the things that you did. Needless to say, hiding in rocks, crevices and dens wasn’t very fun as an activity to them, you could see in hindsight how that would be a drag for those who weren’t like you.

You had always been the odd one in that sense. To you, though, you’d bounce around the forest happily searching for the perfect place to nestle yourself into. One time, you even tried playing hide and seek with the cat, Jimin, but he had given up after ten minutes of not being able to find you; it was fine in the end because you had gotten so comfortable that you had ended up taking a nap there anyway.

Today, you had stumbled across the ultimate jackpot. A lone, hollow tree trunk laying sideways, practically inviting you into the long, dark tunnel. Your eyes lit up, the small smile on your lips only growing in eagerness. You don’t waste any more time, you drop onto your hands and knees and lowered your position, squeezing your figure through the small space. You hum as you crawl slowly into the trunk, your excitement ultimately overshadowing the truth of the matter— you were much too big to fit all the way inside. Sometimes you forget you’re a hybrid, and that your human body was significantly larger than your average run of the mill raccoon.

As Yoongi always said— you’re lucky you’re beautiful.

In all your unawares, there’s a pair of eyes following you from a distance. One of your natural predators was hiding above you on a ledge, discreetly peering down at you— curious. He watches you with a cocked brow, a sense of what he can only describe as pity as you walk yourself into a pretty much self-made trap. If he were a hybrid hunter, you would be making his job far too easy. His upper lip curls up at the thought. How tragic.

You were only lucky that Jungkook wasn’t anyone like that. In fact, he was quite the opposite – he’s even strayed from his neck of the woods where all the other mountain lions lived because he didn’t like the idea of hunting other animals. Jungkook had decided at a very young age that he wasn’t going to be a killer. Instead, he had made it his mission to ward off any hybrid predators from unsuspecting prey. He refused to let there be bloodshed, not while he lived within these woods.

Still, although Jungkook wasn’t domesticated in the way that you and your other hybrid siblings were, he was akin to what Yoongi was to you. He was a protector to you and your siblings without you even knowing. Now, as he looks down on you, he knows he has to help you; do something to make sure someone else doesn’t find you first. Someone that would be far more unforgiving, and a lot more dangerous. They wouldn’t waste this much time to pounce on you, either. At that prospect he slides down the ledge with a quiet ease.

Your decision to wear the little white baby doll dress was also probably a terrible idea, both because it was going to get dirty, and because as Jungkook snuck up behind you he was caught completely off guard by just how exposed you were. Cheeks barely covered by your sweet little pink and white striped panties, cuddling your cunt just right.

The sounds of you struggling echo from within the trunk as you try to push yourself into the tight space, your sneakers dragging across the ground, kicking grass back into Jungkook’s face while your struggle squeeze through. He lays low, eyes darkening at the sight of your ass, how it jiggles slightly at the force you’re using to get inside. He arches his back, his tail lifting and hovering elegantly above him. He can feel the way his body temperature slowly rises, and he breaks into a sweat, eyesight growing blurry as he slowly loses his senses.

Oh no.

This is not good.

You whine, giving up on your intentions of camping inside the dark place, accepting the reality when you realise that you were just too large for the area. You sigh, feeling deflated as you back yourself up, attempting to release yourself from the trunk. You don’t budge. That’s when you realise, you’re in trouble.

“Oh…oh no.” You plant your palms on the side of the tight space; to help gather your strength but it’s no use. You’re stuck. “This has to be a joke.” You cry, another defeated whimper leaving your lips. The echo is almost comical, and it mocks your thoughtless actions. Your entire body slumps down, resting against the wood when you grow tired from the effort.

Unbeknownst to you, your little sounds affect Jungkook, and it’s evident in the way he’s now hard, and he hisses at the throbbing in his boxers. He takes his first move forward, sniffing softly in the direction of your bare pussy.

“Shit.”  He curses himself; it wasn’t a good idea to mate with a raccoon; he was so sure he’d break you if he tried. His desire to try, though, it eagerly outweighed the cons of the situation. Especially with his now foggy, rut encouraged mind.

You freeze; your tail shoots upward pin-straight when you realise that you’re not alone.  “Hello?”  I-is someone there?” Jungkook knows that you’re scared; not only does your voice shake when you speak, but he can see it in your body language, even if he’s only seeing half of you.

“I’m here to help, don’t worry!” He widens his eyes, unable to rip his sight from your behind; the back of your thighs just look so grabbable, and your ass smackable. He clears his throat, crawling closer to you, hands ghosting over your hips. The closer he gets to actually touching you, mixed with the soft, subtle scent of your heat, the closer he comes to falling apart. A low growl escapes his throat, and his head drops in shame, squeezing his eyes shut as he fights his urges.

He can’t. Or maybe he can; maybe he’s weaker than he’d initially anticipated, maybe there was no true way to fight against his natural instincts. After all, fucking you was better than consuming you. Right?

At that thought, he lowers himself to the level of your cunt and inhales sharply. Your cheeks redden at the sound. “T-thank you.” You tremble, you can feel him nosing at your pussy, and you clench around nothing, shuddering at the feeling.

If it weren’t for his warm breath fanning against your core, you wouldn’t know where he was. You squirm under the gaze you know is glued on you now. “Mister?” You try, but he doesn’t answer you, not in the way you expect. His fingers sooth up the front of your thighs, and you gasp at the sudden contact. You yelp when you’re met with the warm feeling of what you can only assume is his tongue that glides through your folds. You jerk forward forward, trying to pull yourself away but he chases your movement, not that it can go that much further from him, anyway.

Just one lick, he told himself. Maybe then he’d be sated enough to let go of his urges. Surely it wasn’t going to be anything mind blowing, it will diminish the curiosity swimming around in his urges. Oh, how poorly mistaken he was. He moans lowly against your pussy, and you mouth falls open at the vibration. He laps messily at your wetness, humming against you with content. Your moans grow louder and higher in pitch as he brings your swelling clit between his lips, gently sucking on you. “S-stop that!” You let out an airy cry, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Your body contradicts your words, though, because the way you move back into his mouth does the exact opposite of what you’re asking of him.

Jungkook is painfully hard now. He rips one hand from your thigh, continuing to suck on your bud as he unbuttons his jeans, shoving them down just enough to release his twitching cock. He whimpers when the air hits his length, causing him to thrust forward into nothing as he eats you out.

You mewl when he finally pulls away from you completely, leaning back onto his calves, hurriedly stroking his cock. His grip is tight over the angry red tip, sensitive and leaking. He bites down on his lip takes in the sight of you now, how your slick dampened your panties, how it coated your thighs slightly with the mixture of his saliva. You had asked him to stop, so why were you rocking back into nothing as if you were missing his lips?

Jungkook doesn’t even know what type of hybrid you are; just knows that you’re so blissfully unaware of how dangerous it was for someone like you to be wandering around on your own. He knows you’ve got a fluffy, striped tail that’s fluffier and softer than his. He can tell just by smelling you that you were not a predator.

Amidst admiring the view, you arch your back, lifting your tail to present your pretty holes to him. “Please, mister.” You sob, on the verge of tears. It’s not because you’re afraid. “Please, help me.”

He knows that he should – get you out of the trunk that is – but he chooses to believe that you want him to touch you again. With that whingey tone of yours, and the way you thrust into nothing, he’s sure that’s what you want; and it was Jungkook’s life’s work to help hybrids in need— to help you.

He uses his fingers this time, dragging his pointer along your slit, flicking quickly on your clit. He sighs at the way your legs quiver. “Don’t– don’t stop.” You plead wantonly, leaning your forehead against the back of your hands, palms lying flat on the wood beneath you as you push your ass higher for him.

“You smell so good, so sweet…taste it, too.” He sighs, lowering his face down to where he abuses your clit with his fingers. He watches with fascination, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. He’s almost tempted to get another taste of you, too, but he’s been holding out long enough. “Ah! Please, wait! I’m–I!” You cum forcefully, and the sudden snap has you crying out in pleasure. Your arousal drips down your pussy, leaving a string behind when he removes his fingers from your heat.

With a clenched jaw, he grabs his length, shoving the growing shaft to the hilt into your now sopping hole. You scream, the sensitivity of his navel hitting your clit making you jolt forward again. You can’t see the way drool slips from the corner of his lips, or how his eyes are completely dark and blown out with the desire to mate with you. You clench tightly around his cock, and he groans roughly, his hands digging into your sides. Knowing that he could come like that alone, he stays still until you relent your grip on him, relaxing against him. He almost laughs when you grind your hips back into him even though he’s already filled you to the hilt. You were stupid and desperate— what a deadly combination. When he finally pulls his hips back and snaps them back against your ass, you’re shuddering from his strength. Still, you want more.

“Fuck…fuck me.” You’re a noisy little thing, Jungkook learns; you whinge and whine when you don’t get your way, and the mewls of pleasure that come from you hardly waiver when he fucks into you. Even at the slow and steady pace that he even teases himself with. He places a warm hand on your back that feels scorching to the touch, lifting your dress further up your body as he lays his palm firmly against your skin. The other is secure at your hip and assists in his rhythm.

You copy the rhythm of each of his thrusts, and it only further encourages him. “What’s the matter little hybrid?” He asks in a condescending tone, akin to talking to a small child. “Can’t take my cock?”

You shake your head frantically, but you realise he can’t see you which forces you to speak up. “Go harder, mister.” You beg, ready to cum again all over his long length. He rocks into you even slower, a mischievous decision on his part. “Please…”

Your begging has him obeying you, pounding into your hole at rapid and rough pace. His balls slap against your clit in a way that has you meeting each of his quick plunges, though you can’t keep up with his stamina. You’re already so tired from being stuck in this position for so long, legs bordering on giving out and shaking uncontrollably. The new pace has your eyes rolling back into your head, and your jaw falls open as you let him know how good it feels. You let him know how good it feels with each call of euphoria, purring spluttering as he drags your second orgasm out of you. This time, before you reach your high, he cums in thick bursts inside of you, and you gasp at the feeling of the hot liquid shooting into you so abruptly.  

Jungkook is tired, his cock growing and pounding inside of you as it swells locks into place within you. Even in his weakened state, he reaches between your legs to rub fast circles around your engorged clit until you’re reaching your second peak. He growls at the tenderness of his cock as you contract around him. He hums against your shoulder at the sound of your heavy breaths echoing from inside the hollow wood. You’re exhausted as you try to stretch your legs out and lie on your stomach, but his body follows you down. One of his hands fly forward against the top of the tree trunk to keep himself steady, not wanting to completely crush his body weight over you when you’re already struggling to keep upright.

“S-sorry…it’ll be a minute.” He grumbles. Once he gains his composure, he wraps a strong arm around your waist, the other held tightly on the tree trunk. He tugs with all the strength he can muster in his weakened state, but pulls you out with ease.

A little too much ease.

The impact sends you both tumbling backward, and you’re too distracted by the sudden light hitting your eyes blinking as you try to adjust them. Your ears fold back against your head when you feel him throb inside of you, and. You turn your head to look at him with pink cheeks. “Thank you.”

“For getting you out?” He tilts his head. “It’s no problem, please be careful next time.” He laughs awkwardly, averting his gaze away from your glistening eyes; the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks as you look up at him catches him off guard. His heart thrums against his chest because, well, he didn’t think you’d look at him with those eyes. You crawl forward slowly, pulling yourself off his softening thickness. Jungkook hisses at the loss of your tight hole, but also at the string of your mixed fluids stringing you together even when you’ve removed yourself from him.

You puff out a taught breath, standing up on your feet, tail swaying innocently behind you. You pull down your dress and dust it off, even though it’s muddy and covered in dirt. Yoongi was sure to scold you for ruining your white clothes like this.

Jungkook remains on the ground, hasn’t moved a muscle as he watches your every move. Even though he’s had you, tasted you, felt you— he can’t help but want more of you.  You don’t miss the way he begins to harden again against his thigh, scanning his hungry eyes over your figure. There’s a twang of guilt lingering his chest, because you look so sweet and he’s ashamed that he took advantage of you when you were helpless.

He was, after all, a wild animal at heart.

You giggle and his ears twitch at the kind sound, eliciting warmth in his cheeks. You shake your head with a grin, flashing him your small but sharp canines and a playful wink that makes him blink at you dumfounded. You extend your arm out to him, your fingers wriggling impatiently as you offer him your hand.

“For making me cum, silly.”

©jigglyjeon 2025 all rights reserved

[sabrinajenre96]

"Coming Home"

Pairing: Tim Bradford x Wife!Detective!Reader

Word Count: ~2,000

Genre: Emotional, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with Happy Ending

---

The night Tim left, it shattered something in you.

He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t even looked angry. Just distant. Cold. He told you he needed space. That everything—from his past in the military to what happened with Ray—was suffocating him. That he couldn’t be the man you needed him to be. And just like that, he walked out.

You had clutched the small envelope in your hand that night, the one holding the test that changed everything. You were going to tell him he was going to be a father. But he never gave you the chance.

A month passed.

You kept showing up for work, doing your job, pushing through the motions. Lucy stayed by your side. She was the one who held your hand when the morning sickness hit like a wave. The one who helped you keep the secret you had meant to share with your husband—the man who broke your heart.

You still wore your ring, but only when you were alone.

---

Tim was unraveling.

Each day away from you felt like another cut. He thought distance would protect you. He thought he was doing the right thing by shielding you from the weight he still carried, the pain he hadn't processed. But he was wrong.

Angela Lopez let him have it the moment he confessed his regret.

“You left your wife, Tim. The woman who has never given you a reason to doubt her love. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” he admitted, voice hollow. “I panicked. I didn’t know how to deal with the guilt. The nightmares. Ray… everything. I pushed her away thinking I was doing her a favor.”

Angela sighed, softer now. “She’s not okay, Tim. She loves you, but you broke something in her. If you really want her back, you better be ready to fight for her. No lies. No running.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes.”

---

That night, Lucy and Angela told you to dress nice. “We’re taking you out,” they said with those suspiciously innocent smiles.

You didn't expect to be driven to the little bluff overlooking the city, where Tim first asked you out. Where he proposed two years later with shaking hands and a hopeful heart.

“Why are we here?” you asked, heart pounding.

Angela leaned in, kissed your temple. “Just follow the clues.”

And then she and Lucy were gone.

You found the first note on the bench, held down by a photo of you and Tim laughing, heads tilted together, love etched into every line.

“You’re the best decision I ever made.”

The second was near the old oak tree, taped to the trunk.

“I was a fool to think leaving would protect you. All I did was hurt you.”

By the time you found the last one, your hands were trembling. It was clipped to a string of fairy lights he’d strung along the railing—just like the night he proposed.

You turned and saw him.

Tim stood a few feet away, his face open, haunted, hopeful. You froze.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you whispered, turning.

“Wait,” he said, stepping forward. “Please. Don’t go.”

Your breath caught. The ache in your chest pulsed alive again.

“You left me, Tim,” you said, eyes glistening. “You didn’t even let me speak. You just—walked away.”

“I know,” he said, voice rough. “And I’ve regretted it every day since. I was scared. I thought I was protecting you. But I wasn’t. I was protecting myself.”

Your head turned slightly, pain and love warring behind your eyes.

“I don’t know if I can do this again,” you admitted, voice breaking. “You broke me.”

Then, the nausea came without warning.

You turned, stumbling toward the trash can nearby as your stomach lurched. Tim was beside you in seconds, holding your hair back, rubbing your back, panic on his face.

“Hey, hey. Are you okay? Do we need to go to the hospital?”

You shook your head, breath still shaky. “No. I know what this is.”

Tim blinked. “What?”

Still hunched slightly, you turned toward him with tear-filled eyes. “I’m pregnant, Tim.”

The world stopped.

His mouth opened slightly, stunned. “What…? Since when?”

Your voice cracked. “The night you left. I was going to tell you that night.”

He closed his eyes, devastated.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “God, I’m so sorry.”

You nodded slowly. “I wanted to tell you in a different way. I imagined your smile. Your hands on my belly. I thought you’d be happy.”

“I am happy,” he said quickly, desperately. “I just—I don’t deserve you. But I want to. I want a second chance.”

You were quiet. He took your hand gently.

“I miss you every second. I miss your voice. Your laugh. Our home. You are my home, and I hate what I did to us. I don’t even know why I did it. But I swear to you, I’ll never do it again.”

You looked at him, your expression softening.

“I missed you too.”

Tim exhaled, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“But if you come home, things have to change,” you added, stronger now. “No more secrets. No shutting me out because you think it’s for my own good. I’m not a damsel. I’m your wife. We’re a team.”

He nodded, eyes locked to yours.

“I hear you. I see you. And I swear, I will never put you through that again. I want to be a better man—for you. For our baby.”

You nodded slowly. “Then come home. The house doesn’t feel like ours without you in it. And now we have a baby to think about.”

Tim stepped closer, one hand brushing against your still-flat stomach.

“Our baby,” he murmured in awe.

You placed your hand over his.

“You’re going to be a dad, Tim.”

His eyes filled. “And I swear, I’m going to be the kind of father—and husband—you can rely on.”

You leaned into his chest, heart thudding against his.

“You already are,” you whispered.

And finally, after a month apart, Tim Bradford took his wife in his arms—and this time, he wasn't letting go.

---

End.

[yandere-wishes]

｡༺ 𝓨𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓮! 𝓣𝓲𝓶 𝓓𝓻𝓪𝓴𝓮 𝔁 𝓒𝓪𝓽𝓰𝓲𝓻𝓵!𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻༻｡

｡༺ ��.𝓞.𝓐.𝓣 𝓫𝔂  𝓔𝓵𝓲𝔃𝓪 𝓡𝓸𝓼𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓒𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵 ༻｡

Okay, so we've given all the Yandere batboys a "Cat Darling" except Tim.

[And like, could someone explain to me why people seem to hate Tim Drake?? He's literally the LOVE of my life]

Thinking her burglar name could be either StarCat or Kitten, your choice.

Anyway, his darling is probably the chronically online one. Literally iPad child. Her civilian personality is that of a semi-popular internet star, mostly in smaller niche circles like cosplay/fandom spaces/a few tech DIY spaces.

Also, this is going to sound so self-serving, but like, what if the reader had a Tumblr/AO3 where she posts  Red Robin x reader content? But after meeting him, she kinda gets stuck in a love-hate relationship with the guy...but her fics get progressively more detailed and specific. Cause like she hates him but the crush is still so obviously there!!😆😆

ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼•ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼

He's never been good at managing his obsessions. They always seem to fester fiercely within him, like tree roots feeding on hollow bones, bubbling over and spilling out from every crevice. He can't keep them inside, can't tame the infatuation, sadiate the fixation. Can't ignore the siren's calls or celestial pulls. 

No...

Tim's never been good at managing his obsessions. 

Especially this new one.

The stars seem so much brighter in your eyes. You lay spiraled out on the rooftop, leg dangling off the edge with your tablet held at an odd angle overhead. You mutter into your com-link "5 more seconds before security is down". As you chew on the end of your leather tail. 

You're the ace up Catwoman's sleeve. Her new protegee. The two of you have been hitting bank after bank. Licking up the precious gems the Gotham elite keep hidden. 

Tim's been sent to deal with you, while Batman takes out Catwoman downstairs. But he can't help but be mesmerized by your playful giggles, and sparking eyes. It's all a game to you, like playing Barbie's past bedtime. He can't help but find that almost endearing. 

You turn on your stomach, half crouched, half lying down. Like a kitten about to pounce on a toy mouse. "You're Red Robin" you squeal and Tim has to do a doubletake, knees weak at the sudden burst of attention. 

You jump, he readies his staff but the blows never come. Instead, you stand before him so close he can practically feel the heat from your body. "I'm your biggest fan!", for a second Tim thinks you're going to reach for his hand, his heart reverberates in his throat. You're cute, too cute.

"Any way I could convince you to give up your crime spree? You know since you're such a big fan and all..." You laugh, a light-hearted airy sound, and give him a clumsy twirl as you return to your edge. "Not a chance, I'm finally living my dream life!" 

You jump onto the edge eyes gleaming as they stare a him. No not him, Tim notes, the moment. You're entranced by this moment. 

The moon, the dark, the city lights, the masked man standing before you. For a second he almost sees his reflection cascading across your essence. You're him, little kid with dreams so big it's started to eat you alive. 

You tilt your head and pout your lips. Tim thinks you'd make one hell of an actress or an idol. Your clawed finger clicks your com, "All set boss!" you meow. You offer Tim a final bow before throwing yourself into the dark abyss below. Tim rushes to grab you but it's too late.

You're gone. 

His obsession only grows from there, raw and primal. He can taste nostalgia in the back of his throat every time he sees your picture. Thick and sticky like molten caramel. 

You're so much like him, so precious in your own right. Little girl playing superheroes, dancing across the night's sequence, basking in the ethereal of having the world below your feet. Disappearing into the dark, merging with the stars, high off the nectar-coated ideals behind your teeth. Savoring their melt upon your tongue. 

You'd have been best friends in the sandbox. Tim thinks. 

He's scouring the Batcomputer.

Ripping apart every inkling he finds. 

Who is this new Kitten? 

He sees you again in a sugar-spun ensemble stitched from lace and longing, draped in cascading frills and ribbons. Equal parts candygram and popcorn but ever only purple in shade. He recognizes the playful tilt of your head and the way you stare to the side when you're too deep in thought. Every move is woven in porcelain elegance. Little doll playing dress up. 

His hunch is proven right when he hears your voice.

"Do you think Red Robin would like this outfit?" you ask an invisible audience who answer hours later in the comment section, dedicating little hearts and kisses in agreeance.

His name spills from between your lips and Tim swears he sees stars. Your delicate cadence flutters through his veins pricking his heart till it dedicates every pump to you. 

Tim doesn't notice how hard he's biting his thumb. 

Doesn't notice the scarlet droplets marring the keyboard below. 

He's trying to keep you out of the Gotham National Bank's system, he can recognize your pattern anywhere. The little kitty cat errors that keep popping up. The stars that litter the screen forcing it to bluescreen. He's almost there, you're almost gone. 

Bruce, hollars commands into his ears. 

But Tim is too enthralled by the screen to notice

A single message glitches and gleams.

'It Was Fun Red Robin~♡'  

He has you caged beneath him. Fingers digging into your shoulders. You look so cute struggling to break free. So adorable that he just can't help himself. 

He presses his lips to your neck, pulling down the leather with his teeth and suckling on the ripe flesh. Stardust sprinkles into his mouth as his tongue traverses the length of your neck. Before ensnaring your plump perfect lips. His hands feel down your body memorizing every curve. He can feel you struggling. Kicking trying to break free. 

But he just can't let you get away. He needs you wholly, desperately. More than he's ever needed anything.

But he can't let you go. You taste like heaven on his tongue. Your claws melt into his back, tearing fabric and flesh. But the bloodletting feels like holy bliss from your hands, he'd gladly lick the blood from your claws and call it ichor. 

Your ethos haunts him.

He writes you love letters to you penned in his blood. 

Every quaver of his bones he dedicates to you. 

He's sprawled out on his bed reading your latest story. It's about him, as they always tend to be.  You call him such mean words all laced with a saccharinee undertone of idolization. You have him call you 'darling' and 'kitten'. Have him treat so roughly yet so lovingly. Is that how you want him to act? 

Did you really mean it when you said you're his biggest fan? 

ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼•ฅ≽(•⩊ •マ≼

There's also another delicious little inkling I want to leave you guys with. Imagine reader starts receiving PR from Janus Cosmetics. Imagine Roman starts to take note of the cute little kitten showcasing his company's newest products. Starts to relish in your babydoll act, enjoying you twirling around in your cute skirts and curling your hair around your finger. Imagine Roman Sionis falling for catgirl! reader as well. Imagine poor little reader trapped between Yandere Tim Drake and Yandere Roman Sionis...Poor little kitty cat, whatever will you do? 

[jenosbliss]

💔⌇ nct dream! and the reasons for your breakup

pairing. gn!reader x nctdream | genre. angst | wc. 3.3k | warnings. just the reader breaking up with dreamies | ml. dream 127 wayv | navi.

a/n. each member's part is around 450-500 words. you might find similar themes in some members' parts and it's because i didn't want to add themes like infidelity or anger... i didn't want to portray them bad.

MARK. Loving Mark felt like chasing stardust — beautiful, electric, and impossible to hold. He lit up rooms, stages, your heart. His energy was magnetic, his passion inspiring, and every word he said made you feel like you were the only person in the universe who mattered. But the problem was… the universe kept pulling him away.

He didn’t do it on purpose. You knew that. His intentions were golden. Every spare second he had, he gave to you — voice notes from hotel balconies, tired “I miss you” texts sent at 3 a.m. after rehearsals. Sometimes you’d wake up to a photo of the sunrise from wherever he was, captioned, “Wish you were here.”

But wishes don’t keep you warm. Wishes don’t show up to dinner. Wishes don’t hold your hand when you need someone to say, “I’m here, and I’m staying.”

You were always understanding. Always patient. You cheered for him when he debuted. You held back tears when he said, “I’ll only be gone a week,” and then another tour got scheduled. Another interview. Another album. And every time, you smiled and said, “It’s okay,” even though it wasn’t. Not really.

You missed the version of love that existed in presence — not just in promises. You missed seeing his shoes by the door. Hearing his laugh echo down the hallway. The way he used to fall asleep mid-conversation, your head on his chest.

One afternoon, you both found a pocket of time. A sliver of stillness between his chaos and your quiet. He sat beside you on a park bench, fingers barely brushing yours. The sun filtered through the trees, casting golden shadows, and for a moment, it felt like you were in a memory.

“I think about you all the time,” he said, turning toward you. His voice cracked like he knew it wasn’t enough. “But you’re never with me, Mark,” you whispered. You weren’t angry. Just tired. “You give me pieces of yourself when you can, and I’m grateful. But I need someone who can give me time. Not just thoughts.”

He looked at you with glassy eyes, his lips parting like he wanted to say something — maybe everything. But nothing came. Just silence. Just the weight of a boy who had too much to carry and didn’t know how to make space for more.

“I wanted to give you everything,” he said at last. “All I ever wanted was you.” And that’s when it broke. The understanding. The sacrifice. The waiting. You realized you were loving someone who was constantly in motion, and you were standing still.

You leaned in, kissed his cheek softly, and let your hand slide from his. He didn’t stop you.

Sometimes love isn’t about what you feel. It’s about what you have time to show.

RENJUN. You never doubted Renjun cared. He showed it in subtle ways — the extra dumpling saved for you, the playlist he made but never told you was inspired by your favorite books, the way he knew your coffee order down to the number of ice cubes. But affection isn't the same as vulnerability. Love, without expression, without depth, starts to feel hollow. And with Renjun, it always felt like there was a door locked behind his eyes, and no matter how close you got, he never let you all the way in.

You’d talk about your day, your dreams, your fears — and he’d listen. He was always a good listener. But when you asked, “And what about you?” he’d deflect. A shrug. A small laugh. “I’m fine,” he’d say, every time. And at first, you believed him. Until “fine” became a wall. Until the silence between his words began to echo louder than anything he said.

You wanted to understand him. God, you tried. You stayed up late on the nights he seemed withdrawn, gently nudging, asking if he was okay. He’d nod. You’d wait. But he never said more. You began to feel like you were in a one-sided conversation, always reaching, always giving, and never quite receiving.

He wasn’t cruel. That’s what made it so confusing. He wasn’t mean, wasn’t distant in the traditional sense. He held your hand in public. He remembered the small things. He kissed your forehead like it meant something. But you couldn’t help but feel… alone, even when he was right next to you.

One night, you sat together in the living room. He had returned from a recording session. You watched him from the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, unsure how to say what was building in your chest.

“I feel like I don’t really know you,” you said quietly. He froze for a second — not in anger, not in defense. Just… sadness. He sat beside you, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know how to let people in,” he admitted, eyes cast downward. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It just feels… hard. Like if I open up too much, everything will fall apart.” You reached out, brushing your fingers over his knuckles. “I’ve never asked you to be perfect. I just wanted you to be real with me.”

He sighed, the sound filled with years of carefully buried emotion. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I think,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out, “you already have.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t cry. He just nodded, slow and tired, as if he’d known this was coming all along. You stood, heart breaking and strangely relieved, and left the room without looking back.

Sometimes the deepest wounds come not from cruelty, but from absence — from what’s never said, never shared, never allowed to bloom.

JENO. With Jeno, love felt calm — steady, secure, like resting your head on his shoulder after a long day and knowing he’d sit with you in silence until the world slowed down. He made you feel safe, not with words, but with the way he walked on the traffic side of the road or remembered to bring you water when you stayed up too late. He was gentle, dependable — the kind of person you could build a life with.

At least, that’s what you thought.

But every time the conversation shifted to “us,” something shifted in him. You weren’t asking for grand declarations or rings. Just plans. Vacations you might take. A future apartment. The kind of small promises that turn into a shared life. But every time you said “someday,” he pulled back. A subtle change — the way he looked away, or cracked a joke, or said “Let’s not think too far ahead.”

And maybe at first, you brushed it off. Everyone moves at their own pace, right? But it kept happening. Every question about “later” was answered with “I don’t know.” Every time you hinted at moving forward, you felt like you were tugging at someone whose feet were firmly planted in the now.

One night, you were lying in bed beside him. The room was dark except for the soft glow of his phone charging on the nightstand. You were both staring at the ceiling, and something in the quiet made your heart ache.

“Do you ever think about what this could look like in a year?” you asked. He was quiet for too long. “I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep,” he said finally.

You turned your head. “I’m not asking for a proposal. I’m asking if you even see a future with me.” He sighed. “I just… don’t want to feel trapped.”

That word — trapped — hit like a slap. “I’m not a cage, Jeno.”

“I know,” he whispered quickly. “It’s not you. It’s just… me. I get scared thinking too far ahead. I don’t want to hurt you by saying something now and not being able to follow through.”

You sat up, the weight in your chest too heavy to lie under. “I’m not asking you to figure it all out tonight. But I can’t be the only one imagining what comes next.”

He reached for your hand — careful, gentle, like he didn’t want to break anything. “I’m trying.” You looked at his fingers wrapped around yours. So much affection. So little intention.

“I know you are,” you said softly. “But I need more than trying. I need someone who chooses to grow with me.”

And in that moment, you realized he wasn’t that person. Not now. Maybe not ever.

HAECHAN. With Haechan, everything felt alive. He was laughter in the dead of night, spontaneity in the middle of a crowded street, the kind of person who could find magic in the most ordinary things. Being with him meant constant adventure — midnight drives with no destination, dancing in empty parking lots, plans made on a whim because “why not?”

And you loved that about him. At first.

But as the months slipped by, you found yourself aching for something steadier. Not just the fireworks — but the slow burn after. You wanted lazy Sunday mornings, not just adrenaline-fueled Saturdays. You wanted a home, not just another place to crash after the next big thrill.

He lived moment to moment. You were trying to build a future. You tried to tell yourself you could meet in the middle — that eventually, the chaos would slow, and you could build something real together. But Haechan was the storm and the sunshine, never meant to be tethered.

One night, walking downtown, the city buzzing around you, you tried to bring it up — the idea of later. Maybe an apartment together. Maybe just a vacation planned more than a week in advance. Anything.

“I don’t want to slow down,” he said, spinning in the streetlights, his arms wide, a boy made of dreams and light. “And I don’t want to chase someone who won’t stay,” you said, the words catching in your throat.

He stopped spinning, looking at you like you had just drawn a line between you he hadn’t seen before. There was a sadness in his eyes — deep, almost childlike. “I’m scared if I stop moving, I’ll lose everything that makes me who I am.”

You reached for his hand. “You don’t have to stop being you. I’m just asking if you ever see yourself… staying. Building something. With me.” He squeezed your fingers, so tightly it almost hurt. “I wish I could be the person you need.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I love you anyway.” And that was the truth. You loved every wild, unpredictable piece of him. But love, you realized, isn’t always enough when your dreams are running in opposite directions.

When you let go of his hand, he didn’t pull you back. You kissed him — one last time, one last burst of color in a life that had been painted too brightly to last — and walked away under the city lights that had once felt like your stars.

Haechan watched you go, arms limp at his sides, the boy who couldn’t stand still finally realizing that sometimes, the most important thing isn’t moving forward.

It’s staying. But by then, it was too late.

JAEMIN. At first, Jaemin felt like a dream. He was soft-spoken, thoughtful, always one step ahead — anticipating your needs before you voiced them. He made you laugh, picked up on your moods like second nature, and supported every decision you made without hesitation. He was your biggest fan. But eventually, that unshakable support began to feel… empty.

“Where do you want to eat?” you asked one night, scrolling through menus. “Wherever you like,” he smiled. You paused. “No, really. What are you craving?” He hesitated, then shrugged. “I’ll eat whatever you choose.”

It was the same with everything. Movies. Vacations. Even serious conversations. He agreed with you so easily, so readily, it stopped feeling like agreement and started feeling like absence. You started to wonder: Did he have opinions? Desires? Boundaries? Or was he just reflecting yours back to you like a mirror?

The worst part was knowing his intentions were pure. He wasn’t hiding anything malicious. He simply wanted to keep the peace, to keep you. But relationships aren’t built on harmony alone. They need friction — honesty — depth. And Jaemin, for all his warmth, had become someone you couldn’t fully see.

One evening, you sat together on your tiny balcony, wrapped in shared silence and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. He handed you a mug of tea — chamomile, your favorite — and smiled, as always.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, breaking the quiet. “Do you ever say no to me?” His smile faltered. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But I want you to be happy too. And I don’t know what that looks like when you’re always saying yes to everything I say.”

He looked down at his mug, the steam curling around his face like a shield. “I guess… I’m scared. That if I disagree, if I show too much of myself, you won’t like it. You’ll leave.”

You reached for his hand, squeezed it softly. “But if I never get to see the real you… aren’t I already with someone who’s not fully there?”

That’s when it hit — the truth neither of you wanted to say out loud. You loved each other, yes. But love without authenticity is like a house with no foundation. Eventually, it crumbles.

You kissed his cheek, and it lingered — a quiet thank you, a final kindness. “Be yourself for someone. Even if it’s not me.” And he nodded, not protesting, not fighting. Just letting go.

Because maybe saying “yes” too often had cost him the one person he wanted to stay.

CHENLE. It didn’t happen all at once. That was the hardest part to explain. There was no fight, no betrayal, no moment where you looked at Chenle and thought, This is it. It was a slow drift — so slow, in fact, that for a while, you didn’t even notice it was happening.

You used to talk for hours. About music, about dreams, about what you’d do if the world ended tomorrow. You shared inside jokes and playlists, late-night snack runs and stupid dancing in your pajamas. With him, everything used to feel light — like life had more color.

But lately, it had dulled.

He still smiled at you the same way. Still kissed your forehead when you passed by him in the hallway. But your conversations had started to shrink. Texts became replies, not initiations. Your laughter no longer echoed the same way.

One evening, sitting across from him in the café you both used to love, you realized you were halfway through your drink and neither of you had said anything for five full minutes.

You looked up. “Do you feel it too?” He met your gaze — not startled, just… sad. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I don’t know when it started.”

“I think it started when we stopped learning about each other,” he said. “We just… settled into a routine.”

You nodded. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Maybe that’s what made it worse. Because if one of you had done something wrong, there’d be someone to blame. But there wasn’t. Just two people who used to orbit the same sun, and now found themselves spinning in opposite directions.

“I still care about you,” he added. “So much.”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I care about you.” He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. It didn’t feel passionate, or electrifying, or painful. It felt like goodbye.

“I’ll always root for you,” he said. “Whatever you do, wherever you go.” You smiled, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “Same for you.”

There was love in this moment — undeniable, quiet, enduring. But love isn’t always enough to hold people together. Not when growth pulls them apart.

When you left the café, you didn’t cry. Not right away. Instead, you walked slowly through the city, replaying every beautiful moment you’d ever had with him. You let yourself feel it all — the beginnings, the magic, and now, the end.

Some relationships don’t end with a bang or a wound. Some end with a whisper, a sigh, a knowing. You’d been growing. So had he. Just… not in the same direction.

JISUNG. With Jisung, love felt young — tender and careful, like a secret the world hadn’t fully discovered yet. There was innocence in the way he looked at you, like you were a marvel he wasn’t quite sure he deserved. He admired you, adored you. You saw it in the way he reached for your hand in crowded places or quietly tucked a note into your bag just because he thought you needed a smile. You cherished that sweetness.

But over time, sweetness gave way to suspicion.

It started subtly. The slight pause before he asked, “Who were you texting?” The quick scroll through your social media likes. The way he’d grow quiet after you mentioned hanging out with an old friend — especially if it was a guy. You brushed it off, at first. Everyone gets insecure sometimes, right?

But it kept growing. He started clinging tighter after you posted pictures without him. His compliments became layered with questions. “You look amazing in that outfit… Did anyone say something to you today?” You could feel the trust cracking beneath the surface of every word.

“I trust you,” he told you one night, arms wrapped around you under the covers. “But you don’t trust anyone around me,” you said softly, staring up at the ceiling. He stayed silent.

You turned toward him. “I can’t keep explaining that you’re the only one I want.” His eyes shimmered with that familiar vulnerability. “I’m scared. What if you wake up one day and realize you want someone better, smarter, more… confident?”

You took his hand in yours. “I’ve never asked you to be perfect, Jisung. Just secure enough in what we have. I can’t keep proving I love you. That’s not what love is.”

He blinked, and for a moment, you thought he might fight for this. That he’d finally trust what was between you. But all he said was, “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m going to lose you.”

And maybe he already had.

The next time it happened — the jealousy, the tight-lipped silence, the tension that filled the room after a harmless mention of someone else — you felt something inside you shift. You weren’t angry. You were just tired. Tired of defending something that should’ve stood strong on its own.

It was raining when you finally said the words. You stood in his doorway, his hoodie pulled over your head, the sleeves still a little too long. “I love you,” you said. “But this isn’t love anymore. It’s fear. And I can’t build a future with fear.”

His eyes widened, lips parting as if to stop you — but he didn’t. He stood frozen, raindrops framing your silhouette like a memory that would haunt him later.

You stepped forward, wrapped your arms around him, and held him close. He trembled in your embrace. And then you let go.

Some heartbreaks aren’t loud. They’re soft. Fragile. A whispered surrender.

a/n. reblogs, comments and asks are appreciated! please tell me your opinions on this one.

[ttdamian]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ᯋ ݁ Filthy child I ݁

⸺ Authors note ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. Potential disturbing wordings/descriptions. This is meant to be psychological horror, with angst. Viewers discretion is advised. English isnt my first language. wc: 2,9k. Not beta read. Reader does not meet batfam yet in this part. ⸺ directory ; Previous, next

Dark.

It wasn’t just the absence of light.

It was the kind that seeped under your fingernails and coiled itself around your spine. It pulsed with your heartbeat—thick and slow and wrong. You couldn’t remember what it was like to breathe without tasting it. Couldn’t remember what warmth felt like. Couldn’t remember what it meant to not be afraid.

This place wasn’t a dream. Not really. It was too quiet to be a dream. Too still. The air clung to your lungs like wet cloth, and every movement felt like swimming through tar.

Your hands scraped against something solid—if it was even real. Slick, sticky, grime-coated. It sucked at your skin like it wanted to keep you. The floor pulsed sometimes. Like it was alive.

You didn’t know where you were. Or how long you’d been here. But you knew this:

You were not meant to leave.

And yet you crawled.

Shaking fingers pressed against invisible walls, arms trembling with effort. Your body was a collection of bruises and shivers.

The dark didn’t just touch you.

It clung to you.

Stained you.

Sank into your bones like mildew in rotted wood.

You wanted to scream—but it would be pointless. There was no one to hear you. No one ever came. Not unless they meant to hurt you.

You had been born into this.

The rot.

The silence.

The cold that no blanket could cure.

The kind of love that bruised instead of held.

And now, here, surrounded by this black void, it felt almost honest.

Maybe this was what love really looked like. Maybe it had always worn a mask before. And now, the mask was gone.

Maybe this was how love spoke to you.

How it punished you.

How it reminded you that you were small. Unworthy. A mistake, just like Mama always said.

The walls of the world began to close in, even though there were none.

You felt them anyway.

And you ran.

You didn’t know why—your legs were so tired. You were always so tired. But some part of you thought… maybe if you moved fast enough, you’d catch up to it, find it. Her.  The only thing that ever mattered. The only thing you’d ever wanted, no matter how badly she broke you.

Your breath ripped through your chest in short, sharp bursts. The air burned going in and out. Your tiny feet slipped against the sticky black floor, but you kept running.

Because that’s what children do.

They run back to their mothers.

Even when they shouldn't.

And then—

A shape.

Rising in the dark like a lighthouse turned to ruin.

A figure.

Tall. Still. Familiar.

And you knew.

You recognized.

“Mama!” you screamed, your voice cracking with the effort. “Mama!”

It tore from your throat like an old wound being split open. Raw. Hoarse. Ugly. But it didn’t matter.

Nothing else ever did.

You sprinted to her, sobbing, hope swelling in your chest so violently it felt like it might shatter your ribs. You wanted to believe—needed to believe—that this time would be different. That she would see you. Hear you. That her arms would stretch out and fold around you, and you could fall asleep to the rhythm of her heartbeat.

You reached her.

And then—

SLAP.

It cracked through the silence like lightning splitting an old tree in two. Your head jerked to the side. Your ear rang.

You didn’t cry.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because it did. And hurt was familiar. A greeting infact.

Pain was the only way she ever touched you.

You stood frozen, the sting still spreading across your face like frostbite. The dark around you shivered—twitched. Like it had been waiting for this.

And then she was there.

Your mother.

Or something that wore her skin.

Her face was stretched too tight. Her eyes were too hollow. Her mouth curled into something that might’ve once been a smile, if you tilted your head and squinted hard enough. But it didn’t reach her eyes. Nothing ever did.

She smelled like liquor and mold. Like burning and abandonment. Like home.

"You disgrace me," she said.

Not loud. Not angry.

Disgusted.

Like you were a stain on her memory. Like your existence embarrassed her even in dreams.

"Have I not given you everything?" she whispered, voice curling like smoke into your ears. "I gave you life. I gave you my blood. And this is how you repay me?"

Her voice slithered under your skin. Her words crawled into your ears and stayed there. You knew them by heart. She had said them a thousand times. And each time, you believed her a little more.

Your legs gave out.

You dropped to your knees like a puppet with its strings cut.

You were so small.

So stupid.

So sorry.

You reached for her hem with shaking hands, your fingers brushing against the tattered edge of her dress like it was the only solid thing in the world. You pressed your forehead to the ground. You cried into the filth.

“Please, Mama, I—I didn’t mean it,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to be bad, I swear. I’ll be better. I’ll be good this time. Please don’t stop being my mother. Please don’t stop loving me. Please, I’ll do anything—anything—just don’t leave me again—”

You looked up.

You couldn’t see her face anymore.

Only her eyes.

Cold. Empty. Still staring down at you like she was trying to decide if you were even human.

And for a second—

Just a second—

You saw her mouth twitch. A smile, maybe.

Or maybe it was just your mind playing tricks on you again.

It did that a lot to you.

But still—you reached for her.

Because even monsters can feel like home when they’re all you’ve ever known.

Tears began to blurr her face, but still—you reached for her.

Even as the dark shifted.

It wasn’t empty anymore. It breathed.

From the edges of the room that wasn't a room, the walls that weren’t real but felt like they were breathing down your neck, the dark came crawling.

The hands came. From below. From behind. From within.

Not hands like the ones in storybooks. These were familiar.The same ones from that night.

Cold. Grey. Paper-thin. They smelled of earth and long-forgotten basements. They knew where to grab. Where to press. They wrapped around your wrists like bracelets. Around your ankles like iron. Your ribs, like they were trying to crawl back in.

They didn’t pull. Not really.

They reminded.

And still, you reached. Because what else could you do? That was the deal. The curse of being loved. The yearning that’ll never left your marrow.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just stared at you like you were a smear on glass. Like you’d ruined something by existing. Like you were the ghost she couldn’t exorcize.

Her eyes were heavy. Not with sorrow. But with contempt.

The hands tightened. Just enough to ache. To settle into the hollows they’d made in you long ago.

You didn't try to run. You never had. Because even if you screamed, even if you broke yourself open trying to crawl away—where would you go?

This was your womb. Your inheritance.

The dark didn’t hold you captive. It kept you company.

And the whispers returned, sickly-sweet and full of teeth:

"You were never meant to be loved."

You folded. Crumpled. Became small at her feet. Not a girl. Not a thing. Just wrong.

Just a mistake she made that kept on breathing.

You pressed your forehead to her feet. Filth stuck to your cheeks. Her skin peeled beneath

your touch like old wallpaper soaked through with mold.

But then—

She spoke.

And you? You drank it in like blood.

“Oh, little girl,” she sighed. “So needy. You always needed so much.”

Her voice cracked and spilled like something rotten splitting in the sun. It wasn’t pity. It was rot pretending to be tenderness.

Your sobs came wet and shaking. You wanted to bury yourself inside her. Crawl beneath her ribs. Live underneath her skin. Be held like a secret, like a sin she was finally willing to keep.

Her bones groaned under your weight. Her spine bowed with something that sounded like cracking ice.

And then, slowly, her hand touched your hair.

The gesture should have been comfort. But it came with the silence of a funeral.

Then—the itching.

It returned with a vengeance. First beneath your nails. Then the backs of your knees. Your scalp. Inside your teeth. You scratched. You dug.

Skin tore. And from beneath?

White. Small. Moving.

Maggots.

You smiled.

“Mama,” you whispered. “I’m just like you now. See?”

You peeled back a flap of your thigh like paper, just to show her. Just to make her proud. Blood trickled, but the squirming things beneath gleamed in the dark. Home. Nesting.

She didn’t speak. But her eyes shifted.

They softened. Not with affection.

With recognition.

You were hers. Her echo. Her burden. Her curse.

And it was enough.

You wrapped her hand in yours. The skin sloughed off in pieces. Fingernails fell like petals. You kissed each one as they dropped.

“We match now,” you said. “So you can love me. Right? Right, Mama?”

Still, she said nothing.

But the silence sounded different this time. It hummed. It breathed. It approved.

You pressed her palm to your cheek. Her bones cracked like dry twigs in your hands.

And you didn’t mind.

Because love wasn’t warm. Not here. Not for you.

Love was rot. It was silence. It was splitting your skin open just to be seen.

And tonight?

She saw you.

“Goodnight, Mama,” you whispered. Voice thick with sleep and smoke and spoiled milk. Her voice. The one that never soothed you, but still haunted every inch of your brainstem.

You pulled the dark over her like a blanket. Kissed the part of her skull that hadn’t collapsed.

And for just one moment? It felt peaceful.

You awoke again.

Not with a gasp. Not with a cry.

Just the slow, sinking weight of wrongness.

The kind that settled behind your ribs before your eyes even opened. That whispered not safe, not right, even when everything looked like it should be.

Your surroundings were of a white void. Opposite of earlier.

Blinding. Silent. Still.

But not clean.

It had been the kind of white that burned. That hummed behind your eyes like a migraine. That clung to your skin like static and bleach. A hollow white. A sterile white. The kind they paint over nightmares and call it recovery.

You hadn't wake. Not truly that is.

You instead surfaced—It was slow, strange, aching. Like a bruise blooming beneath the surface of your soul.

The world wasn’t spinning, but it felt like it should be. Stillness pressed against your bones, against your breath, like the air had forgotten how to move. Like it was waiting for permission.

And then—her.

Your mother. And not.

Too soft. Too young. Too warm.

Hair tied back in a red ribbon you never remembered seeing but somehow recognized. Lips too pink. Smile too easy. Like she’d never screamed your name until it bled. Like she’d never dropped glass on purpose just to watch you cry and bleed while you picked it up.

She looked at you like you were breakable in the good way.

Not the way she used to mean it.

“There you are, my sweet girl,” she said. Her voice was velvet over a blade. Sweetened venom. “Come here.”

Your body didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

But you did.

Something inside you pulled back, like a dog remembering the leash.

Her hands reached for your face—slow, reverent, like she thought you might disappear.

And they were wrong.

Too soft. Too clean. Too forgiving.

They didn’t smell like cigarettes and cheap vodka. They didn’t shake with fury or grief or godless disappointment.

They didn’t feel like home.

You let her touch you.

And hated yourself for it.

Because it was nice. Too nice.

Because you wanted to lean into it. And that was the most dangerous part.

She brushed your hair back—just like the fairy tales said mothers should—and whispered lullabies you’d never learned but somehow knew by heart. Her voice didn’t quiver. Her breath didn’t smell like hunger.

You screamed.

Not with your mouth, but with the pieces of yourself that had never stopped breaking.

"This isnt real."

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even sound.

It was the desperate, silent cry of a child who had waited too long to be loved. The raw, soundless plea of someone who had finally been offered everything they'd ever needed—but knew it was all a lie.

And the dream listened.

It didn’t shatter so much as it unraveled. Slowly, deliberately. Like it had always known it wouldn’t last.

The room dissolved at the edges, peeling back into darkness like wet paper curling in flame. The cradle collapsed in on itself, groaning as the illusion of wood gave way to something slick and soft—like ribs that had never belonged to anything human.

The not-mother’s smile faded without ever changing, her face still wearing that perfect, gentle curve as her skin folded inward, retreating like memory, like rot, like smoke.

There was no color.

No sound.

Only the press of silence—dense, final.

And in that silence came the ache.

Not fear. Not confusion.

Something worse.

Loss.

Some part of you had wanted it to be real.

As awful as it was—as wrong, as twisted—you had wanted it to mean something.

Because even if it had been false, even if it had been stitched together from loneliness and longing and all the broken things you carried inside… it had still looked like love.

It had sounded like the lullabies no one ever sang for you.

It had felt—just for a moment—like you mattered.

And now it was gone.

Not stolen. Not ripped away.

Just… gone.

You were falling. Or floating. Or maybe just fading.

It didn’t matter anymore.

There was no cradle.

No mother.

No warmth, no lie, no comfort, not even the pain of betrayal.

Only the cold that follows a storm.

Only the silence that settles after you stop hoping.

Your eyes opened slowly. Dully.

As if even your body wasn’t sure there was anything worth waking up to.

The ceiling above you was low.

Grey-white. Speckled.

Soft in a way the dream had never been.

Fluorescent lights buzzed quietly overhead. Steady. Unforgiving.

The air was clean here. Too clean. It didn’t taste like mildew and ash. It didn’t sting your throat like old vodka fumes. It didn’t crawl down your spine like things with too many legs.

You tried to move, but something tugged—plastic tubes, gauze. Soft restraints, maybe. Your body felt wrong. Scrubbed. Peeled. Touched.

You whimpered. The sound came out weak. Fragile. Like your voice had been left in the rot too long and came back waterlogged.

A door opened.

The sound made your whole body flinch.

Footsteps. Rushed. Soft-soled and panicked.

“Oh my god… sweetheart—” a voice cracked.

Feminine. Human.

A nurse.

She was on you in seconds—hovering, hands trembling as they checked vitals. Tucking you in. Stroking sweat-matted hair off your forehead.

“You’re awake,” she whispered. “You’re awake, you’re okay, you—God, we weren’t sure you were going to—” Her voice broke.

Her face was blotchy from crying.

You stared.

Her mouth moved. Her eyes were wet.

But all you could see was her.

Your mother’s face, soft and shifting, superimposed over this stranger’s like smoke.

“Mama…” you croaked.

The nurse froze.

You blinked once. Twice.

No. No—different eyes. Kinder maybe. Less hollow.

But still not her.

The nurse choked a little. “You’ve been… unconscious. For over a week. You were… sweetie, you were dying. There were—”

She swallowed hard. You watched her throat work like she was trying to keep bile down.

“There were maggots,” she said softly. “Inside you. Feeding. It was one of the worst cases we’ve—God. You poor baby.”

Your mouth stayed dry. Your lips cracked when you licked them.

“Is she dead?” you asked, monotone. Like it didn’t matter. Like maybe it didn’t.

The nurse didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

She instead tucked the blanket tighter around you and whispered, “We’ve been trying to find someone. Family. Anyone.”

Silence.

Then:

“And we found someone.”

You blinked again.

She hesitated, like saying it out loud might change you.

“Bruce Wayne.”

You blinked slower this time.

“He’s your biological father.”

Silence, again.

The world outside the sterile hum fell away.

You didn’t understand.

Couldn’t.

Or wouldn’t.

The nurse offered a small smile. Broken. Apologetic.

“He’s coming.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The world was a swirl of too much. Too loud. Too clean.

She brushed your hair again. Soft. Reassuring.

“It’ll be okay… right?” she murmured. “You’re a good girl after all.”

You flinched.

Your vision blurred. The fluorescent light above warped, edges curling.

You saw your mother again.

In the nurse’s place.

Her sunken face lit by that jaundiced kitchen light.

Her hollow eyes trying, trying to see you.

Your lip trembled.

“Good girl,” the voice echoed in your head.

You didn’t know if it was real.

You didn’t care.

You leaned into the nurse’s hand like it was all you had left in the world. Because it was.

For now.

You let yourself believe it, just for a second.

That she loved you. That someone could.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

taglist: empty

[comfortless]

hades! konig and persephone! reader

content/warnings: 18+ minors do not interact. abduction, voyeurism, dubcon, not very explicit smut.

notes: this has been on my mind for an eternity actually thank you sweet anon for finally encouraging me to write it out! if you celebrate, merry christmas! and if not consider this just a lil gift for absolutely no reason apart from for being my first Kö request. 💕

A hollow grows within him the moment his gaze meets hers. A chance crossing whilst collecting a rare offering of fruit laid out just for him. Most mortals wouldn’t beckon his attention, and the gods often left him just as well. He knows better than to take insult and become reckless, though… recklessness comes as easily as breathing when his stare settles on her across the glade. She twirls in silent dance, pirouetting carefully as if to avoid crushing the nature that springs up, brushing against her soles. Her voice picks up in a song when she notes the figure watching her from a distance, her cadence no less beautiful than any choir despite the flighty waver in her tone.

When the nymphs rise up from the stream to listen, he stands transfixed for a moment as they pull her in with them for a more elaborate dance, voices all melding until they break into a chorus of giggles and stories.

It should have been left at that.

She walks an earth made for her; flowers blossoming beneath her bare soles, each root extending for just a chance to brush against tender flesh, a breeze that flits gently against her hair. The daughter of Demeter, something unattainable, too precious to be dirtied by the howling abyss below her feet.

He is tethered to darkness and unknowns, an enigma with dried blood beneath his fingernails; the only songs he hears are screams. He’s since stolen flowers from the meadows she dances in. Beautiful peonies and soft green things that smell sweet. Flowers don’t bloom in the dark, they wither and dry.

Days are spent in melancholic longing, nights his roaring grief melds with the wailing of lost souls. Ugly and tainted noises that he dreams will reach her ears, that she will come to him with her lashes wet with tears, wrap him in her arms and quiet all but her own voice as she tells him that he’s more beautiful than her rivers and her blooms.

Yet, she never does.

König takes it upon himself to walk the land of mortals, teemed with life and pleasures more often now. He pulls himself from below with unnatural fire behind his eyes, a horrible, yearning abyss in place of the feathery, clumsy love that he’s watched so many others allow for themselves.

She notices him while he watches her bathe amongst the nymphs, stood upright and imposing beneath the shade of a tree. Each time, while the nymphs shy away with giggles and hands curled over their breasts, she merely keeps her eyes on him; lips-parted and pulse raging. He knows, would swear by it, that his obsession is not entirely one-sided.

Once, she chooses to wave at him, a demure flick of her wrist while his stare remains fixed upon her. The droplets of water from the curve of her neck, down to the swell of her breasts and the pebbled nipples there— down, further into the water that envelopes her and sends his mind to flicker, a roaring flame building from his chest to his groin.

All of his frustrations pale and cower at the fantasy that he just may be able to grant himself the liberty of sinking into something writhing and warm from just one, simple gesture.

He knows he’s fucked, because his first thought after the lullaby of attraction subsides is to poke her just a little; prod her and see what makes her cry the hardest, blanket her in the shadow of himself and pick her apart like a vulture to a cadaver, do things to her that no man ever has or should. It’s not right, and he has to force himself to turn away, the fabric of the veil obscuring his face as he slinks back into the dark where he belongs. Away from the untouchable maiden who seems to haunt him endlessly with her teasing.

The giggles and splashes of the nymphs whisper through the air like the chirping of birds. Though, one voice stands out above the rest of the noise, causes him to halt in his tracks.

“Why does he never speak to us?”

Her voice, so sweet, asking about him when she should be speaking of nothing but the beauty surrounding her, the warmth of the sun and never the cold darkness of the moon.

It’s eating away at him, he realizes, when he can no longer satisfy himself. Nights lain in a haze, staring up at blackened walls with his length in hand. All it takes is the memory of wet lashes and a soft smile, usually. Her beauty is enough to bring even him to his knees, yet, he finds himself instead on the brink of hysteria the first night he finds a vision of her is not sufficient enough to reach the brilliant white haze of a climax.

The thought of stealing her away from her world of beauty to drag her down into the dark with him fills him with both elation and a terrible guilt. Zeus himself is no different; the thought shouldn’t warrant a seeping coldness in his veins, nor should it have caused him to spill his seed into his hand with only a mere flick of the pad of his thumb over his tip, yet it accomplishes both. A waste, when it should be buried deep inside of his beloved.

It takes only two nights for him to plot, to have Gaia choose to favor him, and on the third day the Narcissus flower blooms, pretty and golden. It echoes false promises, softness and beauty beyond even the daughter of Demeter’s imaginations. She will hate him, she will. Her very soul will sour the moment she lays her eyes on him next, but eventually… she will come to understand, return his love with a whisper of her own. Lightly, at best, but it would still be more than he had ever known.

He watches the roots of the plant from below, a pinprick of warm light shining down. The thumps of footsteps overhead, shaking down loose soil like raindrops, giggles like crackling thunder. She’s roaming about with her nymphs again, gentle with her and all of her beauty. After watching her for so very long, he’s more than certain they will be braiding the flowers and falling asleep after fits of laughter with the taste of fruit on their tongues. Only, she’s condemned herself by being so predictable. She will fall, not into soft grasses with a woman’s arms thrown over her, but directly into his own. She won’t eat the fruit of the earth, but drink his wine and allow him to lose himself in her flesh, bedded down against the pelts of beasts and blackened out by shadows.

The wait isn’t long. Her voice breaks through the quiet of the earth below her feet, seems to light up even the space between the two of them as her footfalls halt only several paces away.

“Look at this one!,” she calls out.

Several steps follow after her as one of the ladies of the river comes to join her. He imagines the smile on his beloved’s face, the way her body curves as she kneels down to his trap and his fingers twitch in anticipation of what’s to come.

“Maybe not that one, sweet,” the nymph warns. “There are prettier ones by the bank.”

König can feel his jaw tighten, eyelids pausing to narrow up at the small light as he tries, forces himself to believe that this was fated. She wouldn’t turn away— she couldn’t.

“No... just look at it. We’ve not seen one so lovely since last spring.”

“What if someone else planted it for themselves?”

“But… I want it.”

She sounds so pitiful, so gentle, and he can feel that swell of heat curling inside of him again. The urge to simply love her feels all-consuming with each word that passes from her mouth.

The two above giggle to themselves at her mischief, before finally, the roots begin to move from a gentle tug above. In a matter of seconds, the entire plant has been uprooted. For a daughter of nature to not long for its beauty would be unrealistic, yet he still exhales his relief. The earth riots beneath the women’s feet, splintering cracks and loud discordance echo through the valley. The nymph’s shrieks join the disarray as her featherlight footfalls lead her far, far away from what belongs to him: the dark, the rot, and now her.

With so little time to react, she falls headfirst into the abyss, clutching the narcissus tightly between her soft breasts. Waiting arms are raised to the glimpse of sun and beauty to catch her as he pulls her tightly against his chest, tucks her head against a broad shoulder and grasps at her waist. Whatever he had imagined her flesh to feel like paled in comparison to her warmth, the softness that gives with each press of a digit that makes her tense beneath his touch.

She’s crying, shaking, terrified as she weakly raises her head and offers him a smile. It’s the kind of smile that screams savior, and he can’t bring himself to correct her. No one has ever looked at him with such tenderness.

Everything quiets the moment she looks up to him like that, after condemning herself to him as though she knows nothing of men and gods. She looks at him like he’s an angel, in turn he bites his tongue so hard he can feel the pinpricks of blood and soreness blossom from the wound. He knows he isn’t good, but the heavens have got their filth, too.

“Thank you.” She speaks in a whisper as the world above falls back into place, blanketing them both in shadow and the scent of soil and brimstone. Politeness seems unnecessary, now, though he places her gently onto her feet.

He’s far too mesmerized to stop himself from dropping to his knees in front of her and trailing a hand from her knee to her thigh, squeezing flesh so warm that the very feeling lingers pleasantly against his palm.

If a god couldn’t pluck him from this emptiness and set him on a right path, perhaps a goddess could, as he has always imagined. It’s only confirmed the instant he realizes she isn’t flinching away from his touch.

“I didn’t save you,” he explains calmly.

He’s struck down titans, claimed rulership over the underworld, and yet nothing has made him feel smaller than the fretful look in her eyes as she looks down to him kneeling before her like little more than a common man. As if to provide comfort, selfishly to himself, his massive hands drift higher to rest on her hips still wet with river water and blades of grass clinging to her just as he has longed to do. For what’s felt like an eternity of waiting, of pining, only to have it end with something as simple as a flower.

“I brought you here.”

She’s still beautiful when she cries; a palm is clasped over her mouth, eyes swimming as she trembles in his grip. Of course, she knows what this is about without ever having to ask, yet she still does as if to plead him to tell her that her thoughts are all wrong— that she’s safe and will return to her lovely friends, to her mother that would assuredly be worried sick and furious.

The rise to his feet feels like a mile long stretch, whilst he keeps her caged between the dirty wall and the vast expanse of chest. He shushes her with a gentle tone, wipes her tears away with the ghosting of fingertips before pushing up the veil covering his face to lie claim to her mouth as though his very life depended upon it. Perhaps it did. Though he did not fear Demeter, nor his brothers should she call upon them, he feared not having this ethereal, gentle thing at his side. He feared the creep of loneliness that ravaged his bed each night.

She sighs against his mouth, but does not reciprocate. Everything about her is tense and stressed, a wild mare preparing to kick out for the first time. His tongue lolls out to lap against her soft lips, just twice before he forces himself to part from her.

His beloved brushes away stray tears from her cheeks with the meat of her palms, shivering just a little as she tries to force herself to straighten up, appear braver despite the way she teeters on the edge of falling apart so easily before him. The heavy gaze of obsession fixed upon his face turns further predacious when she apologizes for not being able to help herself in response.

“I didn’t know it was yours,” she explains, holding out the ruined flower to him in one, shaking hand. She protests in her own way, eternally kind, but it all falls on deaf ears as he brushes the petals from her palm and takes her up into his arms again. With an arm beneath the backs of her knees and the other wrapped tightly around her middle, he leads her deeper into the underworld.

A mere taste wouldn’t do.

Her protests are nothing more than soft sniffles when he does take her to his bed of pelts, her arm even thrown over his shoulder as her body presses tightly to him. He thinks for only a moment that he could take his time, stop this all before she truly does grow to loathe him, but the descent into the bed only fortifies his resolve; his belief that this gentle woman of the earth, who smells of magnolia and clear waters belonged entirely to him. For now and forevermore.

“You are to be my wife.”

That quiets her for a moment, her eyes finally meeting his once more as he hovers over her, a palm to either side of her head. She has a mind to shyly curl her hand against her chest then, centered between her breasts which rise and fall with each flighty breath. It’s not panic, but more— curiosity, a misleading thing that he takes to be acceptance until she graces him with a mere murmur of her voice again.

“I don’t belong here.”

König knows that she doesn’t belong in a place like this, for all her grace to be lost to the cold, the rot; his kingdom is nothing but a wasteland riddled with the dead and subjects who take up the mantle of cruelty in his stead. The thought of actually allowing her to go instills rage and melancholy so quickly, he curls his fingers into the fur below to keep himself from flinching.

“You will.”

A digit reaches to trail across her bottom lip, tentative, but the need to touch overwhelms him past the point of caring for much else. To his amazement, she still does not push him away.

“How could that be?”

He doesn’t respond.

More than bedding her, a matter more pressing pushes to the forefront of his mind. Though he knows the likelihood of anyone being aware of her disappearance is nonexistent, a mere whisper from the beaks of crows by this time, he would do well to ensure that she wasn’t leaving. Just as every other soul resigned to dwell here with him, she too would remain.

“You’re famished,” he whispers the suggestion as he splays a palm out over her bare abdomen, only backing away enough to allow her a small length of space between them.

Her concerned stare shoots from his palm to his veil in an instant before she weakly nods her head and props herself up on her elbows.

“Quite… yes.”

She allows herself to be pulled into his lap without a fuss, doesn’t make mention of the hardened cock beneath her. His mind is swimming with the fantasies that kept him tame on so many nights without her as he presses his nose against her temple. A shallow intake of breath, and her lips part readily for him as he pushes the sweet pomegranate seed into her mouth, savoring the brush of her tongue against his fingertip. She eats without thought, never knowing how she’s tethered herself to his plane.

There’s an offering of sweet wine followed by a gathering of honeysuckle for her to sip the nectar from as well before he’s convinced she’s pliant enough. Despite the desire raging within him for all of this time, he would not be cruel to her. The thought of hurting this sweet, little dream doesn’t excite him. It’s her love that he wants, not her anguish.

He lies her back with sweet whispers, gentle caresses as he listens to her murmurs in response. She speaks of the stories only small creatures would know; the way the winds change and the rivers flood, the prettiest places she’s been. No fruit has ever tasted sweeter to her than the pomegranate, and nothing has ever filled him with such emotion as the moment he penetrates her.

He speaks to her through it, tries to, whilst he’s overcome with a pleasure that assuredly no other has ever had the blessing of. She affixes herself perfectly to him, clinging to him as he takes her with gentle thrusts. Gritted teeth and barely contained grunts are met with dulcet mewls as her hands reach for his. His heart aches, truly, at the knowledge that she isn’t meant for this place; his kingdom is nothing but suffering, and she belongs beneath the sun in meadows of flowers. His last thrust is deep, reminds him of the places he dares not tread often, the domains of his brothers, pillow soft clouds and a heaven far above, lost to him.

It’s her consoling him when he fills her to bursting with his seed— delicate arms curling around his head, cradling him against her breasts as she silenced the tears he hadn’t even realized he had shed. He had damned her, yet her soul had not soured; not all flowers withered in the dark.

The endless night is easier on his beloved after the first. She visits with the other souls and comes to him for comfort when the screams and cries in the darkness become too much to bear. She’s less fragile than he had anticipated when she demands he bring her home, and those demands so often end with little else than König taking her into his arms to lead her elsewhere. The underworld can be beautiful too, when seated upon a throne being hand fed by a man that knows little more than to blanket her in as much softness as he can muster. He tells her of the titanomachy, of the white tree, of anything to keep her entertained. His tongue does not shy from telling her that he loves her, too, often met with a shy glance or a soft giggle. Not outright disdain, and for now it feels enough.

She cries often, in longing for her mother and her friends, though never over this love she had never sought herself. Her loneliness only fuels her need for comfort. Selfishly, he believes that he’s saved the night she willingly wraps her arms around him, pulls him close and falls asleep nestled against his chest.

— — —

With the reliance on mortal offerings and Demeter’s anguish having been brought to light with seasons of failed harvests, it was only a matter of time before she was forced away from him. The months without her feel dreadful and empty, but he doesn’t dare disturb her while she walks the earth at her mother’s side. The agreement was beneficial for all of the gods and goddesses, and he knew better than to tread upon it by rushing to her like little more than a pleading dog. When winter took hold, bathing the lands in its icy touch and withering the plants she cherished and freezing over the rivers her nymphs played in, she would return to him as she must.

Each time is different. His beloved is not simply a thoughtless vessel as many of his subordinates. She is the most incredible thing he’s ever had the joy of meeting.

When she returns in tears, calling to him for his comfort he does not hesitate to kiss them all away and remind her that her summers will return and everything above will be just as it was on the day that he brought her below.

Sometimes, she’s angry, jealous even. She asks him often why he doesn’t come to see her while she’s away. He is her husband, after all. Was there anyone else in which he spent his nights with? Someone fairer than even she? The satisfaction of seating her on his cock, satisfying her as she does him on their shared throne far out rivals even ruling the domain itself. He would do anything to prove to her that she was his only; the sole thing he even thought of whilst her mind was filled with new songs and tales from the nymphs she spent her time away with.

Never has she returned with a gift.

Yet, she stumbles back into his realm clutching a small satchel, dripping with the scent of a juice sweet and familiar. A pleasant smile paints her features as she seats herself next to him on the throne. The bench of marble felt far too vast and dreadful to hold someone so delicate, the sight is something he’s grown accustomed to; emptiness is replaced with familiarity seeing her interact with anything here. It may not be home to her, but something in the way she looks to him— as she always had with tenderness, makes him question if a part of her sees him as home.

“I’ve brought something back for you,” she chimes as she pats her thigh.

Each time was different, but it had never been like this before.

He pulls himself to her side before slumping down to rest his head against her, tracing his fingertips along the length of her leg as his gaze drops almost sheepishly.

“Did you?”

She hums in reply, plucking one of the seeds from the satchel before slipping her hand beneath the veil to feed him. His lips part as he takes in the flavor of the aril, the honeyed taste almost akin to the look in her eyes.

“Just like…” She trails off for a moment as she lowers her head to press a kiss to the cheek of his veiled face. The delicate laugh that follows is unlike any he’s heard from her prior, it’s unique, saved solely for him.

“The six that I fed to you?” He asks her quietly, as he pulls himself away from her to meet her eyes directly. The air around them feels thick, loosely charged with a feeling that he can’t quite place; an intensity that he’s never felt before. Any groaning or wailing off in the abyss is silent now, just quiet words spoken.

Things have always felt warmer since her descent, but he’s learned to not expect anything more than she was willing to give. Still, hope cinches his heart tighter than it ever did prior. Even in battle, slaying his father alongside his brothers, he had never felt his heart race the way it does now.

She nods her head, opening up the satchel just wide enough to reveal the other five arils.

“I don’t think that I understand.”

“You should.”

He mulls over that for a moment before the fog finally clears. Any doubt that he had is remedied by a mere two words. He stares at her dumbly, searching her eyes for any hint that this is some horrible, cruel trick; that the implication is something he’s horribly misunderstood.

She couldn’t possibly come to love him… could she?

“To tie you to me,” she says softly.

The smile remains on her face when she closes the distance to kiss him. Not over the veil, but beneath it this time.

Her descent was one of a selfish longing, and his felt as though he was plunging into a world of flowers.

[shdysders]

merry christmas, please don’t call

pairing: jenna ortega & female reader

summary: in which jenna spends christmas alone, reflecting on the what she used to have, and what she’s left with.

word count: 4.5k

The hotel room felt suffocating, even in its forced cheer.

The staff had done their best to make it festive—a tiny artificial tree sat on the desk, adorned with gold and red baubles, and a garland stretched awkwardly across the headboard.

Someone had left a peppermint-scented candle on the bedside table, unlit, but its cloying sweetness lingered in the air. It was the kind of decoration meant to feel cozy, but to Jenna, it only emphasized how hollow everything felt.

She sat in bed, propped up by too-soft pillows that sagged against the headboard. The blanket was bunched in her lap, her legs curled beneath it, but the chill in the air clung to her skin.

Turning her head, she could see the window partially cracked open. Beyond the glass, the street below glowed with strings of multicolored Christmas lights, their reflections dancing faintly on the walls of her room.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine the sounds of the street: the distant hum of carolers, the faint jingle of a Salvation Army bell, the chatter and laughter of families walking between shops still open late for the holiday rush. But she didn't need to imagine. The muffled noise seeped in through the window, each cheerful note like a knife twisting deeper.

She leaned her head back against the headboard, letting her gaze linger on the window. The flicker of a streetlight caught her eye, the faint stutter in its glow matching the rhythm of her own restless thoughts. The warmth and noise outside felt like it belonged to another world entirely. One she'd willingly shut herself out of.

Here, in this small, overdecorated room, there was only silence. Well, almost silence. Just her and the heavy pulse of her anger, pressing against her ribs like a second heartbeat.

The streetlight flickered again, a weak pulse that struggled to keep rhythm with the night. Jenna watched it absently, the irregular pattern syncing with the tension in her body—the way her jaw clenched, her fingers curled into the blanket, the tightness that never really left her chest. The tempo of her uptight, she thought bitterly. If anyone could describe her like that, it'd be you.

This moment, this stillness, wasn't new. She knew it too well, the way it always crept in after a fight or, worse, after she'd pushed you too far.

Time always slowed down in moments like this, as if it wanted her to sit in her mess, to take a good, long look at what she'd done. The silence wasn't kind; it didn't offer peace or comfort. It was sharp-edged and deliberate, like the universe's way of saying: Here. This is what you've made.

And time was strangely calm now, wasn't it? Outside, the world kept moving—families bustling down the street, the faint echoes of carolers drifting up—but here, it felt like everything had stopped. Everyone was gone. Everyone, especially you.

Her gaze fell back to the unlit candle on the bedside table. She hated the way it sat there, like it was taunting her. It was supposed to feel warm, comforting, like Christmas should. But all she could see was the way its wick curled, blackened from some previous use. Something burned out. Something that didn't quite work anymore.

It was just her now. Her and the anger that never really went away. She felt it simmer beneath the surface, like it was waiting for her to try and shove it aside, so it could come roaring back, stronger than ever. But there was no one left to yell at now. No one left to take it out on.

It was just her and her anger.

Jenna let out a long breath, her fingers gripping the edge of the blanket as her thoughts spiraled again.

She couldn't stop thinking about what you would say to someone if they asked why it ended. Would you tell them the truth? That the version of her you'd loved—the version everyone else seemed to worship—wasn't real? That your golden girl wasn't golden at all when it was just the two of you?

She hated how much that thought stung. But she couldn't deny it. You'd seen every crack, every sharp edge, every angry word she hadn't been able to hold back. And she hated even more that you were right to leave.

Golden girl. The words echoed in her head, but they weren't yours, not really. They were her own. Her own bitter acknowledgment of the way she'd pretended to be something she wasn't. She'd been yours, but she hadn't been kind. Not the way she should have been.

It was easier, she realized, to blame you in the beginning. To tell herself that you just didn't understand the pressure she was under, that you expected too much, that you were too sensitive. But now, sitting here in this empty room, she couldn't outrun the truth.

You hadn't been the problem. She had. She'd been awful. Every time.

She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. The weight of her own anger was crushing, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache of missing you.

If you ever talked about her to someone else, what would you say? Would you tell them how she had pushed you away, how she always made you feel like you were in the wrong? Or would you soften the truth, protect her the way you always did, even when she didn't deserve it?

Jenna squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could block out the flood of memories. The way you used to hold her, the way you always seemed to know when she needed it most. But now, she didn't want to be held. Not by you, not by anyone. Not when it was too late.

Don't hold me like you know me. The words felt like they belonged to you, as if you'd whispered them in her ear the last time she reached for you. The memory made her chest tighten, sharp and unbearable.

She didn't deserve comfort. She didn't deserve you.

If this was what forever felt like—burning in the emptiness she'd created—then she supposed she'd earned it.

Her chest tightened as the memory of your face came flooding back. Not the happy, easy smile she had fallen for, but the guarded expression that had become more familiar as time went on. She didn't like to admit it, but she could see now how her anger had drained the light from you, piece by piece.

You used to be so vibrant, so full of life. But by the end, you had grown so quiet. Careful. Like every step you took had to be measured, every word chosen with precision, or you'd accidentally set her off again.

Jenna's stomach churned as she remembered the way you'd tread through your shared apartment, as if walking on glass. That's what it had felt like—fragile and dangerous, the ground beneath you constantly threatening to break. She hated herself for not seeing it then, for not realizing how suffocating it must have been to live like that. To live with her.

The apartment had always felt too big after you left. Empty. Cold. Haunted, almost. She'd walk through the halls and see pieces of you everywhere—your favorite mug still on the counter, the blanket you always curled up with thrown over the arm of the couch. It was as though you had left your ghost behind, lingering in the spaces you used to fill with warmth and laughter.

But now, sitting here in this lonely hotel room, Jenna saw the truth for what it was: She was the one who had haunted that home. She had filled it with her anger, her outbursts, her inability to handle the pressure of her own life. And in the process, she had turned the place you were supposed to share into a prison.

It was no wonder you had been dying there. Slowly, quietly, but dying all the same.

She buried her face in her hands again, the weight of it all crushing her. She had thought she was losing herself back then, but she hadn't stopped to see what it was doing to you. The way it had chipped away at your spirit until there was barely anything left.

Jenna exhaled shakily, her shoulders trembling as she tried to pull herself together. She could still see the way you'd looked at her the last time you fought, your voice low and steady as you said you couldn't do it anymore. There was no anger in your words, no blame—just exhaustion.

She hadn't understood it then. She thought you were giving up, throwing away everything you had together. But now, she could see it for what it really was: survival.

The faint sound of church bells rang in the distance, marking the passage of time she wasn't sure she wanted to measure. Whether it was Christmas Eve or the day after didn't really matter. All she knew was that she was here, in this hotel room, and you weren't.

Jenna's eyes burned as she stared out the window, the kaleidoscope of Christmas lights on the street below blurring into a messy swirl. The toughest part wasn't the emptiness of the room or even the ache that sat like a lump in her throat. It was the fact that she knew—you both knew—why she had ended up here, alone.

She could try to blame it on the demands of her career, the endless hours on set, the constant pressure to be perfect. That had always been the easiest excuse. But deep down, she understood that wasn't the real reason. Not entirely.

It wasn't the work itself, but the way she let it bleed into every corner of her life. She carried the stress home with her, let it fester and twist her into someone she didn't even recognize. And instead of addressing it, she lashed out—at you, the one person who had been there, trying so hard to hold her together when she couldn't do it herself.

But it wasn't just the yelling, was it? It was the way she'd made you feel like you were the problem, like you weren't doing enough, weren't patient enough, weren't good enough. She could still hear the echoes of her own voice, sharp and cutting, as if saying those things would somehow make the pressure inside her head ease.

It hadn't. All it had done was drive you away.

And now here she was, on her own, because she had chosen to hold onto the one thing that didn't need her in return. Work was safe. It was steady. It didn't look at her with hurt in its eyes or ask her why she was so angry all the time. It didn't make her feel guilty for being exactly who she had become.

But it wasn't enough. Not now, not tonight, not when all the lights and sounds of the holiday seemed to mock her, reminding her of what she used to have.

You had been hers once. And she had been yours. But her own anger and pride had turned something beautiful into something unbearable. You had left to save yourself, and even though she hated how it had ended, she couldn't blame you.

The truth was, you'd been right to walk away. She had chosen her work over you, over everything you'd built together. She could pretend it had been an accident, that she hadn't seen it coming—but that wasn't true.

She had known exactly what she was doing.

And so had you.

Jenna leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly at the dim, uneven glow of the streetlights outside. But it wasn't the flicker of Christmas lights or the faint hum of carolers that filled her mind.

It was last Christmas. The one she spent with you.

She could still remember the way your face lit up as you dragged the tree into your shared apartment, snow dusting your coat and hair. You'd insisted on picking the perfect one yourself, even though it was too big to fit without rearranging half the furniture. She had laughed at you that day, teasing you for your over-the-top enthusiasm, but secretly, she'd loved every second of it.

You'd spent the whole evening decorating together, untangling lights and bickering over where to hang each ornament.

She remembered how you had stood on tiptoes to reach the higher branches, only to have the star at the top lean precariously to the side. She'd held your waist to steady you, her fingers lingering even when the task was done. The warmth of your laughter had filled the room, a sharp contrast to the cold wind rattling the windows outside.

She remembered the gifts, too—the thought you'd put into each one. Little things that showed how well you knew her: the vintage film camera she'd been eyeing for months, a sweater she'd once mentioned offhandedly, even the snacks she loved but rarely bought for herself.

It was all so simple, so perfect. She hadn't even realized, in that moment, how much she'd taken for granted.

But now, the memories felt sharper, more vivid than they had any right to be. Each one was a reminder of what she'd lost—and more importantly, what she'd destroyed.

Because the truth was, she hadn't deserved any of it. Not your laughter, not your love, not the way you'd always been patient with her, even when she didn't make it easy.

She hadn't deserved the way you'd always waited for her to come home from set, no matter how late it was, or the way you'd tried to smooth over the cracks in your relationship, even when she'd refused to admit they were there.

This Christmas was different. No tree, no laughter, no gifts. Just the cold, impersonal glow of the hotel room decorations and the heavy weight of her own regret.

She wondered what you were doing now. Were you with your family? Friends? Had you moved on? The thought of you celebrating without her shouldn't have hurt—it was exactly what she deserved—but it did. It stung in a way she couldn't quite put into words.

The memories weren't always this loud. Or maybe she just wasn't usually this still, this quiet, with nothing to drown them out. But tonight, the silence in her room felt suffocating, pulling everything from the back of her mind to the surface, until she couldn't escape it anymore.

She didn't need to be reminded of what she'd lost—she already carried that knowledge like a weight on her chest. But the holidays seemed determined to twist the knife, filling her head with flashes of last year, of the way you'd smiled at her while untangling Christmas lights, or the sound of your laugh when she'd tried (and failed) to hang the garland straight.

Those moments felt impossibly far away now, like they'd belonged to someone else entirely. But they hadn't. They'd belonged to you. To her. To something she'd taken for granted until it slipped through her fingers, as if it had never been hers to hold in the first place.

And then her mind went somewhere darker. Not to the laughter or the gifts, but to that last night. The last time she saw you. She could still picture it, the way your face had looked as you stood by the door, keys in hand, your shoulders tense with exhaustion.

She didn't even remember what the fight had been about—did it matter anymore?—but she remembered the way you'd turned, looking at her like you'd already made your peace with leaving.

Your voice had been calm, too calm, as you said the words that still echoed in her head every time she thought of calling you.

"Please don't call me."

It hadn't been a plea, not really. More of a quiet boundary, drawn for your own sake. But it felt final, like you were begging her not to drag you back into the cycle you'd both been trapped in for so long. She hadn't been able to argue, not this time.

Because you'd been right. She always called. Every time. After every fight, every lashing out, every dramatic exit. It didn't matter if she'd stormed out claiming she needed space, or if you'd left first, needing a moment to breathe—she always found herself dialing your number in the end.

Sometimes it was to ask you to come pick her up from some bar where she'd gone to cool off. Sometimes it was to mumble apologies she didn't know how to make stick.

It was a pattern, predictable and toxic in its own way. She'd lash out, and you'd hold your ground until you couldn't anymore. She'd leave, then call, and you'd come back. It had always been like that. Until the day it wasn't.

She stared at her phone now, the blank screen almost daring her to break the silence. Her hand hovered over it for a moment, her thumb itching to open your contact and tap the button she'd worn out so many times before. But she didn't.

Because this time, she could almost hear your voice again, that calm, steady tone you'd used that night: Don't call me.

She imagined you now, wherever you were, sitting by a tree with your family or curled up on a couch with friends. She imagined you hearing the faint buzz of your phone, glancing at it and seeing her name on the screen. And she imagined the way your face would fall, the way you'd probably sigh before setting the phone down, turning it over so you wouldn't have to look at it again.

The thought hurt more than it should have. Not just because she knew it was true, but because she couldn't even blame you for it. You had every reason not to want to hear from her.

"Merry Christmas," she murmured to herself, the words bitter in her mouth. Her fingers curled into her palm, pulling back from the phone. The silence stretched on, and for once, she let it.

The weight of her gaze had always been too much. It wasn't the kind of look that made you feel seen or understood; it was sharper than that, heavier. It pinned you in place, dissecting, analyzing, always searching for something to pick apart.

You used to think it was love, the way she watched you so closely, like you were the center of her world. But over time, it started to feel like something else—like a cage made of her expectations, her disappointments, her silent judgments.

Even now, with her miles away, you could still feel it. That gaze, that suffocating pressure, etched into your memory like a scar. You didn't need to be in the same room to feel it bearing down on you, its weight impossible to shake.

And then there was the cycle. God, the cycle. It always started the same way: a moment of calm, of almost-normalcy, before the tension crept back in. Before she found some tiny crack in the foundation, some flaw she could magnify until it became all either of you could see.

The arguments would spiral, the silences would stretch, and then it would end the way it always did—with you forgiving her, with her promising it wouldn't happen again, with the carousel spinning back to where it started.

Jenna didn't mean for it to feel that way, but she knew it did. She'd catch herself staring too long, scrutinizing every little move you made as if she were trying to control you with her mind. It wasn't about finding flaws, she told herself; it was about understanding you, knowing you.

But somewhere along the way, the intention got lost. It turned into something uglier, something possessive. She hated how tightly she clung, how desperately she needed to know what you were thinking, what you were feeling. It never felt like enough—she could never hold enough of you to quiet the storm in her head.

The worst part was that Jenna knew the carousel wouldn't stop spinning. Not for you, not for her, not for anyone. It wasn't as simple as stepping off. She could tell herself all the lies in the world—that she could fix this, that she could fix herself—but the truth was, she didn't know how. And as much as she wanted to blame you for walking away, for giving up on her, deep down, she knew it wasn't your fault.

She was the one who kept the ride moving. The one who turned every quiet moment into a battlefield, every gentle glance into a test you didn't even know you were taking. She was the one who built the carousel, brick by brick, and then dragged you onto it without ever asking if you wanted to ride.

Even now, alone in this hotel room, she could still hear the echoes of the cycle. The biting words, the slammed doors, the desperate apologies that never really meant anything because they were always followed by another explosion. She could still see the way you'd look at her in those moments—tired, hollow, like you were slipping away right in front of her.

The snowfall outside was soft, steady, blanketing the world in a quiet Jenna couldn't seem to find within herself.

She looked out the window, her phone idle on the table beside her, and let her eyes wander over the frost-laced streets below.

It was the kind of night meant for joy, for warmth, for celebration. Families rushing home with last-minute gifts. Couples pulling their scarves tighter as they walked hand in hand through the cold. Friends laughing as they spilled out of taxis.

She should've been out there. With you.

Her chest ached at the thought, like a sharp tug on a thread that unraveled everything. Every part of her life she'd spent building now lay in ruins, all because she couldn't be the person you deserved.

She could almost picture it: you walking through the snow, your arms full of poorly wrapped gifts, cursing at the wind and laughing at yourself because you knew you'd overdone it again.

You'd have dragged her along, insisted on stopping at every light display, every tree lot, every tiny moment that felt like Christmas.

Jenna had ruined that.

She could still see the changes in you, even now, though it had been months since she'd last seen your face. She hadn't noticed them at first—too wrapped up in her own frustrations, too preoccupied with her work and her temper to see how much it was costing her.

But it was clear now, stark and undeniable. The light in your eyes had dimmed. The way you held yourself had shifted, like you were bracing for impact every time she walked into the room. The joy you used to carry so effortlessly had eroded, little by little, under the weight of her anger, her words, her constant demands.

She thought of the Christmas’s before, the ones you'd spent together. The way you'd worked tirelessly to make it perfect, putting up the tree alone because she was too busy to help.

You'd spent hours wrapping gifts for her, though you knew she didn't care about presents. It was the effort that mattered to you, the way it showed love. She hadn't understood that then.

The memory twisted like a knife now. She hadn't even opened most of those gifts. They were still in the closet of the apartment you used to share, untouched and gathering dust. Just another symbol of everything she'd taken for granted.

And now? Now she was here, alone, staring at a world she no longer felt a part of. You weren't there to pull her out of her head, to remind her that there was more to life than her endless need to be in control.

She clenched her jaw, her hand tightening around the edge of the table as the guilt surged again, stronger this time. It always came back to the same realization: she'd done this.

She'd pushed you away, worn you down, and now all she had left were the memories of the person you used to be—the person she'd destroyed.

Jenna's gaze fell to the phone. For a fleeting second, she thought about calling. Apologizing. Begging. But what could she even say? There weren't words for the damage she'd done, for the ways she'd broken you. And even if there were, you didn't owe her forgiveness.

Somewhere out there, you were moving on. She tried to convince herself of that, that you were laughing and celebrating and happy without her. It was the only comfort she could cling to, even if it felt like a dagger every time she imagined it.

Jenna now sat by the window, the phone heavy in her hand as she stared at the quiet street below. Christmas lights blinked from the lampposts, their warm glow reflecting off the patches of ice and snow.

She could see a family unloading their car, arms filled with brightly wrapped presents, laughter echoing faintly through the glass. Her chest ached at the sight.

This wasn't how the night was supposed to be. She was supposed to be with you. You were supposed to be the one curling up next to her on the couch, sharing blankets and cheap champagne. Instead, she was alone, the apartment feeling impossibly cold despite the thermostat turned higher than usual.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. She wanted to call you. Every part of her screamed to just do it, to hear your voice, even if it was only for a moment. Maybe you wouldn't even answer. Maybe you'd see her name flash across the screen and let it go to voicemail.

She didn't blame you.

Her mind wandered back to last Christmas again, the way you'd made everything feel magical despite the fights that had already started to pile up between you. She'd never been good at holidays, but you'd been determined to change that.

It was hard to think about now. Hard to hold onto the good memories when they were tainted by everything that had come after. The shouting, the silences, the way she'd always found a way to push you away, even when all you wanted was to stay.

And now? You weren't hers anymore.

She closed her eyes, your voice echoing in her head—Don't call me this time. You'd said it so calmly, so firmly, that she hadn't even fought back. For once, she'd let you go, thinking she'd have time to fix it later.

But now it was Christmas, and she was here, and you were somewhere else, living a life that didn't include her.

She lowered the phone onto the table, her throat tight as she stared at the blank screen. Calling wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring you back.

And that was the hardest part of all.

And when she closed her eyes, all she could hear was your voice that night. Although a few words were added onto it.

Merry christmas, please don't call.