#it's time to beat them to death with hammers

[mayahours]

7 minutes

A stupid game of Seven Minutes in Heaven cracks you both open. In the dim light, confessions slip out—and so does the hunger. It pulls you together, quiet and undeniable.

18+ mdni! sylus x reader. mean and jealous sylus. exhibitionism. mentions of alcohol. MENTIONS OF YOUR EX.(tw for the traumatized ones! me too) sex with panties on. reader helps sylus put it in. hair pulling. neck biting.

give it a listen while reading!

Your peers, drunk and jubilant—shove you and Sylus into a dim, empty room. A single bed sits like an altar in the center, bathed in the flickering light of scattered candles. Shadows dance along the walls, mocking the childish ritual everyone insisted on reviving.

“Have fun, you two.” A friend giggles, their face like a menace as they close the door behind them.

Seven Minutes in Heaven. A game for teenagers, not the ghosts you’ve all become.

Your breath catches in your throat. Sylus doesn’t move, but his neck twists with an audible crack, his gaze snapping toward you, like a compass finding north.

“We’re not in fucking college,” he spits, venom curling in every syllable. His tongue clicks sharply against his teeth as his hands drag down his face, frustration etched into every line. “This is pathetic.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already continuing, voice edged in scorn.

“Why the hell did you even agree to this? What are you, fifteen?” His crimson eyes bore into you, not with fury, but something colder. He’s irritated, exhausted, and you’re the misfortunate target standing in his line of fire.

You falter, trying to explain, trying to find the words to deflect the heat of his stare. “My ex,” you whisper, throat dry. “They—”

He cuts you off, stepping on your words like a death match. “You wanted to make them jealous?” His tone rises with disbelief. “Is that it? You thought dragging someone in here would have them fuming?”

You can’t meet his eyes. You look down instead, as if the floor might open up and swallow you whole. “Even if I hadn’t agreed... they still would’ve played. Everyone wanted to. I—it was a majority win.”

He scoffs, disgust curling his lips as he rakes his gaze down your frame like judgment. “But you did agree,” he says, bitterly triumphant. “So that’s on you.”

A beat. Then, with a cruel twist of the mouth, he adds, “Didn’t your ex cheat on you? Why the hell are you still performing for them?” He gestures vaguely toward the door, disdain thick in his voice. “Why give them anything?”

You fumble for words. “My ex ain’t the only reason,” you murmur, nerves unraveling. The air between you grows hot, charged. You bite your lip, fingers tangling around each other, betraying you.

“Oh?” He tilts his head, something darker gleaming in his eyes. “Let me guess. There’s someone else here you’ve got a stupid little crush on?” His voice drops, laced with mockery. “Someone you’re hoping will notice?”

You look up at him, heart hammering like war drums in your chest, the nerves rushing through your veins like wildfire. Your mouth parts, but your voice stumbles out in fragments. Your mind knows the truth before your lips are ready to speak it.

He was the reason. The man who kept you company through silent nights, the one whose words you read between, searching for meaning in the quiet spaces. At times, he is the sweetest soul you’ve ever known; tender, gentle, impossibly kind. And at other times, he burns with a distant anger, as if he’s trying to forget you ever existed, just like right now. You ache for the sweetness you once held close, now drifting like distant galaxies, silent and unreachable.

“Um... yeah,” you murmur, eyes flicking to the floor like it might save you from your own confession. Shame sears through you. What the hell did you just say? Your chest tightens. You feel foolish, small. You dare not look at him again.

“I know you like me too, Sylus.” The words leave your mouth before you can take them back. Your heart stops. Time shudders. You want to vanish.

Sylus stares at you, stunned; like you’d just slapped him. His expression twists, not in kindness, but in incredulity.

“What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, recoiling. “Why can’t you just be normal and say how you feel, instead of pulling stunts like this?”

Your shame hardens into something else; indignation. You rise with it, fists curling. “What are you even talking about? At least I try. At least I shoot my shot.”

“Yeah,” he says, with a bitter laugh. “Well, you missed.”

The words strike you like a gun to your chest. You flinch internally, but wear your pain in silence. His sarcasm coils around your body like a snake, suffocating.

You take a step back. The distance feels safer. Your legs give in, and you sink to the edge of the bed. The candles around you flicker with your breath, with your defeat. You look anywhere but at him.

He follows.

Still burning, but his fury ebbed, dissolving into something more tender.

“You know,” he says, standing over you, arms crossing over his chest but his voice softening, “I did feel the same way. I do. But this? This was the wrong move. I didn’t want to be dragged into some childish game.”

You let out a frustrated groan, pressing your forehead to your knees. “Me neither,” you say, muffled. “I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

But of course, it had to get worse.

Because the rules of the game weren’t just a joke; they were a trap. The pair inside the room wasn’t meant to just sit and stew in awkward confessions. No, the bare minimum was a kiss, not just a sweet peck on the cheek, but something deeper. Erotic. Lingering.

And now here you were. The bed behind you. The candles around you. The weight of your words hanging between you like thunder.

And Sylus is still watching you. Breathing hard. Trying to decide whether to walk out that door or reach for you.

“I wanted to see where things might go with you,” The man mutters, his voice striked with frustration, but beneath it, something almost soft, almost real. “But not like this. Not in some idiotic party surrounded by people I don’t even know.”

The words hit like a balm. A cracked bandage pressed against the wound of your heart. You blink up at him, tears glassing your eyes, your lips trembling into a deeper frown.

He scoffs, suddenly averting his gaze, almost as if your sadness embarrasses him. But then, unexpectedly, his hand rises to your cheek. Not in comfort, not quite — just enough to stop your spiral. His palm is warm, rough, fleeting.

“Ugh, don’t give me that look,” he mutters, annoyed. “Let’s at least make this believable.”

You sniff, confused. “What do you mean?”

“They want a show, right?” he says, fingers tapping his chin in mock calculation. “Then we give them one. Kissing… maybe more, I don’t know. Whatever sells the fantasy.”

Your breath hitches again.

“When the seven minutes are up, the door swings open, boom! They catch us mid-makeout. Scene complete. Unless…” He raises a brow. “You’d rather chug a bottle of Don Julio and end the night with a blackout instead?”

You grimace. The thought of liquor burning your throat and your dignity doesn’t appeal in the slightest. You shake your head, then reach up and brush his hand away, heart thudding louder.

“I thought you didn’t want to do this,” you snap, voice sharper now, raw.

He rolls his eyes, and then suddenly, the air changes.

In one swift motion, he grabs the hand that had pushed him and slams it down against the bed, pinning your wrist to the mattress. You fall back with a startled gasp, the softness of the comforter doing nothing to cushion the tension that flares between you. He’s above you now, eyes dark, jaw clenched.

“You think I do?” he growls, his voice low, tight with restraint. “I’m trying to do you a favor. Keep your pride intact and avoid a drunk-driving charge all in one move. So the least you could do is stop acting like I dragged you in here.”

You squirm beneath him, stunned, breathless. His grip is firm, but he’s not hurting you; just holding you in place, forcing you to listen. Then, just as quickly, he lets go.

He straightens, running a hand through his hair as if to dispel the moment.

“This sucks,” he mutters, stepping back, pacing like a caged animal. “But it’s what we’ve got.”

The candles flicker behind him. The clock ticks down.

And still, something in your chest, even after everything aches toward him.

You sit up slowly, the mattress sighing beneath you. Disbelief still coils in your chest like smoke; heavy, unshakable. You stare at him, at the storm still settling in his bones, his shoulders, his silence. For a while, you say nothing. You just breathe.

But then, finally, a nod. Barely there. Barely brave.

“Okay,” you whisper, the word nearly swallowed by the knot in your throat. You bite down on your lower lip to steady yourself, but it only tightens the anticipation curling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales, low and guttural, like this costs him something too. “Then c’mere,” he murmurs, voice cracked and rough at the edges.

But his eyes, god, his eyes; they betray him. There’s no disdain in them now, no frustration. Only heat. Only hunger. They look at you like a dream he never asked to have, but can’t stop chasing.

You rise, tentative, your steps slow, delicate, almost hushed. But the slowness makes something inside him snap.

He groans, frustrated, desperate. In one sudden pull, he grabs you, hands flying to your face, fingers threading through your hair and cradling your jaw as he drags you forward.

His lips crash against yours like a storm meeting the shore. Fierce. Unforgiving. Starved. Your breath catches in your chest, your eyes wide for a moment, stunned by the intensity. But then the world fades. The candles blur. The silence grows loud with your pulse.

Your lashes flutter shut. You sink into it.

His grip tightens slightly, anchoring you to the moment. And instinctively, your hands reach for his wrists, fingers curling around them, not to stop him, but to keep him there, to hold onto the fire he’s giving you.

He’s kissing you; deeply, hungrily, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your breath. His hands keep you in place, but his mouth... his mouth moves with growing urgency, like he’s slipping, losing control in the worst and most delicious way.

But even as your heart races, your cheeks flush warm. You go soft, not from disinterest, but from the overwhelming tenderness flooding through you. You kiss him slower, gentler, lips molding against his like a confession you can’t speak aloud.

A sound escapes him; low, guttural. A groan pulled from somewhere deep. Then he pulls away, exhaling hard, his hands releasing your face like you’re made of fire.

“Okay,” he breathes, stepping back a half-pace. The golden light of the candles flickers against his skin, painting him in a glow that makes him look unreal. You stare, dazed, lips parted, still tasting him, still feeling the imprint of his palms on your jaw.

But then his voice cuts through the stillness, sharper now, dissatisfied. “No. You’re too soft.”

Your brow furrows, raising. “What?”

“It’s not convincing,” he says flatly, eyes scanning your face, as if searching for something he can’t quite find. “You’ve gotta do better if you want to get out of here.”

You look around the room, confused. “What do you mean?”

He leans in just enough for the weight of his next words to fall heavy. “Kiss me like you’ve been waiting for it all night.”

Your breath catches. The way he says it, like a challenge, like a plea, like a dare. He takes a step closer, and his voice drops firmly.

“Kiss me like we’re a couple who lives together—and we're about to have some insane sex and then suddenly we get dragged to this stupid party, and now we’ve got to wait until we get home to finish what we started.” He looks at you dead-on. “That kind of kiss.”

The specificity cuts through you like a blade wrapped in silk. It’s too exact. Too vivid. Too lived-in. Had he thought about this before? About you in that way?

You can barely breathe.

His tone is stern, almost reprimanding, but his eyes forsake him again. They're intense, yes, but not cruel. There’s heat behind them. Yearning. He’s not just talking about acting anymore. And you know it.

You swallow hard, your body still, your heart otherwise. His words echo in your mind like a dare you don’t know if you’re brave enough to meet. But part of you wants to. You move before you can think, the silence between you thick and electric.

You grab him by the collar, pulling him down to you, and your lips crash into his with a hunger that's been simmering beneath your skin for weeks. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, your fingers tangling into his silver hair like you've wanted to for far too long.

Sylus stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the sudden urgency, but only for a breath. Then he groans, low and deep, and melts into you. His lips match yours beat for beat, heat for heat. His hand snakes around your waist, fingers tightening with a possessive grip, pulling your hips against his until there's nothing left between you but the thrum of need.

Your body acts before your mind can stop it. You jump into him, legs wrapping tight around his waist. He catches you instantly, like he knew you would do it, like he's wanted you to. His hands shift down, gripping beneath your thighs, and his nails scrape your skin just enough to make you gasp.

The air around you is thick with heat, the candlelight gleams against the walls like it's trying to keep up with your pulse. His breath is ragged against your cheek, and his forehead rests against yours for half a second, his chest rising fast.

"Just like that, baby… Why were you holding out on me, huh?" he mutters, voice rough, almost accusing, but there's wonder in it too. A dazed kind of awe.

You don't answer. You just look at him - flushed, trembling, eyes locked like this is the only moment that's ever mattered. And then you kiss him again, slower this time but deeper, like you mean it.

With careful steps, Sylus comes closer to the bed, sitting down on the soft cushions with you now sitting on his lap. He tugs at your hair, making your head tilt back for his access. His lips separate from yours, trailing down your neck with kisses.

“Been wanting to do this to you,” he growls against your skin, his lips brushing just below your ear, his breath warm, his touch lingering. It sends a shiver down your spine. Your knees threaten to give away, and your fingers press instinctively to his chest, where his heart pounds wild and unrestrained against your palm.

You whimper, the sound escaping before you can even think to hold it back. He’s too close, too intense, and yet, not close enough. The heat of him, the sheer presence of him, drowns everything else out.

“Why’d you have to be dumb about it, though?” he mutters, almost like he’s scolding you but there’s something softer buried beneath the edge. Something that sounds like disappointment, not just in you, but in the time wasted.

“S–sorry… didn’t kno—” you try to answer, but the words tangle in your throat, unraveling as his hand slides into your hair; gripping, tugging, the pressure just shy of pain, just sharp enough to make your breath hitch.

Then, in one smooth, commanding motion, he drags you back down to the bed.

Your back hits the mattress, the room spinning in adrenaline. He hovers over you now, silver hair falling into his eyes, his breath mingling with yours. His gaze pins you in place, heavy, unreadable, but full of something fierce, something that makes your stomach knot and your pulse sing.

“Could’ve made it so special for you,” he murmurs, the regret in his voice slicing between the lust. “If you hadn’t turned it into a childrens’ game.”

His words sting; not cruelly, but truthfully. And they settle somewhere deep in you.

You swallow hard, caught between guilt and solemn, your lips parting like an apology is about to slip out again, or maybe even a plea.

You don't even know if the door is locked. Time has slipped through your fingers like smoke, you've been in here with Sylus for too long, and he seems just as lost in it.

"Sylus... the time," you whisper, your hand falling limp beside your head as your gaze drifts toward the door. Voices hum on the other side, laughter and music bleeding in through the crack beneath it.

"Fuck the time," he breathes against your skin, his lips brushing your jaw, soft and burning. His hips press into yours, slow and deliberate, grinding down with a hunger that makes the room feel smaller. His hand sliding up your wrist and into your hand, fingers intertwined with yours.

"Gonna remind your pathetic ex exactly what they lost," he growls between clenched teeth, each word seething with something deeper than lust; a promise, a fire.

Sylus' mouth trails along your skin, the scrape of his teeth sending a shiver down your spine. A quiet moan escapes you, unbidden, as your hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt, fingers fisting just to stay grounded.

"God, Sylus—" you breathe, hips rising to meet his in a slow, aching rhythm. Desire hums low in your chest, unsteady.

But your eyes flick toward the door—a whisper of fear, the world pressing in. The risk of being seen. The weight of being caught.

His hand finds your face, thumb pressing beneath your chin, lifting, forcing your gaze back to him.

"Look at me," he says, voice low, rough with something no amount of water can quench. “Let’s at least have some fun with this.”

You swallow, your throat tight as you watch his brow knit with raw, aching desire. His gaze holds you captive, those crimson eyes, dark and endless, drawing you in until you're drowning in them, willingly lost.

You finally give in. Your lips find his again, crashing together with a desperate urgency. Tongues meet in a feverish tangle, tasting the need that's been building between you. The risk of being caught fades into nothing, replaced by something far more dangerous; thrilling, intoxicating, you’re almost rushed with excitement.

His hands are on your hips, large and sure, lifting you effortlessly against him. The space between you disappears as he pulls you in, chasing the release he's been aching for with every touch, his cock trembling underneath the fabric of his pants, and you can feel it on your clothed cunt as the pressure hardens.

The kiss never breaks. Neither do you. But your hands move downward with purpose, fingers curling around his waistband, tugging hard in your impatience. He groans into your mouth, helping you with one hand shoving his trousers down, hips shifting as he kicks them off the bed without care.

You follow, shimmying out of your shorts beneath him, discarding them with a toss. There's nothing left between you now, just heat, breath, and the promise of what's to come.

The man pushes your panties to the side, the lace wet and warm against his digits. He keeps it in place with his thumb.

“You’re soaked,” Sylus says, finger gliding up your slick. “Barely even touched you.”

Your cheeks flush at his words, leaving you momentarily speechless. In the silver hush of moonlight, his arm glows, every curve of muscle sculpted in shadow and light. Drawn by something tender and magnetic, you reach out, your fingers gliding along his skin. Where you touch, goosebumps rise beneath your palm, a silent response to your closeness.

“Gonna have my way with you, baby.” His arm cages you in, braced over your head. He leans close, eyes dazed, a wicked grin curving his lips, desire crackling off him, aching to be unleashed, to pour itself into the girl fevered beneath him.

Your hand trails downward, slipping between your tightly pressed bodies. The space is narrow, but your touch finds his cock; tough as bark, pulsing in your grasp. You curl your fingers around him and give a slow, teasing tug. His breath catches, lips parting with a quiet gasp of pleasure. His eyes lock onto yours, silently urging you to go on.

After a few slow strokes of your hand along his length, you guide him to your entrance, your breath catching, body strung tight with need. Your free hand finds the curve of his shoulder, clutching for balance as your anticipation sharpens into ache. With his tip resting at your core and your fingers still wrapped around him, he begins to press in, slow and deliberate.

A gasp escapes you both, shared and unguarded, as he stretches into you. You wince through clenched teeth, the sudden fullness drawing a deep, ragged groan from his throat. His hands grip your thighs, dragging you closer with a desperate pull, needing to feel every inch, to lose himself in the heat of you.

He begins to move with you, every thrust heavy with desire. Your back arches instinctively, breath hitching as your hips surrender, melting into his rhythm. You let him take control, slowly succumbing to the heat between you.

His hand glides from your stomach to the small of your back, pulling you tighter, his body pressing down, grounding you both in this moment. His breath brushes your ear, urgent, as a low groan slips past his lips, raw and bare.

Your moans rise and fall together, a perfect, wordless harmony. Outside, the world fades, the distant noise softens and dims until it's just silence wrapped around you. It's only you and Sylus now, skin to skin.

"Too good, Sy..." Your voice falls away, soft as a sigh, trembling on the edge of breath, head falling back as he pulls you closer under him. He nods, gentle fingers tracing the shimmer of sweat upon your skin, cool and tender against the heat still rising from within.

"Yeah, I know, baby," he murmurs low, a teasing edge curling his words like smoke. "Your ex can’t make you feel this good, right?" His voice wraps around you, both challenge and caress, setting your core aflame. You bite your lip, nails digging lightly into his shoulder, holding on as if to tether yourself to this burning moment.

Your eyes, heavy and glazed with desire, lock with his, silent and unyielding. You shake your head at his rhetoric, and his grin deepens at the sight, fierce and wild, as he drives into you with relentless rhythm, drawing from your throat a moan that trembles, into the charmed air between you.

He chuckles, teasing sound slipping past his lips as his pace quickens, his length driving past that tender spot where pleasure consumes you whole.

"I'll make sure they know," he breathes, voice thick with possession, "you're mine now, baby. Completely."

But his words dissolve into the haze clouding your mind, slipping past comprehension, swallowed by the relentless rush of sensation. Your lips part, uttering nothing but soft, tangled murmurs. Your eyes flutter back, lost in the depths of pleasure, and with every powerful stroke, your fingers lift the sheets below you, clutching them tighter, grasping for something solid amid the sweet, shattering chaos.

“Y-yeah… mmngh—like that. Just like that.” You're babbling now; soft, broken sounds slipping past your lips like prayers, half-formed and breathless.

Words no longer belong to you; they've melted under the weight of sensation, dissolved in the rhythm of his body claiming yours. Sylus watches you closely, and a quiet coo escapes him, sweet, laced with mock affection, like he's savoring the way you fall apart for him.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a velvet hum, thick with pride. "So fucking pretty when you're gone like this..."

His gaze lingers on your face, studying every twitch, every quiver of your mouth, the dazed glassiness in your eyes. You look utterly undone, beautifully ruined, and entirely his.

Inside you, that familiar coil tightens; sharp, burning, exquisite. Each thrust pushes you closer, each stroke dragging across your sweet spot, a velvet trigger that makes your spine arch and your breath catch. You're trembling beneath him, muscles tightening, hips trying to meet his every motion even as your strength fades into the waves overtaking you.

"You're close, aren't you?" he growls softly, more a statement than a question. His words curl against your skin like heat. "Gonna give it to me, baby? Gonna come just for me?"

The sound of your slickness echoes between your bodies, your arousal coating him, wet and shameless.

His lower belly is slick from it, the friction only stoking his hunger. Your walls begin to flutter around him, grasping greedily with every thrust; like your body already knows what it needs, what it craves. The pleasure is white, hot now, swelling, cresting. Sylus feels it too. His breath hitches, a rough, primal growl rising from his chest as your heat clutches him tighter, pulling him deeper into your unraveling.

"That's it," he hisses, voice low and reverent. "Let go for me. Give me all of it."

And just like that, you do. Your body gives in with a shudder that rocks through you, eyes rolling back, hands clawing at the sheets as you're swept under.

He doesn't move.

He just watches you; eyelids heavy with something deeper than lust as your body slowly rides the last waves of your release. You're draped across him, glowing and breathless, hips still rolling in soft, instinctual motions, as though your body refuses to let the moment end.

And you look divine like this.

He sees it all; the way your skin glistens, how your chest rises and falls in shaky, uneven breaths, how your lips part with quiet gasps, trying to recover from the high that still clings to your bones. You're not even aware of the way you move, chasing the echo of what he gave you, but he is.

So he stays still. Buried deep. Letting you take from him what you need, letting your body speak its own language as it trembles around him. He could thrust, could claim more, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he gives you the space to feel, to come down, to revel in your own pleasure.

His hands slide to your hips, just enough pressure to remind you he's still there, still holding you. Not controlling. Just present. Anchoring.

"You don't even know what you do to me," he murmurs, voice low, rough with restraint. His eyes drink you in like you're something sacred-something to be worshipped. "Just look at you... so perfect f’me.”

You can't answer, not yet. You're still floating, your body loose, your muscles clenching around him without rhythm, like aftershocks in a storm.And he takes it all in; the way you surrender, the beauty in your unraveling, and stays there with you, deep and still, like he belongs nowhere else.

Your breath is still uneven, your body still pulsing faintly with aftershocks when the weight of reality suddenly crashes back in. Panic flickers in your chest like a spark catching flame. You sit up quickly, scanning the bed, sheets tangled around your legs as your hands fumble for your phone.

“The time,” you breathe, urgency rising in your voice. “How long have we been in here?”

Sylus glances lazily at the watch on his wrist, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “I’d say… ten minutes. Maybe.”

“Ten?” you echo, eyes wide in disbelief.

You leap out of bed, tugging your shorts back on with hurried hands, fingers shaking with the twisted fabric of your shirt as you try to smooth it back into something that resembles presentable. Sylus chuckles quietly behind you, already slipping into his trousers, still entirely unbothered as he trails after you.

You push open the door. Silence.

The low hum of conversation in the hall dies as heads turn, eyes flicking toward the two of you with a knowing gleam. The air hangs heavy.

“You guys are like… twenty-three minutes past the clock,” someone calls out, tone teasing, laced with amusement.

You stop short. Slowly, you turn your head to Sylus, who stands just a breath away from your side, looking down at you with that same infuriating calm. You do the math.

Ten minutes, he said.

But thirty have passed.

Your heart sinks. Heat floods your cheeks, not from desire this time, but embarrassment, tinged with disbelief.

Thirty long minutes.

“Yeah, alright. Bye, everyone,” Sylus calls out with a casual wave, completely unfazed. His hand slips around your back, drawing you close with that effortless confidence he wears like a second skin.

You keep your eyes low, cheeks burning as you walk beside him, letting him guide you through the quieted crowd. The buzz of whispers trails behind you like a shadow, but Sylus carries you both through it with his usual cool indifference.

Once you’re outside, he glances over at you, that ever-present grin still tugging at the corners of his lips. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs, mischief lacing his voice, “I think your ex noticed.”

You let out a groan, nudging him hard in the side. “You’re the worst.”

He laughs, the sound warm, and then leans in to press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head, so soft it makes your heart catch. You smile, despite yourself.

No more eyes on you now. No more pressure. Just the quiet hum of the night as you both slide into his car, the door closing behind you like the punctuation at the end of a chapter.

“What I said earlier, before, you know…” he murmurs, the car shifting into reverse, easing both of you out of the neighborhood.

“Yeah?” you reply, your head resting against the seat, body melting into the cushions like you’re trying to disappear into the moment.

He glances at you, just once; quick, sharp, but his eyes return to the road.

“You want to finish what we started?”

author's note: wrote this with one hand and the other in my pants—WHO SAID THAT?

also, would you guys appreciate some goth music recs too? or just rnb, let me know :)

also!!! i'm highly aware that there's a possibility u might think this is out of his character. but idrc, just use ur imagination :P

[pianokantzart]

Do you think Movie Mario has a “no kill” rule like other superheroes like Spider-Man and Batman? I don’t think any of Bowser’s troops were killed by Mario in the movie at any point and he didn’t kill Bowser despite everything he’s done.

I don't think he has a "no kill" rule.

He definitely aims to incapacitate rather than kill, but I think... like game Mario... his stance is "do everything you can to protect the people you love, and if the threat just so happens to not get back up... oh well."

That's not to say he doesn't hope for the best out of everyone or walk away when the fight's clearly been won, but if the stakes are high enough, and the person he's up against is bad enough, he's all in with no holds barred.

[sunlight-shunlight]

my further opinion is that: god. it is SUCH a missed fucking opportunity that the inquisitor never came back as a pc after trespasser, because... the well of sorrows geas? INCREDIBLE potential to integrate it with the gameplay.

like, how do rpgs usually work? you get quests in your log, and you can't progress until you do them! you can decide the order, maybe as you do one, another gets locked out, etc, but fundamentally your character is following a list of options and checking them off. that's... also exactly how the geas would work, haha.

like you suddenly get "gather 5 flowers and put them on mythal's shrine" as an unavoidable quest marker. you can't progress the plot until you do it. you can put it off, but it's always there! seems innocuous at first. maybe you get one that just says "go to sleep" and when you interact with your bed, you get a creepy nightmare vision of arlathan. then you get more and more specific quests - like during another quest, you get a popup to, idk, break into a specific room and take an artifact. and then go drop off the artifact somewhere else later when you get to a new region.

and the inquisitor does not have the option to say anything about this. and perhaps npcs will start to comment on them acting weird, and you start getting [leafless tree symbol] dialogue options, that you can select if you want, that allow you to speak elvhen fluently/do weird magic shit/bypass various problems/etc. maybe you avoid them completely, maybe you start relying on it a bit to deal with ancient elf stuff, up to you.

and then, at a certain point, flemythal decides to actually pull the strings. you've arrived at... idk, solas' ritual point, or some really valuable thing, and you and your companions' goals do not align with flemythal's there. so you pop into a conversation where your companions go "hey, why are you looking so strange? everything ok?" and then ALL your reply options are [leafless tree symbol]. and then it initiates combat. your inquisitor is now briefly hostile and fights the rest of the party as a distraction, as a dragon swoops overhead, does whatever flemythal wanted, swoops away again, and then drops the control once she's done.

[thirddoctor]

I have this bug where Voss absolutely hates me (I did nothing to him!), and I got around it when meeting him in the sewers by getting Shadowheart to talk to him instead, but now I'm in the endgame and I can't trigger the conversation with him because he's just automatically hostile

[bitchthefuck1]

Can't believe we got 3 versions of the 10th doctor and Martha didn't get to hit a single one of them with a truck

[akechi-if-he-slayed]

sometimes ill be so deep into the process of a convoluted hyper specific sp au that im like. would this not just read better as an actual story.

[102ki]

the FISTS? i beat hades with the FISTS?

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men Getting "She's busy bro" Text

Request: Hi!! I waited patiently (and eagerly) for your requests to open again, I'm so happy!! I love your writing!! I laughed so hard at the previous request where you mentioned Tara. I have another "Tara is on thin ice" idea, lol. Tara and Mc are having a girls night at Mc's place. Mc is cooking or just doing something, mc's receives a message from the lads men (something random like "hi, how are you, I'm off work"). Tara tells Mc she got a message (since Mc is doing something and she can't answer), and mc tells Tara to reply for her. All good and sweet, what does Tara reply with? "Hi, all good, she's busy now, she will talk to you later!" (Basically, the "she's busy bro" prank but with an oblivious Tara that didn't mean to prank them, lol)

AN: Hey anon, I am sorry for how last I am posting this. But thank you for requesting such a fun scenario. I hope you enjoy this!! Might be ooc at times but I am woman of dramatics so excuse me.

Ingredients: 75% fluff , 25% drama

My Fav: Zayne 🥺

Genre: She's busy bro, prank

Pairing: LaDS boys x fem reader

You’re in the kitchen, half-focused on stirring the pasta and half-listening to Tara rant about her latest training match when your phone buzzes on the counter.

“Hey, your phone just lit up,” Tara says, leaning over to check the screen. “It’s one of the guys. Something about ‘how are you?’ and ‘off work.’”

“Just reply for me,” you say, tossing a handful of garlic into the pan. “Tell him I’ll get back to him later.”

Tara shrugs, picking up your phone and squinting at the message. Her thumbs fly over the screen as she replies, “Hi, all good, she’s busy right now, she’ll talk to you later!”

She hits send with a satisfied nod, setting the phone back down without a second thought

Rafayel:

You lunge to catch Tara as she collapses, her hands flying to her throat, her breaths coming out in sharp, choking gasps.

“Tara!” you gasp, your watch buzzing with frantic alerts, the tiny screen flashing red with proximity warnings.

And then you see it. The curving, sinuous tendrils creeping from the edges of the painting on your wall. The one Rafayel gifted you not long ago. The inky black swirls ripple like living shadows, curling toward you.

You snatch your phone from the counter, one arm still braced around Tara’s trembling form, your body blocking her from the painting as the tendrils inch closer. You hit Rafayel’s contact, your finger jabbing the call button with a fury you can barely contain.

He picks up on the first ring, and you don’t give him a chance to speak.

“Stop it. Now.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, the sound of crashing waves and distant seagulls crackling through the line, but you don’t flinch.

“I swear to the fucking seas,” you snarl, your voice low and dangerous, “I will never talk to you again if you hurt her.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, a flicker of hesitation, and then the tendrils retreat, coiling back into the frame like startled serpents, the air around you cooling as the painting slowly still.

Tara collapses against you, her breathing evening out, her death grip on your arm loosening as she gasps for air. You meet her wide, dazed eyes, your own heart still hammering in your chest.

She gives you a shaky, crooked grin. “That was kinda hot,” she croaks, her lips twitching into a weak, mischievous smile, and your heart melts on the spot.

It takes Rafayel three weeks of pleading, apologizing, and bribing (both you and Tara) to be forgiven for 'the incident'. He sends flowers, chocolates, and a rare pearl necklace that you suspect he made with his anguished cries.

But the painting stays. “For protection,” he insists, his tone defensive, his eyes shifting away from yours when you bring it up. “You’ll thank me one day.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t push it.

Xavier:

He just shows up at your door. Because, of course, he does.

However busy you were, he could stop it. He is a victim to the sunk cost fallacy. If he has to pull you out of some other guy’s orbit, he’ll do it, no hesitation.

He knocks once, twice, each rap firm but patient, the ripped delivery package dangling from one hand, his other tucked casually into his jacket pocket.

The door swings open, and he inhales to deliver his practiced excuse." “Delivered to wr....” He blinks, momentarily thrown off as Tara opens the door, her hair a chaotic mess, pasta sauce smeared up to her cheeks like she’s just face-planted in a pot of marinara.

Behind her, you’re hunched over a massive dish of pasta, a noodle dangling from your lips, your eyes going wide as you choke at the sight of him, your face turning a lovely shade of tomato red.

“Oh, he—uhgh!” you splutter, breaking into a fit of coughing, nearly dropping the fork in your hand.

Xavier’s eyebrow twitches, his frown slowly morphing into a wide grin as his shoulders relax, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in the chaotic scene.

There’s a long, painful beat of silence.

Then Tara, completely unfazed, just wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, shrugs, and steps aside. “You coming in or what, dude?” she says, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Somehow, Xavier ends up joining your girls’ night, plopping down on the couch, grabbing a fork and helping himself to the monstrous bowl of pasta, because why not?

He makes a few snarky comments about your terrible math skills, but shuts up when you threaten to make him eat his own disastrous cooking as punishment.

Predictably, he’s the first to fall asleep. Conveniently, on your shoulder, his head tucked against your neck, his soft breathing mixing with the faint sound of the movie still playing in the background.

Zayne:

Zayne, of course, doesn’t take the bait.

He’s the only one who doesn’t react to the “She’s busy, bro” text like it’s a declaration of war, because he’s seen this sort of thing before.

As a surgeon, he’s often out of reach, his pager passed off to a resident while he’s deep in the OR, his hands steady, his mind clear as he cuts through flesh and bone. He knows what it’s like to be unavailable, to be occupied with things that demand his full focus.

So when he gets the text, he just blinks at his phone, smiles a little, and sets it down without a second thought, already mentally filing away a dessert he can bring you later, something to help you relax after your busy day.

And he does. He shows up that night, a paper bag in one hand, his coat still smelling faintly of antiseptic and coffee, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the faint lines of old scars.

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, a little shy, like he’s not sure if he’s intruding. “I brought tiramisu. Thought you could use a break.”

He’s literally the most precious bby, and you have to resist the urge to hug him right there in the doorway.

Sylus:

He’s in the middle of a deal, lounging back in his leather chair.

He checks his phone on a whim, his fingers flicking over the screen, and sees your text. His lips curl into a slow, arrogant smile as he types out a quick, casual, “Hey, what are you up to, sweetie?”

When the "She's busy, she'll call you later," text comes back, the smile freezes on his lips.

Busy? Busy?

His mood sours instantly. His fingers curl around the edge of his desk. He flicks his gaze back to the fumbling dealer in front of him, and his generosity reserves run dry.

“Out.”

The dealer stumbles back, wide-eyed, sweat beading on his forehead as he stammers out a “Y-Yes, sir!” before practically tripping over his own feet to escape the room.

Sylus leans back in his chair, teeth gritted, jaw tight, the soft click of his metal-tipped fingers against the desk the only sound in the now-silent room.

But just as he’s about to mentally spiral, his phone buzzes again.

“Made a pretty big batch of pasta, would you like some?”

He blinks, eyes flicking to the photo you’ve attached. A literal tub of way too much pasta, the noodles piled high, the sauce thick and steaming, a chaotic heap of carbs that only you and Tara could possibly miscalculate into existence.

He huffs, a quiet, exasperated chuckle slipping past his lips, the tension in his shoulders melting away. He leans back, his head tipping against the cool leather of his chair, a small, fond smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll be there in 20. Don’t start without me.”

And just like that, his mood is ruined in a completely different way, his dark, dangerous aura slipping into something much softer as he straightens his tie and stands, already picturing you waiting with a bright grin and a mismatched fork.

Caleb:

“Why does she get to use your phone and I don’t?” Caleb storms around your apartment, his boots clomping against the hardwood floor, his uniform still perfectly pressed.

It’s been an hour of this. A Fleet Colonel throwing a full-on tantrum in your tiny studio, pacing like a caged animal, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he’s debating strangling the nearest pillow. You did put your plushies away at the first given chance.

Pouting. Whining. Sharp, accusing glances thrown your way every time you so much as move.

You’re honestly grateful that Tara had left before this. She’d probably just laugh and egg him on, and you don’t need two chaotic messes in your living room right now.

“Caleb, I was busy,” you try to reason, leaning against the kitchen counter as he paces. “I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”

He whirls to face you, his eyes dark, his jaw ticking, his hair somehow still perfectly in place, untouched by the cap he’d clearly ripped off the second he stormed through your door. Your mind unhelpfully drifts to the way that uniform clings to his shoulders, the way his collar hugs his throat, and nope, now is not the time for that.

“Busy?” he spits, his voice a low, irritated rumble. “Busy with what? And why with her, exactly?”

You sigh, pressing a hand to your forehead, already exhausted from the emotional hurricane that is Caleb. “I was cooking, Caleb. With Tara. I didn’t want to leave you hanging, so I asked her to text you back.”

He scoffs, his shoulders tense, his eyes narrowing like he’s daring you to try that excuse again.

Rage bait Tara is Colonel Caleb’s worst nightmare come to life. Given how you never seem to care how close she gets to you, how easily she invades your space, how unapologetically she teases you.

Much to Caleb’s dismay, you never seem to mind.

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤCAR CRASH * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where an amazing date night leads to a devastating car accident, leaving Y/N severely injured and Matt hospitalized and feeling extremely guilt.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　Car crash, blood, gore (nothing too extreme), mentions of surgery and death.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The night had been perfect. The kind of night that made Matt wish he could bottle up every second and live it over and over again. As they cruised down the road, Y/N’s laughter filled the car, bubbling up with a joy that made his heart swell. He stole a quick glance at her, unable to resist the smile tugging at his lips as he watched her eyes crinkle at the corners.

It was all almost too serene. The road was deserted, stretching ahead like a long, winding ribbon through the dense forest. Trees lined both sides, their dark silhouettes swaying gently in the cool breeze. The glow from the dashboard lights bathed Matt’s face in a soft blue hue, highlighting the way his jaw clenched whenever he concentrated on the road.

Matt’s hand rested gently on Y/N’s thigh, fingers intertwined with hers. The music in the background was just soft enough to allow their conversation to drift through the air. Their fingers were laced together like they had been for years, her thumb softly brushing over the back of his hand in a way that always sent a thrill through him.

"You know." Y/N started, turning to look at him with that familiar, teasing sparkle in her eyes. "I still can’t believe you almost choked on that dessert tonight."

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"Hey, those strawberries were huge, okay? It’s not my fault they didn’t fit in my mouth." Matt chuckled, his voice low and slightly raspy as he lifted her hand to press a soft kiss to her knuckles.

"Sure, that’s what she said." She quipped, sending a playful wink towards the brunette.

His laughter echoed through the car, his eyes crinkling at the edges.

"Hey, babe, we should-"

But before he could finish his sentence, Y/N's heart jumped to her throat as she noticed something.

"Matt!" Y/N’s scream pierced the air like needles.

Matt’s heart seized, his veins flooded with pure adrenaline. The world seemed to slow down, the seconds stretching into infinity as he turned his eyes from Y/N to the approaching car. It was swerving uncontrollably, zigzagging across the two-lane road, headlights blinding and erratic.

Panic gripped him like a vice. His instincts kicked in, hands flying to the steering wheel as he yanked it to the right with all his strength, desperate to avoid a head-on collision. The tires screamed in protest, the smell of burning rubber filling the car as the vehicle veered off the asphalt, gravel spraying against the undercarriage like bullets.

The seatbelt bit into his chest, and Matt let out a guttural grunt as the force of the swerve tried to rip him sideways.

"Hold on!" He shouted, the words raw and choked with fear.

But there was no time to process, no time to think. In the chaos, Matt’s vision narrowed to a tunnel. He could barely make out the blur of trees and darkness as the car skidded off the road. The other car blazed past them, its horn blaring like a scream of rage, disappearing into the night as if it had never been there.

Matt’s heart hammered in his chest, every beat like a drum of dread. He tried to correct the car’s course, but it seemed to be impossible with the velocity of it, and the steering wheel slipped under his frantic grip. The headlights illuminated nothing but shadows and thick trees ahead, and before he could even register what was happening, the world exploded into chaos.

The impact was instant. The front of the car crumpled like a tin can as it collided with the tree, the force of the crash sending them both jolting forward. Y/N’s scream was cut short as her side of the car bore the brunt of the crash, the airbags exploding around them in a cloud of powder.

Everything went black.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

A few seconds - or maybe minutes, Matt couldn’t tell - passed before he came to. The first thing he noticed was the sharp, metallic taste of blood in his mouth, his head throbbing like it was being split open. His vision was blurred, darkness and flashing colors swirling together as he tried to blink them away.

"Y/N..." He croaked, his voice barely a whisper. Panic seized his chest like a vice grip as he turned his head, trying to see her through the haze. "Y/N!"

She was slumped against her seat, her head tilted unnaturally to the side, blood smeared across her forehead where she’d hit the window.

"No, no, no, no!" Matt’s voice came out in a broken sob as he reached for her, his hands trembling violently. Pain shot through his ribs with every movement, but he ignored it, his vision blurred with tears. "Y/N! Wake up, please, wake up!"

But she didn’t move.

"C'mon, please. Please- fucking shit!"

He could barely breathe, his chest tightening as though an invisible hand was crushing his lungs. Warm blood trickled down his temple, but he barely noticed it. All he could focus on was Y/N, slumped lifelessly beside him.

"What do I do? What do I do?" His bloody hands flew to his head, smearing it all around his skin. "An ambulance, I need-need to call an ambulance."

His trembling fingers fumbled with his phone, hands slick with blood and sweat, and his vision blurred with tears. He couldn’t think straight; everything was a whirlpool of noise, pain, and terror. As he finally managed to dial 911, he searched for Y/N hand, squeezing the cold, unmoving member, his other hand shaking so hard it almost dropped the phone.

"911, what's your emergency?"

Matt could hardly get the words out, his throat so tight it felt like he was being strangled.

"We-we've been in an accident! Oh god, please- please help us! I... I don’t know what to do!"

His voice was a broken sob, the words tumbling out in a chaotic rush, barely coherent. He was gasping for breath, panic clawing at him with icy fingers. He kept glancing at Y/N, hoping, praying that she would suddenly move or blink or give any sign that she was okay. But she was too still, her face shining with blood, eyes closed, and her chest...

He couldn't even tell if it was moving.

"Okay, sir, I need you to try to stay calm. Where are you? Can you give me your location?"

Matt’s mind was spinning, the world around him a dark blur. He tried to remember where they were, but it was like every thought was slipping through his fingers.

"Uh- I, I don’t know! Somewhere near... near Elm and... I think we’re by a park or something. There’s glass everywhere, and- she's not... she’s not waking up!"

As he spoke, Matt’s voice cracked again, his words coming out in choked sobs. His free hand kept shaking Y/N’s shoulder, trying to rouse her, to pull her back to him.

"Alright, I’ve got your location. Help is on the way. Sir, I need you to focus for a moment. Is anyone else in the car with you?"

Matt’s voice broke into a desperate wail.

"Yes, yes, it’s my girlfriend. She-she’s not moving! I tried to wake her, but... but she’s just lying there, and she’s bleeding. Oh god, there’s so much blood!"

He couldn’t stop his crying, his entire body shaking as if he were freezing. Maybe he was.

"Okay, I understand. Help is on its way, I promise. But I need you to check if she’s breathing. Can you see if she’s taking any breaths?"

Matt let out a strangled noise, almost animalistic, as he leaned back to try to see. His hands were unsteady and he wiped furiously at his eyes to clear his vision. He leaned closer to her, straining to see if her chest was rising, but everything was too dark and chaotic.

"I-I can’t tell! I’m trying, but she’s not moving! Please, just help her!" His voice rose to a scream at the end, cracking under the weight of his despair.

"We're doing everything we can, sir. You’re doing great, okay? Just stay with me. Take a deep breath. I need you to look at her chest. Is it rising and falling, even a little?"

Matt tried. He really tried. But all he could see was blood. Blood on her eyes, her lips, her collarbone. He could barely make out her features through the darkness and the horror of what was happening.

"I don’t know, I don’t know!" He cried, his voice breaking into another sob. "It’s too dark, and her hair- there’s so much blood on her face. I’m scared to move her, I don’t want to hurt her more! Y/N, baby, come on. Please, don’t leave me." He begged, his voice raw with desperation.

He reached for his own seatbelt, fingers fumbling as he tried to undo the latch, but it was jammed. Tears blurred his vision constantly, frustration and fear boiling over as he yanked at it, the metal digging into his palms.

When the seatbelt finally gave way, he turned his attention back to her face.

"I’m here, I’m here." He whispered, pressing frantic kisses to her forehead, ignoring the cold of her skin and the taste of blood hitting his tongue. "I’m not leaving you, okay? Just stay with me."

"You’re doing the right thing by staying with her, sir." Their voice made him remember that he was still with the call on-going. "Just keep talking to her, alright? I know it’s hard, but you need to stay calm for her. What’s her name?"

Her name. God, her name was everything. It was the first thing he thought of when he woke up and the last thing on his mind before he fell asleep. He let out a shuddering breath.

"Y/N... Her name’s Y/N." He whispered, his voice raw. He cradled her face with his free hand, gently brushing the blood-streaked strands of hair away. "She’s so cold. Why is she so cold?"

"Y/N is going to be okay, sir. We’re sending an ambulance to you right now. I need you to tell me: are you hurt? Are you bleeding anywhere?"

Matt’s mind was short-circuiting, the edges of his vision tinged with black spots. But he couldn’t focus on himself. He couldn’t care less if he was bleeding or broken.

"N-No, I’m fine. It’s just her. She-she hit her head so hard." His voice broke into a whisper at the end, as if saying it too loudly would make it more real.

"I understand. But you might not realize you’re hurt because of the adrenaline. Can you check if you’re bleeding or if you feel any pain?"

Matt’s eyes darted frantically between his phone and Y/N. He couldn’t think about himself, couldn’t even process what they were asking.

"I told you, I’m fine!" He screamed into the phone, his voice cracking with a desperate fury. "I’m fine! It’s Y/N! Just... please save her! She’s... she’s everything. I can’t-" His words broke off into a series of harsh, broken sobs.

"I hear you, and I promise we're doing everything we can. Help is almost there, okay?"

Matt nodded frantically, even though they couldn’t see him. He clung to Y/N’s hand like a lifeline, pressing it to his lips, whispering her name over and over.

"Please, baby, stay with me... Please. You’re so strong. You can get through this. Just keep breathing for me, okay? Please..."

Outside, the wailing sirens grew louder, the red and blue lights flashing through the shattered windows of the car.

"Please... don’t leave me." He whispered one last time, the sound of his door being ripped open sounding muffled before the darkness around him finally swallowed him whole.

The last thing he felt was Y/N’s cold hand slipping from his grasp as the world went dark.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

A slow, rhythmic beeping was the first thing Matt became aware of as he drifted back into consciousness. His eyelids were heavy, as if weighed down by invisible anchors, and when he finally managed to pry them open, his vision was blurred, everything around him a hazy mix of white and blue. The smell of antiseptic stung his nostrils, making his head spin, and the low hum of machinery filled the air.

Matt blinked, trying to clear the fog from his mind. The room was dim, a soft light glowing from a corner lamp, casting long shadows across the pale walls.

There was an IV taped to his arm, the clear tube connected to a bag hanging from a metal pole beside the bed. His body felt like it had been crushed, every breath sending a dull throb through his ribs.

It hurt to move, but he turned his head slowly, trying to get his bearings. That’s when he noticed the figure slumped in an uncomfortable-looking position on a small armchair near the bed.

Chris.

His brother was fast asleep, his face drawn with exhaustion, dark circles etched beneath his eyes. The armchair seemed to have been pushed so close to the bed that it almost touched it, like Chris had wanted to stay as close to him as possible.

Matt’s mind was sluggish, like wading through thick mud. He couldn't remember how he’d ended up here. Why was he in a hospital? What had happened?

As he lay there, trying to piece together the fragments of his memory, a flash of vivid color cut through the fog like a lightning bolt; Y/N’s face, pale and covered in blood, slumped in the seat next to him.

The memory hit him like a truck, and suddenly everything came rushing back at once: the crash, the panic, the desperate phone call. Y/N’s lifeless body beside him.

"Y/N!" The name ripped out of his throat, raw and broken.

Adrenaline flooded his veins, pushing away the pain as panic seized him. He tried to sit up, ignoring the sharp agony that shot through his side and the dizziness that made his head sway. The only thought in his mind was finding her, making sure she was okay. He had to see her. He had to know if she was still-

His hands scrambled at the IV taped to his arm, trying to yank it free.

"No, no, no... C'mon, I need to find her!" He gasped, his voice frantic and uneven. His vision blurred with tears, anxiety closing in like a vice around his chest.

Chris woke with a sudden start, his eyes snapping open. For a split second, he was disoriented, but then he saw Matt struggling on the bed, clawing at the IV line.

"Matt! Hey, stop. Stop!" Chris practically leaped from the couch, crossing the short distance to his brother in a heartbeat.

Matt barely registered Chris’s presence.

"Let go of me! I need to find her!" His voice was wild, a desperate, guttural scream. He shoved at Chris with what little strength he had, the effort sending another stab of pain through his ribs, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was Y/N. She was out there somewhere, alone, hurt. He had to get to her.

Chris’s heart twisted painfully at the sight of his brother in such a state. He grabbed Matt’s hands, trying to stop him from tearing the IV out.

"Matt, listen to me! You need to calm down!" His voice was steady, but there was an edge of panic in it, fear for both Matt’s physical and mental state.

He pushed the call button for the doctor frantically, knowing they needed help, now.

Matt was beyond reason. He was sobbing, his voice breaking as he shouted like crazy.

"Get off me, Chris! Please, I have to find her! Y/N- where is she? Where’s Y/N?!" He thrashed against Chris’s grip, raw terror coursing through him. His mind was a whirlwind of worst-case scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last.

Chris used every ounce of strength he had to pin Matt’s hands down against the bed, his fingers digging into Matt’s wrists. He leaned in close, his face inches from Matt’s, forcing him to make eye contact.

"Matt, you need to stop!" He shouted, his voice cracking. "Listen to me, please! Nick is with her, and they’re taking care of her! You have to stay here and let them help you, okay? You’re hurt, too!"

But it was like Matt couldn’t even hear him.

"No, no, no! She’s not okay, she wasn’t moving! I need to see her, Chris! Let me go!" His screams were hoarse, filled with a raw, primal agony that tore at Chris’s heart.

Before Chris could say anything else, the door burst open, and a doctor, along with two nurses, rushed in, their expressions tense and focused.

"What’s going on?" The doctor demanded as she approached the bed, her gaze flicking between the brothers.

"He’s trying to rip the IV out." Chris said breathlessly, his voice shaking. "Please, he won’t calm down!"

The doctor nodded sharply, gesturing to one of the nurses.

"We need to sedate him before he injures himself further."

"No!" Matt screamed, thrashing even harder against Chris’s grip. "Don’t you dare! I need to find Y/N!" His voice was broken, desperate, his eyes wide and filled with terror.

Chris's hands tightened around Matt’s, holding him down as the nurse prepared a syringe. Tears streamed down Matt’s face, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

He was looking at Chris with an expression so lost, so utterly heartbroken, it nearly broke Chris, too.

"Matt, listen to me." Chris pleaded, his own voice breaking. "She’s going to be okay. But you’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t stop. I promise, I promise I’ll take you to her as soon as they say it’s okay. But you have to calm down, okay? Please, Matt..."

Matt’s eyes were wild, searching Chris’s for any sign of a lie, any hint that he was just trying to placate him. But Chris’s face was so full of anguish, so full of love and sincerity, that Matt’s resolve wavered for a moment.

The nurse took advantage of that brief second of hesitation, quickly inserting the needle into Matt’s IV line. Within seconds, the sedative began to take effect. Matt’s thrashing slowed, his screams dying down to broken sobs as the world around him began to blur again.

"No... Chris, please... It was my fault... Y/N..." Matt’s voice was barely a whisper now, his eyelids drooping as the drug pulled him under. The last thing he saw was Chris’s tear-streaked face, mouthing something he couldn’t quite hear before the darkness swallowed him whole.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The darkness that had pulled Matt under before slowly began to recede, but this time, it was different. Darkness enveloped him in a terrifying nightmare, pulling him under like the tide dragging him out to sea.

He was back in the car. The smell of gasoline and blood was suffocating, the crunch of broken glass grinding beneath his legs as he struggled to move. Y/N was next to him, her face ghostly pale, her eyes closed, blood streaming down her forehead and pooling beneath her. Her body lay limp, lifeless against the car seat, and no matter how many times he screamed her name, she didn't stir.

"... Y/N, please! Wake up!" Matt’s voice was raw, his throat burning with the force of his screams. He shook her shoulder frantically, his fingers slick with blood. "No, no, no... please, Y/N, don’t do this to me!" But she remained still, her head slumped to the side, blood trickling down her delicate features.

The world around him was spinning, the sound of sirens in the distance growing louder, yet somehow they never seemed to get closer. His breaths were short, and frantic gasps as he clutched at Y/N, his tears falling onto her lifeless body.

"God, no! Please!" He was breaking, unraveling, his heart tearing apart as he held her close, praying for a miracle that wouldn’t come.

"Matt!"

The voice was distant at first, barely cutting through the thick haze of his panic. But it grew louder, more urgent, like a beacon trying to pierce through the storm in his mind.

"Matt! Come on, wake up!"

But Matt couldn’t make sense of it. His eyes were still glued to Y/N’s lifeless form, his hands desperately trying to stop the flow of blood, his heart shattering with each second that passed. The voice was there again, louder this time, sounding so familiar, so achingly real.

"Matt, it’s okay. You're safe. Matt, listen to me!"

The scene in front of him wavered, flickering like a glitch in a broken film reel. The wrecked car, the blood, Y/N’s unmoving body; all of it seemed to blur, like someone was tearing the nightmare apart at its seams. Matt blinked, his vision shifting between the nightmare and something else. A figure - blurred, indistinct - hovered above him. He could hear that voice again, so much clearer now, so desperate and familiar.

"Y/N?" Matt’s voice was a hoarse whisper, his eyes darting around frantically. But his mind was still caught between the nightmare and reality. He could feel Y/N’s cold body beneath his fingers, could see her blood staining his hands. "No, please! Don’t let her die! God, please, don’t take her from me!" His voice broke into anguished sobs, raw and heart-wrenching, as he pleaded into the darkness.

The figure above him froze, and then, in an instant, arms wrapped around him. Matt was pulled into a tight embrace, warmth pressing against his trembling body.

"Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m here. Matt, it’s me. You’re safe." Chris’s voice was thick with emotion, his own tears spilling as he held Matt close.

The youngest dropped to his knees beside the hospital bed, leaning over Matt’s shaking form, one arm cradling the back of his head as he tried to bring him back from the brink.

"Shhh, it’s okay, Matt. Y/N is okay. I promise you, she’s alive. It was just a nightmare." Chris whispered desperately into Matt’s ear, his grip tightening when he felt his brother’s body shake with gut-wrenching sobs. He rocked them both slightly, his own chest heaving as he tried to keep it together for Matt’s sake. "I’ve got you, alright? I’m right here. She’s okay. I swear."

But Matt couldn’t process the words. His mind was still stuck in that twisted nightmare, where Y/N was cold and still beneath his hands, where he’d failed to protect her.

"No, no... I have to get to her." He choked out, struggling weakly in Chris’s arms. "I can’t lose her... I can’t..."

"Matt." Chris said more firmly, his voice breaking. He pulled back just enough to look Matt in the eyes, his hands cupping Matt’s face, thumbs brushing away the tears streaming down his cheeks. "Listen to me. You’re not in the car anymore. You’re in the hospital. Y/N is okay. She’s being taken care of. She’s safe."

Chris’s words were slowly, agonizingly, starting to sink in. Matt’s sobs grew softer, his breaths still ragged and uneven, but the desperate thrashing stopped. He could feel the warmth of Chris’s body, the steady pressure of his hands holding him down, grounding him in the present. The nightmare was slipping away, reality clawing its way back into his consciousness.

Matt’s fingers, which had been gripping Chris’s shirt with bruising force, gradually loosened. He blinked, his vision clearing enough to see the hospital room around him. The blinding lights, the beeping machines, the sterile scent, all of it slowly registered, pulling him further away from the nightmare’s grip.

"Chris...?" Matt’s voice was small, broken, like a lost child. His wide, tear-filled eyes searched Chris’s, looking for confirmation that this wasn’t another twisted dream.

"Yes, it’s me." Chris whispered, his forehead pressing against Matt’s. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Matt collapsed into Chris’s arms, his body going limp with exhaustion. The adrenaline that had kept him going drained away, leaving him weak and trembling. He buried his face in Chris’s shoulder, his hands clutching at his brother’s back like a lifeline.

"I thought... I thought I lost her..." He sobbed, his voice muffled and choked. "I couldn’t... I can’t lose her, Chris..."

"I know, I know." Chris murmured, tears streaming down his own face as he held his brother tighter, laying his cheek above his head. "But she’s alive. She’s okay. And you’re okay. We’re all here, Matt. You’re safe."

Slowly, so slowly, Matt’s sobs began to quiet. His breathing evened out, but that only brought the pain to control. Each breath sent a jolt through his bruised ribs. His head throbbed, the pain pulsing behind his eyes, and his skin was clammy with cold sweat. He shivered, his body exhausted and aching, but he let himself lean into Chris’s embrace, the warmth of his brother’s presence keeping him grounded.

Chris continued to murmur soothing words, his hands rubbing circles on Matt’s shoulder, trying to calm the tremors that still wracked his brother’s body.

"You’re okay, Matt. You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Matt let out a shaky breath, his body finally beginning to relax, the nightmare fading further into the recesses of his mind, the steady rhythm of Chris’s heartbeat against his ear helping to calm the storm inside him.

For the first time since waking, Matt felt like he could breathe again. He was still in pain, his body battered and broken, but Chris’s comforting presence kept him anchored, keeping him from slipping back into that dark abyss.

"Can... can you call me the doctor?" Matt whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible.

"Are you feeling pain?" Chris asked worriedly, receiving a small nod as an answer. "Okay."

Chris brushed back the damp hair on Matt's forehead while pressing his free hand against the red button.

"Chris." Matt croaked out again. "Y/N... how is she?"

His younger brother's face crumpled, and he let out a shaky breath. He looked away for a moment, trying to collect himself before turning back to Matt.

"She... she was in surgery." He said quietly, every word seeming to cost him. "Nick told me... she had internal bleeding, and they had to go in to stop it. She hit her head super hard, too. But... the surgery went well. She’s stable now and probably still asleep."

Matt’s heart shattered at those words, a cold, sick feeling twisting in his stomach. Internal bleeding. Surgery. Y/N had gone through so much, and it was all because he couldn’t control his own damn car. If he had just been paying attention... He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he struggled to hold back the tears.

"Can I... can I maybe see her?" He asked, his voice so small, so broken, it almost didn’t sound like his own.

Chris stared at him for long seconds, his eyes searching Matt’s face, like he was trying to read the thoughts swirling in his mind. And maybe he could see it. Maybe he could sense the guilt that was eating Matt alive. But Chris didn’t press him. Instead, he sighed heavily, searching for his hands and stopping him from hurting himself further.

"The doctor is the one who has to let you." He whispered, biting his bottom lip hard. "You know... I was really scared, Matt. I thought... I thought I was going to lose you forever."

Matt watched the pain swimming inside Chris's blue eyes.

"I’m sorry, Chris." He muttered, his voice cracking. "I’m really sorry for scaring you. You and Nick."

Chris looked down at him, his eyes shining with tears, and shook his head.

"No, Matt... no, it’s not your fault." He said, his voice fierce despite the tears. "I just... I’m just so glad you’re here. That you’re alive."

Matt swallowed hard, his throat tight. He didn’t deserve Chris’s relief, not when Y/N was still out there, hurt because of him.

Before he could say anything else, the sound of the door creaking open echoed, and a doctor stepped in, clipboard in hand. Behind her were two nurses, ready to assist with whatever was needed.

Dr. Patel, a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes, gave Matt a small, reassuring smile as she approached his bedside.

"Good to see you awake and calmer, Mr. Sturniolo. How are you feeling?" She asked, her tone soft yet businesslike.

Matt swallowed, his throat dry and raw from the crying.

"I... I’m in pain." He admitted hoarsely, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Everywhere."

Chris squeezed his hand reassuringly before turning to the doctor.

"Is there something more you can give him for the pain?" Chris asked, his voice thick with concern.

Dr. Patel nodded, her expression turning more serious as she flipped through the pages on her clipboard.

"We’ve been managing his pain with a mild dosage to avoid any complications, but given that he's more conscious now, we can adjust his medication." She gestured to one of the nurses, who immediately set about preparing a new injection.

Matt’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he tried to focus on breathing through the pain. Each inhale felt like it was slicing through his ribs, the weight of his guilt and worry making it even harder to catch his breath.

"Doctor, can... can I see her? Y/N, I mean... please." He pleaded, reopening his eyes before looking at her.

Dr. Patel paused, her gaze softening as she looked at him.

"Let’s take care of your pain first, Matt." She said kindly, her voice a steady anchor in the chaos. "I promise, as soon as you are stable enough, we’ll let you see her."

The nurse approached with the syringe, and Matt turned his head away, too drained to watch as she injected the painkiller into his IV. Moments later, a cooling sensation spread through his veins, slowly dulling the sharp edges of his agony, but it did nothing to ease the turmoil inside him.

As the medication began to work, Matt’s eyelids grew heavier, but he fought against the sleep that threatened to pull him under.

"I'm fine now... please." He begged, his voice wavering. "I'm fine, I need to see her. I... I have to make sure that she’s okay." His breath came in shallow, slow gasps, and his eyes darted to Chris, silently pleading for help.

Chris stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Matt’s shoulder.

"Hey, hey." He whispered, trying to soothe his brother. "Let the doctor decide if you're stable enough, okay? I promise you’ll see her soon."

Matt shook his head stubbornly, the panic still clawing at his chest.

"I promise that I'm feeling okay now, m-my pain is gone." His words sounded slurred, his eyes blinking slowly while trying to keep himself awake, looking at the doctor with determination.

Dr. Patel’s face softened as she listened to Matt’s broken pleas. The room was quiet for a minute, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. She glanced at Chris, who was holding his brother’s shoulder tightly, as if trying to anchor him to the present moment.

"Please... I have to see her." He whispered again, the words more of a gasp now. "I just... I need to know she’s really okay."

The doctor sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She understood his desperation, his need to see Y/N with his own eyes. It was a common reaction, patients often believed that seeing their loved ones would somehow confirm their survival would make it more real. And judging by the fear and panic still etched into Matt’s face, this was something he desperately needed.

Dr. Patel turned to the nurse beside her, exchanging a brief, silent conversation before she turned back to the brothers.

"Alright." She said finally, her tone gentle but firm. "We can take you to her room, Matt... but only if you’re in a wheelchair. You’re still recovering yourself, and moving around too much could set back your progress."

Chris’s head whipped toward the doctor, a glimmer of hope lighting up his tired eyes.

"Wait... you mean... he can see her?"

"Yes, but only for a few minutes." Dr. Patel clarified. "And he must stay seated. We’ll have to monitor him closely."

Matt’s entire body seemed to sag in relief at her words. He would have agreed to any condition at that moment if it meant seeing Y/N, even if it was just for a second.

"Yes... yes, please. I’ll stay in the wheelchair. I promise." He breathed, the frantic edge to his voice slowly easing into something softer, more hopeful.

Chris nodded gratefully at the doctor, his eyes glassy with unshed tears.

"Thank you." He whispered, his voice thick. He turned to Matt, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. "Okay, Matt... just breathe, alright? We’re gonna see her."

The nurse quickly wheeled in a padded, adjustable wheelchair. Chris helped Matt shift carefully from the hospital bed into the seat, wincing with every grimace of pain that crossed Matt’s face. Matt tried to hide it, but his stiff movements and shallow breaths were enough to betray just how much he was still hurting. Once seated, Matt clutched the arms of the chair with white knuckles, willing his trembling legs to steady.

Chris crouched in front of him, locking eyes with Matt.

"Are you sure you’re good to go?" Chris asked softly, his voice laced with concern. "If you start to feel worse, we can turn back, okay?"

"No." Matt said quickly, shaking his head even though the motion made him dizzy. "I need to see her, Chris. I won’t... I can’t rest until I know she’s a-alive." His voice was nothing more than a hoarse whisper now, but it carried a weight that cut Chris to his core.

The small entourage - Matt, Chris, the doctor, and a nurse - began their slow journey down the fluorescent-lit corridor. The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air, and the occasional sound of distant monitors and hushed conversations drifted from other rooms. Chris stayed beside the wheelchair, his hand on Matt’s shoulder the whole time, a steadying presence as they moved.

Matt’s heart was a wild drum in his chest, each turn of the hallway only ratcheting up his anxiety. He felt like he was caught in a nightmare that he couldn’t wake up from, the fear that he might find Y/N still and lifeless on a hospital bed eating away at him.

Finally, they stopped outside a door marked with Y/N’s name on a small placard. Dr. Patel turned to Matt, giving him one last assessing look.

"Remember, just a few minutes." She reminded him gently. "She’s stable but still heavily sedated. It might be a while before she wakes up."

Matt nodded, barely hearing her as his eyes locked on the door. Chris leaned down to give his shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before opening it. The soft creak of the door seemed to echo through Matt’s mind, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

As they wheeled him inside, Matt’s breath hitched. There she was, his Y/N, lying so still in the bed, surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed softly, tubes and wires connected to her fragile form. Her face was pale, bandaged in places, and her chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. But she was breathing. She was alive.

Before his eyes could drink in every detail of her condition, his attention was pulled to another figure in the room.

Nick.

Nick’s head shot up at the sound of the door, his eyes widening in surprise. Relief washed over his face, softening the lines of exhaustion and worry that had been etched there. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his hair disheveled, eyes red-rimmed.

"Matt." Nick breathed, his voice trembling with emotion.

He quickly crossed the room in a few long strides, his eyes scanning his brother’s face like he couldn’t quite believe he was awake and here in front of him. Without a word, he dropped to his knees beside the wheelchair, wrapping his arms around Matt in a tight, desperate hug.

"Oh God, Matt." Nick’s voice cracked as he held on tight, as though letting go would make this moment disappear. "I thought we lost you... I thought..."

Matt weakly lifted one arm, patting his brother’s back as best as he could manage.

"I’m okay." He whispered hoarsely, though the pain in his body begged to differ. "I’m here, Nick... I’m here."

Nick pulled back, his eyes shining with tears, but he quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand.

"You have no idea how scared we were, Matt... but God, I’m so glad you’re awake."

Chris, standing close by, put a comforting hand on Nick’s shoulder, giving him a small, reassuring squeeze.

"He’s okay, Nick. We’re okay." Chris murmured, nodding assuredly.

The doctor and nurse patiently waited for the brothers to have their moment before gently nudging the wheelchair forward.

"Let’s get you closer to her, Matt." Dr. Patel said softly.

As they wheeled Matt to Y/N’s bedside, all the noise of the hospital seemed to fade away. All he could hear was the soft, steady beep of the machines monitoring her vitals.

Matt’s eyes welled up with tears as he took in her pale face, the bruises peeking out from under the bandages on her forehead and the soft rise and fall of her chest.

He reached out with a trembling hand, his fingers brushing against hers. Her skin was cool to the touch, and a sob tore through him. Without hesitation, he leaned forward, bringing her hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles softly, over and over again, his lips lingering on every bruise and scrape he could see.

"I’m so sorry." He whispered, his voice raw with anguish. "I’m so, so sorry, my love. Please... please forgive me. I love you so much, Y/N. I need you. You have to wake up soon. Please."

He kept pressing gentle kisses to her hand, his tears slipping down and wetting her skin. His heart ached in ways he never thought possible, the guilt eating him alive. This was his fault. If only he had been more careful...

Nick watched silently, his own eyes filled with tears, and Chris had to turn away for a moment, pressing a fist to his mouth to stifle a sob. The sight of their brother - usually so composed - completely broken over the woman he loved was almost too much to bear.

Finally, Matt’s strength gave out. His body, already weakened and worn from the medication, was quickly reaching its limit. He slowly leaned forward, resting his head gently on the edge of Y/N’s bed, his cheek pressed close to her hip. He stayed there, clinging to her like she was his lifeline, his breaths coming in soft gasps as he struggled to stay conscious.

"I’m here, Y/N... I’m right here." He whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. "I won’t leave you... I promise."

The pain was slowly fading, his body seeming to finally allow the medication to work its way through his system. Matt’s eyes grew heavier, his body sagging with exhaustion. But he didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to stay with her, to watch over her, to be there when she finally opened her eyes.

Dr. Patel watched him with a soft, sympathetic gaze. She could see how much this was costing him, but she also understood that this was what he needed.

"We’ll let him stay for a little longer." She said quietly to Chris and Nick, who both nodded gratefully. "But you must agree that, if anything changes, if he starts showing signs of distress, you call for me immediately.”

"We will." Chris promised, his voice low and earnest. Nick nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving Matt.

With that, the doctor and nurse quietly exited the room, leaving the three brothers alone with Y/N. The room was dim and quiet. The only sound was the soft beeping of the monitors and the occasional muffled sniffle from Nick or Chris.

Matt finally let the exhaustion pull him under, his breathing evening out as he drifted into a fitful sleep. His fingers were still wrapped loosely around Y/N’s hand, and his head rested against her side as if he could protect her even in his sleep.

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

Several hours passed in quiet vigil. Chris and Nick stayed sat on the small couch by the wall, watching over Matt and Y/N like silent guardians, their hearts heavy with worry but relieved that, for now, their family was still holding on.

As the soft light of dawn began to creep through the tiny window in Y/N’s room, there was a faint stirring.

The world around her was a hazy blur, everything out of focus and spinning, like she was caught in a dream she couldn’t quite wake up from. There were distant beeps and muffled voices, but they all seemed so far away, like she was listening from underwater.

A faint, familiar smell flooded her nose. Matt. Or is it Nick? It was something like strawberries or maybe coconut. She couldn’t tell, but it was comforting enough. She tried to move, to lift her heavy eyelids, but her entire body felt like it was weighed down by an invisible force.

After what felt like an eternity, Y/N finally managed to blink her eyes open, the harsh bright lights above her making her squint. The ceiling was white and sterile, and as her vision adjusted, she could make out the faint sounds of machines beeping rhythmically around her. Her mind was foggy, like a thick cloud had settled over her thoughts, and it took her a moment to realize where she was.

A hospital. She could feel something tight around her ribs, a dull, throbbing pain in her head, and an odd numbness throughout her limbs that made it difficult to move. Her throat was dry, like sandpaper, and when she tried to swallow, it sent a sharp ache down to her chest.

Panic started to bubble up in her chest, her heart rate quickening as fragmented memories began to resurface - the blaring headlights, the screech of tires, and the sudden, jarring impact that had stolen her breath away. She let out a small, pained whine, her chest tightening as she tried to remember more, but it was all so blurry, so confusing.

A voice cut through the haze, it sounded quiet but rough, like it had been scraped raw.

"Y/N? Hey, it’s okay... you’re okay."

She turned her head slowly, every movement feeling like she was wading through thick mud. The face that came into focus was familiar, a face that brought her the feeling of home amidst the confusion.

Nick.

Y/N’s eyes blinked slowly, struggling to focus on the two faces in front of her. She was still groggy, the world around her hazy, but the concerned expressions of Chris and Nick gradually came into focus. Her brows furrowed slightly, confusion clouding her tired gaze.

"N-Nick...? Chris...?" She mumbled, her voice rough and barely audible. Her throat was parched, every word scraping against the dryness.

Nick let out a shaky laugh, tears gathering in his eyes.

"Oh my god, I was so... I'm so glad you're back." He whispered, his voice breaking with a mixture of relief and emotion. He stepped closer, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair away from her face.

Chris nodded, his face lighting up with the first real smile in what felt like an eternity.

"We’ve been really worried about you, Y/N." He murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You’re a fighter, you know that?"

Y/N tried to smile, but even that felt like lifting a mountain.

"What... what happened?" She asked, her voice weak, her words slurred from the medication and anesthesia coursing through her veins. "I... I remember the crash. I remember..." She trailed off as she recalled the moment of impact, the way everything had gone black in an instant. "It all happened so fast."

Nick’s eyes filled with tears, and he traveled his hand from her hair to her shoulder, squeezing the covered skin tightly.

"It was... it was really bad. But you are here now, okay? You made it through the surgery. You’re safe."

"Surgery?" The word sent a chill down her spine. She tried to remember, but everything after the crash was a blur. "What... what happened to me?" She asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Nick took a shaky breath, his grip on her tightening as if he needed the contact to ground himself before connecting his eyes with Chris's, begging for him to answer her.

"You had internal bleeding caused by some broken ribs." Chris explained gently, cleaning his throat to disguise the emotion in his voice. "You’ve been out for at least 15 hours after a four-hour surgery. And... and you hit your head really hard. But the doctors said the surgery was a success, and your concussion is mild. You’re going to be okay."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, the reality of it all crashing down on her. Surgery. Internal bleeding. The thought of how close she’d come to... She couldn’t finish the thought, the fear overwhelming her.

"Where... where’s Matt? Is he okay? Oh god, he was driving-"

Chris’s eyes softened, and he exchanged a glance with Nick.

"He’s right here, Y/N." Chris reassured her gently, pointing towards Matt's figure with his head.

Y/N’s gaze flickered downward, and her breath hitched when she finally registered for the first time Matt slumped over on the edge of her hospital bed, his head resting beside her hip. His brown hair was disheveled, and his face looked paler than she had ever seen, decorated with a variety of bruises and cuts, but he was breathing, his chest rising and falling steadily.

It was then that she noticed the weight of his fingers against hers, holding her hand firmly as if she could disappear at any moment.

"He’s been by your side from the minute he woke up..."

The sound of the boy's voice, combined with the familiar touch of his girlfriend, pulled Matt from the depths of his medication-induced sleep. His eyelids fluttered, a groggy groan escaping his lips as he slowly stirred awake. For a moment, he looked confused, his eyes unfocused as he blinked against the harsh lights.

But then, as his gaze settled on Y/N’s face, now wide awake and staring back at him with teary eyes, everything clicked into place. His heart leaped in his chest, and any remaining fog of sleep vanished instantly.

"Y/N?" He croaked, his voice raw with disbelief. His eyes widened as he looked at her, truly seeing her awake for the first time. "Oh my god... you’re... you're awake."

Y/N managed a weak smile, tears gathering in her eyes as well.

"Hey, baby. I'm here." She whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "You look like you’ve been through hell."

Matt let out a choked laugh, a mix of relief and joy bubbling up inside him. He quickly pulled himself closer to her, his hands shaking as he reached for her face, brushing his thumb tenderly over her bruised cheek.

"I thought... I thought I had lost you." He confessed, his voice breaking. "God, Y/N, I was so scared. I... I couldn’t-" His words were cut off by a sob he couldn’t contain, and he buried his face in her neck, pressing desperate kisses to her exposed skin, his curls tickling her chin in a grounding way.

Y/N’s heart ached at the sight and feeling of him so broken. With what little strength she had, she squeezed his fingers, trying to comfort him.

"I’m here, Matt." She whispered. "We’re okay. You don’t have to worry anymore."

Matt shook his head, his tears soaking her neck.

"I’m so, so sorry." He choked out between sobs. "I’m so sorry, Y/N. I should’ve protected you... I couldn't even-"

Y/N’s brows knitted together in confusion as she tried to process his words. She lifted a trembling hand to stroke his messy hair, trying to calm him down.

"Matt, baby, hey... where's this coming from?" She asked, her voice soft and full of concern as her eyes traveled momentarily to Chris and Nick, searching for an answer in them that they didn’t seem to have.

Matt just kept shaking his head, his sobs growing louder, muffled by her skin.

"It’s my fault... it’s all my fault." He whispered, his voice breaking. "I should’ve seen the car... I should’ve done something... God, you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. I'm really, really sorry..."

Y/N’s confusion turned to anger as she realized what he was saying.

"Matt, look at me." She demanded, her voice suddenly stronger despite her weakened state.

He slowly lifted his tear-streaked face from her shoulder to meet her gaze momentarily, his eyes red and puffy.

"How can you blame yourself?" She asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You... Matt, there was nothing you could’ve done. A crazy driver was coming to our direction. You didn’t cause this."

"But... but I should’ve seen it sooner. I should’ve done more." Matt insisted, his voice cracking terribly. He couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a second, ashamed of the guilt that had consumed him. "You got hurt because of me... I should be the one lying in there, not you."

"Don't you dare say something like that, Matthew." Y/N said firmly, her fingers gripping his hand as tightly as she could manage. "Listen to me. It was not your fault. There was nothing you could have done to stop it." She let out a shaky breath, her eyes softening as her free hand traveled to his face, softly brushing away the tears from his cheeks. "I’m okay, Matt... because of you. You were there. You kept me safe until help came."

Her words only made Matt’s tears flow harder, dripping directly where her fingers met his skin, his sobs causing his body to tremble and his ribs to ache, but there was a shift in his eyes, a flicker of something like relief. He didn’t fully believe her, but hearing her say it, seeing the sincerity in her expression, it was like a balm to his raw, bleeding heart.

"You did everything you could, baby. You saved my life. If it wasn’t for you..." Y/N couldn’t even finish the sentence; the thought was too painful to bear. To lose a life with the love of her existence.

Matt sniffled, pressing the side of his face against her palm and wiping the other side of it with the back of his hand, still holding on to Y/N like she was the only thing keeping him afloat.

Nick and Chris watched the whole scene unfold in silence, their hearts heavy with the raw emotions in the room. Chris discreetly wiped away a tear while Nick stood there, his arms crossed over his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

"I love you so much." Matt whispered, nuzzling against her hand. "I can't even picture a life without you."

"I love you too, Matt." Y/N murmured back, her fingers weakly squeezing his. "But you don’t have to picture anything. I’m right here."

Matt let out a shaky breath, nodding.

"Now, why don't the both of you rest a little bit more?" Nick's voice seemed to remind them of the brother's presence. "It will do good for your healing process." Y/N's eyes lifted to the oldest momentarily before nodding slowly.

As the room settled into a comfortable silence, Matt gently laid his head back down on the bed, still holding Y/N’s hand as if it was his lifeline. Y/N stroked his hair softly, her heart aching with love and relief.

For the first time in what felt like forever, they could finally breathe. They were together, alive, and that was all that mattered.

© vanteguccir

[4sh-n4]

AU where bruce and co. (his entire hoarde of kids, even jason in disguise) are at a gala. And it's a really big gala, party of the year type of thing in Gotham, absolutely unmissable. And usually, even the rogues know that this night is off limits, so it's relatively safe. So, they're all at this gala, right?

And then the joker crashes it because he has no respect for Gotham traditions. Breaks in through a window, yada yada. He starts to go on this whole villain speech as per usual, and everyone is waiting for the heroes to come. But all the heroes are at the gala, in their civilian identities, with a thousand eyes on them. No one can reasonably slip away, except for maybe jason, who's already seething mad and ready to attack. But with the chaos and people trying to get away, all the exits are blocked, and his helmet is at home.

Bruce is at the front of the crowd, facing the Joker. Joker sees him and makes a comment about Jason, and goes on about how Bruce must've felt when his baby died. And then he brings up how he killed the little birdie too, just a few days before the terrorist attacks that allegedly killed Jason. And he mentions how much he tortured Robin before his death, and Bruce snaps.

He leaps forward, absolutely hammering the shit out of the joker. Beats him up so bad, no finesse or technique to it, just pure rage. His kids try to pull him off, to no avail. No one else even tries. By the end of it, by the time the police arrive, the joker is more blood than body, and Bruce has finally calmed down. Everyone is just staring at him in shock, understandably. (The joker ends up in hospital, paralysed and in a coma)

His kids all drag Bruce home and give him an entire lecture about his persona and how his cover has probably been blown. About excessive violence and how he refused to kill joker but then pulled this in public?? They're all worried about the fallout in the news the next day.

No one sleeps that night, for various reasons, but then when the newspaper comes out the next morning... there's just nothing bad written?? The headline is something about Bruce being a hero for saving everyone from the joker, but there's no other mention about Batman or anything else.

Turns out, no one in Gotham is surprised that Brucie Wayne, no 1 airhead, beat up the joker because "did you SEE him as a teenager?? We were all just glad when he came from his travels pretending to be stupid instead of picking fights with everyone. If anything, it's understandable that he snapped, I would too if a clown started bragging about killing my son." The only reason no one brought up his violent past is because they were worried he would revert back to that behaviour.

[littledes1re]

Under his mercy

Pairing: dark!joel x fem!reader

Summary: you thought this was the end, as you lose all hope and give up, Joel miller finds you and takes you with him. Now keeping you safe. A dangerous man whose tendencies and actions are not clear.

Warnings: 18+, dark!joel, murderer!joel, death, fear, angst, outbreak, ellie doesn‘t exist, injuries, open wounds and flicking them back together, age gap! (joel is 56 and reader is 25), reader is kinda naive, reader feels alone and trusts way too fast, tension

A/N: Phew, that was a lot. This has been cooking for a while and if you guys want I will make chapters of this! I‘ve never wrote anything dark!joel related but hopefully i‘ll do well. Please be cautious of the warnings!!!

Joel would do anything for you. Anything.

Cold— that kind of cold that bites trough every layer of skin, leaving you with a painful sting, the one that every breath you take, makes you shudder in response. Middle of nowhere, in a big forest, where the trees groan under the weight of snow, paths invisible to every kind of eye and one wrong step could cause a avalanche. You were under the mercy of hopelessness. Of quietness, of pain and slowly dying.

The path you left behind you was blood. The crimson trail leaving a stark against the untouched whiteness of the snow. A dark mark only leaving behind faint whispers of suffering and giving up.

The snow underneath you cradled you, it finally felt soft, relaxing even. The blood was soaked into your clothes, leaving dark red patches everywhere just like in the snow. You didn‘t hold it anymore— no. You could barely feel the wound now, only the warmth that was pooling under you, spreading like ink on paper. You laid there numb, the new snowflakes that land on your skin lulling you slowly to sleep. Finally you had comfort, it didn‘t hurt anymore. As your breath came in uneven wisps, you let the memories began like a movie beginning in the Theater.

All the faint laughters, blurred out faces of people you once knew and loved. The beautiful breeze of summer as conversations began in the background, the weight of your fathers and mothers hands on your shoulders, scolding you or telling you that everything is going to be okey. The first time you felt love, the excitement that run trough your veins, your heart beating fast and butterflies spreading in your tummy.

And as those snowflakes melted in your skin, you getting hugged with the idea of finally letting go, you heard vague foot steps coming near and near to you. But you didn‘t care, you let go.

You were free.

—

You gasped. Eyes shot open, breath ragged, your pulse hammering in your ears. You were alive. Not lost in the darkness, not the end you prepared yourself for, not the one where you let go of your body and finally felt at peace. Between blurred sight you saw wood. Wooden walls, sturdy and rough. There was a dim light coming from the small lamp across the room, casting shadows.

Your body slowly moved, first your legs, realising a small piece of fabric wrapped around you, damp with your own sweat. While the temperature was iced and whenever you breathed out a little cloud formed before your eyes, your body still felt hot, like a fever. And when you tried to move with your whole body— a sting.

A dull ache spread trough your ribs, sharp enough for you to release a hiss from your lips.

Your hand slowly clutched at the blanket, pulling it away and revealing the open wound you had, stitched, bound and safe.

Somebody flicked you together. Somebody saved your life.

You were tented by someone, cared by, touched by someone. But you were alone, all wrapped up in a bed, taken care of by foreign hands.

Your fingertips slowly danced over the surface of your wrapped up wound, it was tight, the skin around it swollen and red. The pain gradually disappearing again, leaving you with only a small sting that comes when you sit up.

Were you alone?

The confusion in your head grew, trying to walk trough the fog of unconsciousness and to grasp how you ended up in here. Any memories, any conversation, basic explanations. It was all lost.

The thoughts and emotions all stopped in one as you heard the small cracking of the wooden door right in front of you. The door was opening. The dimmed light not helping you, the window only casting a small shadow, it was too dark. A figure stood on the doorway, unmoving. You held your breath, muscles locking in place your wound giving you a sharp sting as a response. There was an overwhelming urge in you that told you to hide under the blanket, or stand up and run. But you coudn‘t, your body was locked and your heart was pounding so hard it pulsed right trough your ears.

Heavy boots strike the wooden floor with slow, deliberate steps, walking towards you. The dim glow of the light barely grazes his form, his board shoulders seemingly absorbing the weak light instead of reflecting it.

You could make only furrowed thick brows, a big nose and a mustache with a rather untrimmed beard in the darkness out.

Was he the one who saved you?

„look who is finally awake.“ the man rasped, his rough voice echoing in your head, the first voice you heard in months. His hands holding a tablet, with dry bread and soup, the smell filling your nose, making your tummy grumble. You haven‘t eaten in days. Cautiously he sat down the tablet besides you. You saw it in his demeanour, he didn‘t want to scare you.

The room filled with light, suddenly you could see every corner. Cracks and splits of the wood. It was all weather-beaten. The walls being slick with probably the snow and all of the rain it had to endure the past days. There was not much of furniture, just the bed you had, a small chair besides you and a table where the light was on. The one that wasn‘t just dimmed anymore, your eyes hurting at the sudden glow because they were so used to darkness.

You didn't know what to say. You didn't know this man; you were used to being alone, to surviving on your own. You were used to this world that was not kind, where people killed one another, where they didn‘t care much. This was the only experience you had, you never encountered kindness. You never encountered someone caring about a person.

„who are you?“ you asked.

„Joel Miller.“

Your heart stopped beating abruptly, warmth spread throughout your body, just like goosebumps, and if you weren't in complete shock, you'd start crying.

Joel Miller.

You heard his name like a mantra, ‚be careful of Joel Miller’; a rumor that had once originated from far far away and was now told every time around the campfire as a horror story. Someone whose background and intentions were so dark that people were afraid to go out at night. Every fractions biggest Nightmare since the outbreak, one whose name alone made people afraid.

Joel was a murderer. A cold-blooded murderer.

It is said that he slowly and painfully dismantles each of his victims, no remorse, no blinking of his eyes, no mercy, no blood that’s being shed is too much. It‘s his way of torturing people and making them regret things they have done. Some may think this way is the only way to make them pay, that he is just cleaning up. Raiders, wolves, scars on and on. His way of making the world a better place, playing justice. Playing god.

It was cruelsome nonetheless, nobody needed to clean up anything, not in this way. People knew if it wasn‘t for the clean up, the way he left his victims was proof enough that he was enjoying that.

Your entire body went into flight-or-fight mode. You certainly couldn't fight him, a big man like him. You wouldn't even have a chance. Escaping would be another option, if it weren't for this massive wound that caused you abnormal pain every time you breathed. Everything was too confusing. Why would a person like that save you? Why would he take you and put you back together again? Your head was a mess. So much of a mess that you suddenly felt lightheaded, your breathing came heavy and suddenly you just started to prepare yourself to die again.

„Ain‘t gonna do shit to you.“ he murmured, the voice sending shivers down your spine. You just looked at him. His face looked like he'd been hit one too many times. Scars and bruises everywhere, looked worn out by everything that was happening out there. You couldn't figure out if he was telling the truth; you couldn't figure out anything about him. It was only a matter of time before he pulled out a knife and slaughtered you just like the others.

The only thing in this mess that didn‘t made more sense was your gut telling you that you were safe. Safe with him and that you shouldn‘t be scared. Believing his words way too fast.

„Look, I flicked ya back up. There is no reason for me to do things to you, we don‘t have unfinished business.“

There was hesitation in his voice, like he wanted to say ‚murder‘ but couldn‘t. Could a person like him feel guilt? Feel pain or shame?

„M‘gonna go—i think. Thank you for this but I need to keep moving.“

You didn't even know what you were saying. Your mind was acting in fear, while your gut still told you you were safe with him. His eyes met yours, a hint of sadness in them. Reflected by the light that stood there, the dark irises disappeared, transforming into those that showed trust and security.

„You ain‘t gonna survive long, m‘telling ya. The storm is coming, and with that big wound of yours—”

„why did you save me?“

You didn't know if you wanted to find out why he saved you or why he saved you out of all people.

„S‘not like you see thousands of people with worse injuries on a daily basis.“ you added, but still, couldn‘t figure out where this was coming from. Your anxiety seemingly vanish, you grew to be interested in his tendencies.

Why are you confronting him just because he helped you? He was a murderer, just because he has now done something good, doesn’t change the fact that he is a horrible person. And you needed to get that in your head.

He ignored your question and stopped looking at you. The tension in the room thickening with every second. You heard him sighing, slowly making his way over to your bed. Muscles locked into place again, you didn‘t dare to move. You were sure, this was the end, that you pushed him on edge with those stupid questions.

Unexpectedly he put his hand on top of your wound, your breath hitching as you slowly looked at what he was doing. You traced his side profile with your eyes. His nose, pouty lips and beautiful curly hair, he looked concentrated.

„Hurts?“ he asked softly, still looking at the covered wound and slightly touching it.

„Little bit, yeah.“

He stood up again, gently putting the small blanket over you, covering the wound and tucking you to bed, without looking into your eyes. The light was dimmed again, as he stood there opening the door he glanced once more into the room.

„Ain‘t gonna let you go in this condition and weather. Eat your food and if something happens, yell.“ With that he disappeared in the dark again.

AAA that was a lot. If I did any mistakes please let me know. As always english isn‘t my first language!! Feedback is gladly appreciated.

Please let me know if you want to see more of this.

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @keseqna @shivispunk @kyloispunk @meetmeatyourworst @cuntyhunty22 @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50

Thank you so much for 500 followers😭🥹

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

The Pitts

Pairing: Dr. Whitaker x Surgeon!Reader

Summary: Dr. Whitaker has never been a problem for her. That is until he becomes the problem. A top surgeon, known for her cool-headed precision and unshakable confidence, suddenly finds herself an absolute disaster whenever he's around. Her usual Casanova charm? Gone. Her composure? Nonexistent.

Author's Note: Normally pathetic wimpy white guys make my skin crawl but there's something about Dr. Whitaker. Leave me alone in a trauma room with that man and he'll crawl out.

The second Dr. Whitaker walked into the room, she felt it—that ridiculous, uncontrollable shift from composed and capable to absolute disaster.

Normally, she was unshakable. A top surgeon, one of the best in her field. She had the respect of her colleagues and the unwavering confidence that came with years of being at the top. She handled pressure like it was nothing, made life-and-death decisions daily, and never let anything rattle her.

But with him?

She was a train wreck.

It was like someone flipped a switch in her brain, and suddenly, she couldn't function. Her hands trembled, her words stumbled, and she found herself laughing at things that weren't remotely funny. Worse, everyone around her noticed. Everyone except him.

"Hey, nice scrubs today," she blurted out as Whitaker passed by.

He stopped, giving her a quizzical look before glancing down at himself. "Uh... thanks? They're just the standard ones."

She nodded far too eagerly. "Yeah, but, you know, you really make them work. These ones are really holding up!"

A beat of silence. Then, from behind her, someone choked on a laugh. She turned just in time to see Dr. Robby shaking his head, trying (and failing) to hide his smirk.

Whitaker, completely oblivious, just smiled politely. "Appreciate that, I guess."

As soon as he walked away, Robby leaned in. "Smooth."

She groaned, rubbing a hand down her face. "Don’t."

"Oh, I will," he said, thoroughly enjoying her downfall. "You’ve got it bad."

"I do not."

"Right. That’s why you’re out here complimenting a guy’s scrubs like he’s wearing designer."

She sighed, crossing her arms. "It’s not a big deal. It’s just... annoying. I’m a top surgeon, Robby. I perform complex procedures without breaking a sweat. And yet, one guy walks into a room, and I—"

"Turn into a bumbling idiot? Yeah, I’ve noticed."

She shot him a glare. "Not helping."

Robby chuckled. "Look, you’ve always been the one in control. Maybe the idea of someone making you lose that control freaks you out. But if you ask me? It’s kind of refreshing."

She frowned. "Refreshing?"

"Yeah. It means you actually care. And maybe, instead of fighting it, you should just... let it happen."

She opened her mouth to argue but found herself at a loss. Because deep down, she knew he was right. And yet, it was easier said than done.

Which was why she was completely caught off guard when, after yet another day of fumbling around Whitaker like an idiot, everything changed.

It happened so fast. One second, she was standing at the nurse’s station, and the next, Whitaker was walking toward her with purpose.

Then he stopped right in front of her, grabbed her face with both hands, and kissed her.

Her brain short-circuited. Somewhere in the background, she vaguely registered the sound of someone gasping, followed by another voice going, "Oh, finally."

When Whitaker pulled back, his expression was unreadable, but his touch lingered, his hands still cupping her face. "I, uh... just found out something interesting."

She swallowed hard, heart hammering against her ribs. "Yeah?"

He smiled—soft, amused, and just a little smug. "You like me."

Somewhere behind them, someone who was absolutely Dr. Robby muttered, "Took him long enough."

She wanted to die. But also? She really, really wanted him to kiss her again.

And judging by the look in his eyes, he absolutely was going to.

[musicallisto]

omg for the valentine's prompt echo: sender leaves a voicemail, confessing their feelings with charles, u decide if receiver or sender :) (drgnsfly)

· · · · ♡ YOU WIN SOME, YOU WIN SOME (cl16)

… starring charles leclerc x f!reader ... 2.1k words ... in which losing an offhanded bet to pierre gasly never felt so good to charles leclerc. ... lol i know this was supposed to be short but im a chronic overwriter and i got carried away by this idea <3 piarles have my very heart and soul

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐂 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 know better by now than to make pacts with Pierre Gasly.

To be fair, it began so long ago—years upon years of late-night dinners after disappointing races hammering the habit in. Muscle memory, like corners of a track. Pierre says something outrageous to get a laugh out of Charles; Charles answers he'll gladly do it when he hits some impossible milestone.

"I think you should do a video with Squeezie, mate. You'd be aaaall over Twitter." "Yeah, right! When you beat me in chess, maybe."

"So are you ever gonna release an album where you sing or?" "When I'm world champion, sure. I'll let you do the adlibs."

And it always works, always does get a laugh out of Charles, even after the most botched races, once again powerless victim to Ferrari's fads, and somehow even after his very first breakup. Charles must've promised the moon and then some, in the sacred outline of a conspirational grin; things only the Norman can get out of him, it seems, and things he's already forgotten all about.

So it isn't that weird, truth be told, that he forgot about you too.

The pact is sealed on a charter jet. Charles can't remember where from and where to; somewhere between Europe and the Americas, because the flight had seemed eternal to him, gripping the seat's leather armrest every time the small plane jolted up and down from turbulence. For a second he'd thought the soft wheezing sound was an impending mechanical failure, precipitating them all to their death into the cold, unforgiving Atlantic... until he'd opened his eyes and noticed Pierre sneering at him.

"I don't understand how you're still not used to it with how much we fly."

"I don't understand how you get used to it," Charles had retorted. "It's just not natural! Man was not made to fly."

"Yeah, 'cause man was definitely made to go three hundred kilometers an hour in a big carbon box."

His exasperated sigh, arms crossing over his chest and eyes fluttering closed should be enough for Pierre to understand the conversation is over and out, but Charles can still feel his amused gaze on him. The Monégasque's pursed lips melt into a smile.

"Stop it," he groans.

"I'm not doing anything!"

There's a mock offense in Pierre's tone, quickly replaced by honeyed mischief when he speaks again.

"Just imagine you're sitting with Y/N instead of me."

Charles' eyes snap open.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Obviously he knows what that's supposed to mean, but he still has to brace himself for the conversation that comes next. For the high-pitched voice and offensively bad Southern accent.

"Oh no, Y/N, I'm so scared! The plane is going to explode! Hold my hand or I'll cry!"

"Okay, first of all, I'm not Marseillais," Charles' eyes narrow, "and second, I don't... need her to hold my hand or anything."

"But you'd like that," Pierre replies pointedly.

From the way Charles shifts in his seat, turning to face the window and muttering a "whatever", the Frenchman knows he's struck a nerve. He's more gentle when he speaks again, after a few seconds of silence.

"So when are you gonna tell her you're madly in love with her?"

"I'm not madly in love with anyone."

"You told me you think of her every time you pass Ascari because the little flowers that grow down the side of the track are her exact favorite color."

Of course, there's nothing to retort to that. Not that it would do much anyway; Pierre is Charles' closest friend on the grid, and has been for more years than his hands, now calloused from the gloves, can count; he doesn't need any word from the younger man, just the twitch of his eyelid and the shadow of his dimple, to know Charles is irrevocably enamored with his old friend.

"I'm just saying, if you're gonna be whipped for someone, at least make it your girlfriend."

"Ferrari is enough of a girlfriend to me," Charles snorts, but he doesn't miss how talking about you evaporated all the flying fright in his belly.

"Okay, hear me out," Pierre leans in conspiratorially, "if you win Monaco... you have to tell her."

Charles stares him down for long, long seconds. It's another one of those mindless pacts they sign together, a purely recreational agreement they'll both have forgotten by the time they hit the tarmac... and Pierre's eyes and slight smile are so familiar and enticing, and it's not like Charles has got any chance of winning Monaco soon, anyway, not after adding yet another DNF to his streak—by the time he stands on the top step before the marina, you'll have found someone, and perhaps even he will have, too, and all will be forgotten.

"Yeah, okay. Promise."

Promises to the wind. Utterly inconsequential.

Especially because Charles doesn't win Monaco the next year, and watches his teammate prowl on the podium instead. Nor does he even come close the following.

So by the time 2024 comes around, he's completely forgotten about his promise—more of a bet, really—to Pierre Gasly in that jet all those years ago. Although, of course, in the gaps left by the deep rumble of the engines, the only thing he hears is your voice from when you wished him good luck over the phone just an hour ago.

"This year's yours, champion! I'll be watching you on TV. Make me proud!"

Charles has never been more thankful for a boring race than the moment he races past the chequered flag, barely making out the mechanics' triumphant fists behind the tears clinging to his lashes. The walls he'd leaned against, catching his breath climbing Monte Carlo's steep hills as a child, kiss him one last time, beckoning him forth into the pitlane where he eventually comes to a halt, dizzy like only Monaco winners are.

Most of the celebrations immediately after are a blur. From the garage's bone-crushing embrace to the roaring crowd and a billion adoring eyes on him, like he is their god—it all clouds into one gigantic red and white haze and the immeasurable, euphoric lightheadedness of being on top of the world.

Charles is still in his drenched race suit, dripping from Mediterranean waters, when Pierre Gasly finds him in the harbor, beaming head to toe, and hugs him as tightly as his sore arms will allow.

"Bravo ma poule," Pierre laughs, and the vibration against Charles' chest makes him laugh too. "I knew you'd do it."

If this were a usual race they would debrief it right then and there, and Charles would no doubt hear detailed, explosive accounts of every act of vehicular manslaughter Esteban has attempted against his teammate; but this is no usual race, this is Monaco, its trophy now bearing Charles Leclerc's name until the end of time; so Pierre grabs his friend by the shoulders instead and looks him straight in the eye.

"So, you won Monaco."

"I did," Charles giggles.

"And you remember what that means, right?"

Charles doesn't like the sly smile he sees on Pierre's face—he knows it too well.

"That means we're gonna party?"

"That means you have to tell Y/N you love her."

For some crazy reason, Charles doesn't flinch at the thought, doesn't even try to argue against it, pretend he does not remember the pact—because it seems like a perfectly good idea, the most logical course of action to take. He's a Monaco Grand Prix winner—he's just won Monaco! He's drunk on the adrenaline, traversed up and down by a million lightning bolts; he could run a mile, or skydive into the sea, or even tell you he's been dying of love for you since the day you met.

This year's yours, champion! Make me proud!

"She's... she's in Paris right now, for work," he replies. "I'll have to do it when she comes back—"

"Call her."

"What?"

"Call her!"

"Like—now?"

"Yes, now! If you don't do it with me right now you're never gonna do it. You're not getting off easy."

Charles hesitates for a split second—so much for lightning-fast reflexes!—and then his hand reaches for his back pocket, and he goes to your contact like some higher being is piloting his every move.

One tone, two tones...

"Voicemail," Charles breathes out, frantic, looking over at Pierre like it's an implacable fatality only he can get him out of. Pierre opens his palms, widening his eyes with a shake of the head, his every muscle screaming, "So? Are you dumb?", and Charles nods, clears his throat.

"Ahem! Erm... hi. Hi! Hi Y/N. I'm calling to say I won! I won the race, I won in Monaco... at last," he smiles into the phone, somehow oblivious to the fact he's about to pour his heart out in front of his best friend. "And I, uh... I also wanted you to know that I'm... really sorry you couldn't make it to the race, because... the truth is I—I like you. Like, more than as a friend. I like you so much, and I've liked you for so long, it's... you've given me so much strength over the years, so much confidence and resilience to bounce back and I never expected to fall for you like this when we met but sometimes it just... happens! And I wanted to dedicate this victory to you. To thank you for sticking with me even when I suck horribly, or when I'm in a bad mood because I suck horribly... you're among the most important people in my life, and that's why I want you to have the most important day in my life too. At least if you don't feel the same way, you know, I still get... one victory. Uh, yeah! Bisous, bye!"

He misses the hang-up button once and then buries his phone in his pocket to never ever hear from it again. Pierre stands dumbfounded as his friend grimaces tentatively.

"Too much?"

But Pierre can't stop chuckling and shakes his head.

"Honestly, brother, I don't even wanna make fun of you, that was genuinely cute."

And the Frenchman grabs the Monégasque by the shoulder, whisking the little prince away into the fervent clamor of his Principality.

Charles' hands don't start shaking until well into the night. The rest of the evening passed in the blink of an eye amidst congratulatory kisses, unending interviews, and the grandest, finest dinner he's never had to pay for. But now Charles is sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to tie his nicest shoes for the afterparty, with the utmost certainty his eyes will burn out of his skull if he glances at the lit-up screen of his phone. No use putting it on Do Not Disturb, chucking it across the room, opening and closing the calculator app like a mad tiger pacing inside a circus trailer... the notification taunts him; three missed calls from you, and two voicemails he will never, ever open.

At least never ever sober.

He barely even remembers the exact words he used in that voicemail. Maybe it wasn't that bad, maybe there's still room to save face, salvage his ego. Pass it off as mere gratitude from a friend to a friend. He didn't say I love you, after all—right? Could he have?

The electric chime of his doorbell snaps him out of his reverie. Surely the taxi. It's a long way down to the first floor—dammit, Charles, who even needs a house with this many stairs?—and he's a little flushed by the time he rushes out the front door to the iron gate, distracted enough to forget to check the security cameras.

A gust of wind picks up just as he opens the gate... and stops dead in his tracks. You're only wearing a frilly summer dress, of course the night chill would make you shiver... you? At his doorstep?

You look up at him, all parted lips and disheveled hair in the night, and he swears your eyes light up the tranquil street a thousand times more than the car lights in the distance. He takes you in, you, you! So splendid and breathless like a comet made woman—your suitcase in your hand, the French taxi driving off behind, and he pieces it all together.

"Y/N...?"

"You had something to tell me," is all you answer, your face pure, gleaming, like the trophy he kissed facing the sea.

[sativariddle]

ILVERMORNY GIRL ꒰ t.n. ꒱

ㅤ────── ❝ never mentioned a boyfriend. ❞

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ navigation. ( 10k+ words. )

AUTHOR’S NOTE: if you don’t enjoy my content, there’s no need for you to stick around. i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage with. turning this into a series, so yes! you will be left on a little cliffhanger!

WARNINGS: contains themes of abusive relationships, sexual content, foul language, mention of character death, manipulation, cheating, and characters making poor decisions.

SUMMARY: a week long stay at ilvermorny sounds like a dream, doesn’t it? the castle is breathtaking: grand halls, towering spires, and enchanted corridors. but as it turns out, the architecture won’t be the only thing capturing theodore’s gaze with such admiration.

MCHT.

mcht. mcht. mcht: the soft, wet sound of lips meeting and parting echoed in the air with an almost hypnotic noise. the pressure of parted mouths gently pressing and then releasing in a fluid dance.

the room bathed in a deep purple light that made everything feel dreamlike and surreal, as if it were pressing against your skin, sending a subtle pulse to your temple. shadows cast against the walls swayed with each movement, the warmth of breath mingled, blending with the quiet rustle of clothing.

theodore couldn't fathom how he ended up here, nor did he care to remember when. his mind was too preoccupied with the girl straddling his lap, humping his thigh like a bitch in heat. he had never been this hard, or turned on in his life.

“you got a condom?”

theodore barely registered the speed at which the words left his mouth. they tumbled out in a rushed breath, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. maybe he was speaking too fast - maybe he wasn’t - maybe it didn’t fucking matter. his father had been riding his ass about this insufferable party for weeks, insisting that it was a necessary event, an opportunity that theodore simply could not afford to miss.

it was halfway across the damn world, and the only reason he’d agreed to come was to shut the old man up. but now that he was here, drowning in a sea of pretentious laughter and clinking champagne flutes, it hadn’t taken long for his attention to be stolen by something far more interesting.

a distraction. a bit of entertainment. and, hell, why not indulge himself? if nothing else, it was the perfect way to spit in his father’s face; an act of defiance wrapped up in pleasure.

and merlin help him, there was no stopping it now. the air between them was filled with something so so so electric, and when her response came, it sent a sharp jolt through him.

“no condom.” no condom? what?

the words rang in his ears, echoing louder than the music in the background. no condom? what the hell did that even mean? his brain scrambled to keep up, teetering between confusion and the overwhelming heat pooling low in his stomach. he parted his lips to ask, to clarify - but she beat him to it.

“i’ll just take the pill tomorrow.” the pill?

the sheer implication of it - of feeling her bare, nothing between them, no barriers, no interruptions - hit him so fucking hard he nearly lost himself right then and there. his fingers twitched at his sides, need clawing at him that made it almost impossible to think straight.

he should have said something. he should have asked are you sure? or maybe even considered the rationality of it. but shit — all he could do was swallow hard, pulse hammering in his throat, as his restraint threatened to snap entirely.

theodore never imagined a one night stand could sear itself into his memory so vividly. despite his initial assumption that he'd forget it all by dawn, the encounter haunted his thoughts. days turned into weeks, weeks into months. even when theodore returned to hogwarts, he wasted no time recounting the night to his friends, every detail still burning fresh in his mind.

no matter how many days passed, his thoughts never strayed far from her. he could still feel her touch, hear her soft little breathless moans, the way her body had fit so perfectly against his, as if she had been made to be in his arms. and salazar, she had been beautiful. the kind of beauty that stayed, that settled deep in his bones and refused to fade, no matter how hard he tried to shake it.

theodore thought about her so often that he started seeking out others just to chase her touch. but it was never the same - never her.

no matter how many hands traced his skin or how many lips pressed against his, none of them ignited that fire, that raw, breath stealing power she had. and afterward, when it was over, he would just find himself staring at the nearest wall, mind tangled in the same question: how the hell did he get so hung up on a girl he’d never see again?

he had never been the type to believe in destiny, never bought into the whole everything happens for a reason bullshit. that wasn’t how life worked - at least, not for him. yet, for the first time, he found himself wondering if maybe - just maybe - he had been wrong.

ILVERMORNY SCHOOL OF witchcraft and wizardry stood proudly atop mount greylock, its grand stone structure blending seamlessly with the wilderness surrounding it. unlike the towering, medieval spires of hogwarts, ilvermorny had a sort of elegance - all smooth gray stone walls with enchanted ivy that shifted colors with the seasons. wide terraces and arched windows overlooking the garden, forests stretching far beyond the mountain’s edge, rivers carved through valleys and mist clung to the treetops.

golden sun painted streaks of amber across the sky as the hogwarts seventh years disembarked from the enchanted portkey onto ilvermorny’s grounds. the air smelled different here: crisp laced with pine. a huge difference from the damp, mossy aroma of the scottish highlands. the week long exchange program was meant to give students the chance to experience life at other wizarding schools, possibly transferring for their eighth and final year if they felt a stronger connection elsewhere.

at the main entrance, massive carved doors bore the symbols of the four houses: thunderbird, wampus, horned serpent, and pukwudgie - each shimmering faintly as if alive with magic.

the castle’s peaked rooflines and grand columns gave it the appearance of an old, enchanted manor, standing timeless. encircled by pines and hidden paths leading to who knows where, ilvermorny felt less like a fortress and more like a secret - one kept by the mountain itself.

the kind of beauty you’d want to keep to yourself, too precious to share with anyone else. theodore was no stranger to that kind of beauty - it almost rivaled with the girl from that one night at the ball halfway across the world. almost.

dumbledore stood before them, robes billowing slightly in the cool wind, moon glasses perched at the end of his nose. “now,” the old man began, voice smooth like butter. “before we officially begin our week long stay at ilvermorny, i would like to establish a few rules.”

a collective groan — mostly from the slytherins. “as guests, you will be expected to conduct yourselves with the utmost decorum,” he continued. “this includes respecting ilvermorny’s customs, following their curfew, and refraining from any behavior that may cause unnecessary…” he paused, as if carefully selecting his next words. “… incidents.”

dumbledore exhaled slowly through his thin nose. “which is precisely why i feel the need to emphasize these rules before the headmaster arrives -“

“ - there will be no sneaking out past curfew,” he continued, eyes flicking directly to mattheo, who looked entirely unbothered. “no unauthorized use of magic outside of class,” - a glance at blaise, who merely arched a brow - “and absolutely no unsanctioned broom races across the ilvermorny grounds.”

draco cleared his throat loudly, pointedly averting his gaze. “i’d like to assume you’re all mature enough to use protection when necessary - pun very much intended.” a stunned silence followed.

several students exchanged side glances, brows raised, as if silently questioning whether they had actually just heard that. “furthermore,” dumbledore went on, shifting his gaze, “i trust there will be no incidents involving the local wildlife.”

as if choreographed, the entire group turned in perfect unison toward berkshire. enzo, refusing to meet their stares, suddenly found the rock at his feet to be the most fascinating thing in the world.

“albus dumbledore!” agilbert fontaine, a man with a full beard streaked with silver, strode toward the group of hogwarts seventh years. his presence alone was enough to demand respect, but his tone carried a warmth that made it clear he was pleased to see them. “how excited and utterly honored we are to have you join us.”

beside him walked a girl who looked to be around their age. she had large brown eyes that darted between them, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and discomfort. a tight lipped, awkward smile tugged at her lips, her thin, straight brows slightly furrowed as if unsure how to carry herself in the moment.

to fontaine’s left was you, also appearing to be in their year. a pair of small metallic balls gleamed on your eyebrow. your smile was small, barely there - just the faintest curve at the corner of your lips, almost forced, as if it had been placed there out of habit rather than genuine feeling. beside you, a boy with dark, spiky hair had an arm draped lazily around your shoulders, fingers absentmindedly toying with the ends of your hair.

you, however, barely seemed to notice - gaze fixed straight ahead, unfocused, as though you were somewhere else entirely.

rather than being in house colors, the ilvermorny uniform features blue robes fastened at the front with a gold gordian knot clasp, beneath the robes, a tailored cranberry colored blazer, paired with a white shirt and a tie.

“i appreciate you for having us,” dumbledore said. fontaine clasped the hogwarts headmaster in a firm embrace, their chuckles rich. the two wizards stood momentarily lost in their shared history, the students behind them shifted awkwardly, exchanging uncertain glances as they waited for further instruction.

“i’d assume albus has already gone over the rules,” fontaine mused, pulling away to meet dumbledore’s knowing gaze. with a simple nod of confirmation from dumbledore, fontaine turned his attention to the three students before him, eyes sweeping over them with pride.

“these are my best,” he declared, gesturing to the ilvermorny studnets standing nearby. “we’ll be splitting you all into groups since managing every single one of you at once would be impossible.”

he wasn’t exaggerating. the number of seventh years was startling - nearly two hundred, maybe more, their figures casting long shadows. some stood tall with curiosity, others with thinly veiled exhaustion from the journey, while a few barely concealed their irritation.

“this is novalie,” fontaine continued, resting a firm hand on the shoulder of a dark haired girl who shifted slightly under the weight of so many eyes. “ravenclaw and hufflepuff, follow her.” novalie gave a small, almost hesitant wave as students began peeling away from the group, forming an orderly line in front of her.

blaise caught draco’s eye, smirking as he tilted his head toward novalie in silent amusement. mattheo and pansy exchanged a knowing glance; they had seen that look before. blaise zabini had already marked his next target. the way his dark eyes flicked over novalie, considering, was enough to confirm it.

enzo rolled his eyes, already prepared to make a joke about blaise and his horrible flirting skills, but the words died in his throat when he turned and realized theodore wasn’t paying attention. at all.

instead, theodore’s gaze was locked on someone. his posture had stiffened, lips parted ever so slightly, brows knit together as if his mind was struggling to catch up with what his eyes were telling him.

“mate?” lorenzo gave him two rough pats on the back, snapping him out of his trance.

theodore blinked rapidly, swallowing hard before muttering, “do you remember the girl i fucked in a purp-“ “- the only thing you ever talk about?” pansy cut in, arms crossed, letting out a dramatic huff. “yeah, everyone fucking knows.” theodore barely registered her interruption. his pulse pounded in his ears, and his stomach twisted as he tried to process the impossibility standing before him.

“yeah, well, she’s right th -“

before he could finish, fontaine’s voice cut through the air. “gryffindor, go with -” when fontaine said your name; theodore barely breathed as he watched you step forward, a familiar face in an entirely unfamiliar place. it was you. he fucking knew it. the girl from across the world. the one who had occupied his thoughts for longer than he cared to admit.

“ - slytherin, go with archer cassius.” but then, the final blow - the bloke beside you slipped an arm around your waist effortlessly, then leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your lips, casually, like it was something he’d done a thousand times before.

archer cassius. even his name sounded so fucking stupid. theodore had to physically stop himself from reacting, from demanding to know who the fuck that was and what gave him the right.

he didn’t know - nor did he care - how he looked staring at the two of you, his eyes blinking rapidly as if that would somehow change what he was seeing. maybe his mind was playing tricks on him. maybe this wasn’t real. but it was. and though you had never promised him anything, though he never once let himself believe he’d see you again, that didn’t stop the sharp sting in his chest.

slytherins began moving toward archer, but theodore’s feet felt rooted to the ground, his attention locked on you as you began walking away, gryffindors trailing behind you.

if the blue robes weren’t covering your arms, he knew the tattoos beneath would be there - etched into your skin like a masterpiece. he had traced them with his tongue, memorizing every curve and line, convinced they looked nothing short of divine on you.

“coming?” pansy asked as the slytherins had already begun moving out of sight.

theodore exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes before reluctantly falling in step behind archer - though he made a point to linger at the very back of the line, ensuring that that motherfucker stayed well out of arm’s reach.

archer was leading them to their sleeping quarters first, then giving a tour of the key areas before they’d all be free to roam as they pleased. but theodore already knew exactly where he’d be going the moment they were dismissed.

—

you could feel a pair of eyes on you, a gaze that made the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. it wasn’t until the group paused near one of the towering stained glass windows that you caught sight of him.

he stood off to the side, hands buried deep in the pockets of his robes, nonchalance - except for his eyes, locked onto you. you had assumed he was just another gryffindor tagging along, but something about the way he moved, separate from the others, made you second guess.

“can i help you?” you asked, turning toward him. he took a slow step closer, tilting his head slightly. “i was wondering about something.”

here we go.

you raised a brow. “and what’s that?”

“archer cassius,” he said, his voice smooth but laced with something else. “the boyfriend? assuming of course…” you stiffened slightly at the name, then exhaled through your nose. “yeah. he is.”

theodore let out a breath of laughter, though there was no humor in it. “huh.” he rocked back on his heels. “interesting.”

if there was one thing you hated most, it was when someone clearly had something on their mind, and instead of addressing it right away, they danced around it - almost like teasing, daring you to get them to spill. it infuriated the fuck out of you. “why do you care?”

he met your gaze. you hated how ridiculously handsome he looked, too. it’s seven in the morning why does he have to look so irresistible? “just trying to make sense of something.”

you sighed, shifting uncomfortably. “and what exactly are you trying to make sense of, theodore?”

his lips quirked, he’d be lying to himself if hearing his name on your lips didn’t bring back a memory of you screaming it just a few months ago. “back in that purple room, when we -“ he gestured between the two of you, “ - you weren’t together?”

you swallowed nervously, forcing yourself to maintain your composure. “we were on a break.”

we were on a break. the words hung between you both.

theodore’s jaw ticked. “right. a break.” he let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “and i suppose that meant it was meaningless, yeah?”

you opened your mouth, hesitating. “it shouldn’t have meant anything.” it shouldn’t have meant anything. it really shouldn’t have. but can’t you see how hard he tried to convince himself of that? yet, the way you felt against him, the way you didn’t just care about your own pleasure but his too - he was doomed from the moment he craved a second round. then a third. then taking you against a random shower wall for a fourth.

a humorless smirk pulled at his lips. “right. shouldn’t have.” he took another step forward, closer now. “and still, you look like you don’t believe that any more than i do.”

you clenched your jaw. “what do you want me to say, theo?”

“i don’t know,” he shrugged. “maybe the truth?”

you exhaled sharply, frustrated. “the truth is; it happened. months ago. a mistake. lets move on.”

“a mistake,” he repeated, voice low. he let the words settle before chuckling, shaking his head. “funny. it didn’t feel like one at the time.” you almost wanted to punch him for making you remember - the embarrassingly high pitched breathless moans that had even caught you off guard.

you remembered that day vividly: something had happened between you and archer a few nights beforehand, and you were still feeling so messed up from it, desperate for a distraction. that’s why you went to the party with your brother and his girlfriend. but when you couldn’t find them, you wandered, keeping your distance from the old, creepy men lingering around.

that’s when you saw theodore. everyone knew he was handsome - it was undeniable. your cousins had warned you about him, saying he was one of the biggest players at hogwarts, right alongside his group of friends. maybe that’s what made the decision easier. it would happen once, something quick, and you’d leave.

but then, the conversation started flowing. he kept inching closer, his breath smelled nice, and before you knew it, a few minutes of small talk had turned into sneaking off together. the two of you slipped into a random room, the glow of purple light casting soft shadows over scattered confetti on the floor.

there was something about the way he spoke, his accent pulling you in, making you lean just a little closer each time he said something. you had asked him about hogwarts, but the moment he started to answer, you remember cutting him off - “shut up,” you had said, before pressing your lips to his.

you glanced away, heart hammering against your ribs. this was not a conversation you wanted to have - not here, not at all. but before you could find the words to end it:

“everything okay here?”

you turned sharply to find archer standing a few feet away, brows drawn together as he looked between you and theodore.

you forced a smile. “yeah, we’re fine.”

theodore, however, had a different response. he slid his hands back into his pockets, tilting his head slightly as he regarded archer. “yeah, mate,” he said, voice knife sharp. “we’re just clearing up some... old misunderstandings.”

just to fuck around, theodore poked the side of your cheek, hoping to get a reaction. he was successful as you quickly swatted his hand away, stepping back a few steps.

archer’s gaze darkened slightly. “yeah?”

theodore smirked. “mm.”

you could feel both of their stares on you, but you refused to let it alarm you. you straightened your shoulders and turned to archer. “i was just about to finish showing them around.” the two of you had argued less than twenty four hours ago - the last thing you wanted was for archer to be angry again. or worse…

archer studied you for a second longer before nodding. “right. let me know if you need anything.” he shot theodore one last glance before stepping back to join the others.

theodore watched him go, then turned his gaze back to you. “must be nice,” he murmured, voice just low enough for you to hear. “having something so... steady.”

“bye, theo.” you reply, refusing to rise to the bait.

since theodore loved nothing more than getting under your skin, he smirked and said, “bye, babe.” you let out an annoyed sound, turning back just long enough to make sure he caught the roll of your eyes before walking away. even with your back to him, his gaze lingered on you, burning into your skin until you finally disappeared around the corner.

he didn’t see you for the rest of the day. it was clear you’d started avoiding him after your little boyfriend had come over.

he had told his friends everything that had happened, recounting the events from months ago between you two, going over the details once more. his friends made disapproving noises, having heard the story countless times before. then he told them about your earlier encounter, how he hadn’t known you had a boyfriend, or that you were supposedly ‘on a break,’ while the two of you couldn’t keep your hands off each other. and, of course, how your boy toy came running in, thinking he was your knight in shining armor.

that night, theodore went to bed, thoughts of you swirling in his mind so much that you even appeared in his dream. for a second, there you were, and just as he was about to speak to you, he woke up with a sigh, frustrated that he couldn’t even talk to you in the damn dream.

ON ONE SIDE, the seventh year hogwarts students stood in their school robes, glancing around curiously as they prepared for their first ever game of ‘capture the flag.’ opposite them, the ilvermorny seventh years stood tall and confident. at the center of it all stood fontaine, his dark blue robes shifting like waves with each movement. a knowing smile played on his lips as he addressed the assembled students.

“alright, listen up, everyone!” he called out. “we’re here to play a game that requires strategy, agility, and a bit of cunning - capture the flag. but, of course, you’ll be playing it a bit differently than you’re used to, so pay close attention.”

the hogwarts students exchanged curious glances, while the ilvermorny students smirked. across the wide stretch of grass, theodore’s gaze lingered on you. your boyfriend stood at your side, and the moment your eyes met theodore’s, he quickly looked away - as if he hadn’t been watching the two of you this whole time. ever since dumbledore and fontaine had gathered the seventh years outside for what they called a ‘small activity,’ his attention had been anything but subtle.

“here’s how it works,” fontaine continued, pacing in front of the eager crowd. “you all have a color tied to your waist - two colors, to be specific. each team will have two colors. your goal is to snatch the colors from the opposing team’s waist and hold onto them. if both colors are taken from your waist, you’re out. that means no more running around or playing - just sit out and cheer your team on.”

“sounds easy enough, yeah?” mattheo muttered to his friends, a smirk tugging at his lips. “should i take out your girl first, nott? maybe play a little dirty?” blaise chuckled, theodore simply rolled his eyes.

“if she doesn’t get you first,” he shot back before glancing in your direction. “fucking sneaky.”

“you’ll need to be quick on your feet,” fontaine continued, “because the team with the most colors at the end of the match wins. and don’t get too cocky - defense is just as important as offense. keep your eyes on your own colors, and don’t let the other team outsmart you.”

the students shifted in excitement as fontaine clapped his hands once, signaling for everyone to line up.

“any questions?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

one brave seventh year from hogwarts raised her hand. “what if someone grabs our color but doesn’t get both of them? do we still get a chance to defend?”

fontaine smiled widely, clearly pleased with the question. “very good. if someone grabs one of your colors, you’ve got a chance to tag them before they make it back to their side. you’ll need to make sure your teammates are there to back you up.”

some of the ilvermorny students chuckled, clearly ready to defend their colors. they all tied their colors securely around their waists, and the hogwarts team did the same.

“alright then,” fontaine said with a grin, stepping aside to allow dumbledore to say a few words.

dumbledore’s voice was stern. “remember, the point is not to fight, but to work together. winning isn’t as important as how you play the game. have fun, respect each other, and be safe. magic is not allowed in this game, so you’ll be relying on your legs.”

with a final nod, dumbledore stepped back, and fontaine clapped his hands again. “alright, teams! get into position, and may the best team win.”

“three… two… one -”

the moment the game started, it was absolute chaos. students lunged at each other, dodging, intertwining, and snatching at the strips of cloth fluttering from their opponents’ waists. shouts and shrieks echoed through the field, feet thundering against the ground.

you were fast, effortlessly ducking past grasping hands and slipping through gaps in the swarm of bodies. a smile tugged at your lips as you evaded yet another hogwarts student, their frustrated groan only fueling your determination.

you parted ways with archer, swiftly snatching a red cloth from a hogwarts boy as you twisted through the chaos. keeping a firm grip on your own blue cloth, you stayed alert, sidestepping anytime someone got too close or looked ready to make a move.

“gotcha - !” mattheo riddle’s voice shouted out behind you, and before you could react, he lunged. but just as his fingers nearly closed around the blue cloth at your waist, he was shoved aside - hard. he was nearly there, so fucking close, fingers barley grazing the fabric. “the fuck, nott?” mattheo staggered, catching himself just in time before face planting into the grass.

theodore stood between you and him, expression substandard as he barely spared mattheo a glance. “try someone else.”

before you could snap at theodore for interfering, lorenzo attempted to take advantage of the distraction and reached for your cloth. you were too focused on proving to theo that you could handle yourself, completely unaware of enzo creeping up behind you - but theo wasn’t, without hesitation, theodore pushed him away too.

“ -hmph. for fuck’s sake, nott -“ lorenzo huffed, glaring up at him, rolling onto his back, one hand lifting to shield his eyes from the sun - too damn bright for anyone’s liking.

“i don’t need protecting.” and to prove your point, your hand shot out in a blur, snatching a red strip from theodore’s waist before he could react.

his blue eyes widened slightly as you took off, sprinting through the chaos with his color in your grasp. “oh, you fucking -“

you knew the rules. since you had taken his color, theodore was now allowed to chase you down to retrieve it. and of course, he would take full advantage of that. his long strides closed the distance between you with ease - he could catch up in seconds, take you down, pin you beneath him, and snatch your colors, securing your loss. but this little game between you two? whether he’d admit it or not, he loved it.

you threw a smug glance over your shoulder. “what’s wrong, nott? losing?”

theodore scowled. “annoying you are.”

before you could retort, a hogwarts student purposely stuck out their foot, sending you stumbling forward. you barely caught yourself, but the distraction was enough - the hogwarts student started to smile as you began to get up, but before they could react any further, theodore swiftly grabbed the red cloth from the student who had tripped you.

with a proud smile, he made sure to take the other cloth as well. “you’re out,” he said, his voice leaking with satisfaction.

“you do know we’re on the same team, right?” the student replied, arms crossing in annoyance.

theo ignored the protest, stepping toward you instead. he extended his hand, holding the red cloths out toward you. from where you lay on the ground, the sun blinding you, all you could make out was his shape and the outstretched hand, the cloths dangling from his fingers. “take them.”

you frowned. “what are you doing?” he was handing you his team colors as a way to initiate a conversation.

“we need to talk.”

“now’s really not the -“

a sudden force slammed into theodore from the side. he lurched, nearly losing his footing, but quickly recovered. it was archer. he was really starting to piss theodore off. he couldn’t even talk to you without your damn boyfriend causing a scene.

theodore’s jaw clenched as he steadied himself, his hand instinctively curling into a fist. “are you serious?” archer scoffed. “stay the fuck away from her.”

theodore shoved him back without hesitation, his patience snapping. “how about you stay the fuck out of things that don’t concern you?”

“she does concern me! everything she does concerns me - involves me!” archer snapped.

oh, theodore was about to sink to an all time low. he barely held back a chuckle as he replied. "yeah? when i was pushing my dick inside her four times, you weren't around to worry about it, were you?" and just like that, the two lunged at each other, hands grasping at the colored strips while simultaneously trying to take the other down. the shouts around them grew louder as students scrambled out of the way, watching the scene unfold with horror.

novalie rushed forward, proudly displaying blaise’s and several other hogwarts students’ colors tied around her waist. you and novalie exchanged glances before, with a swift movement, you each grabbed the cloths from theodore and archer’s waists.

“they’re out,” novalie announced, holding up her prize. but neither boy stopped. they continued grappling, fists tightening in each other’s shirts, completely ignoring the fact that they had technically lost.

a wave of magic swept through the field, and an unseen force yanked them apart. dumbledore’s magic.

theodore and archer stumbled but quickly regained their footing, now standing nose to nose, their breathing heavy as they glared daggers at each other.“enough!” fontaine voice rang out, silencing the entire field. “both of you, my office. now.”

archer and theodore were still practically chest to chest, fists clenched, but neither argued with the headmaster. they simply turned on their heels and trudged toward the castle, following fontaine.

—

two days.

two days had passed since the chaos of capture the flag, and theodore hadn’t heard a damn thing from you. not a word. not a glance. nothing. not that he was looking for you either.

and yet, the thought of you - your voice, your fucking smirk, the way you had snatched his colors right off his waist - still rattled in his mind, completely uninvited. it pissed him off. you pissed him off. archer pissed him off. everything about this situation was so goddamn frustrating, and what was fucking worse? you still had him wrapped around your fucking finger, whether you realized it or not.

he had tried to shove it aside, distract himself, even as his friends spent the past two days talking about the upcoming ilvermorny party.

everyone was going. hogwarts and ilvermorny students alike had been raving about it - how wild it was supposed to be, how it was the place to be tonight.

theodore didn’t go.

he remained in bed while his friends hurried around, getting dressed and ready for the night. they pleaded with him over and over, insisting that a party wasn’t complete without nott, but he couldn’t bring himself to go. the thought of being surrounded by so many people was exhausting - especially when, thanks to the shared dorms, he barely had any time to himself. so, when his friends finally left, he embraced the quiet.

or at least, he tried to.

the silence left too much room for his thoughts to wander — to you. what you were doing right now. whether you’d gone to the party. whether you were in archer’s room, making his night unforgettable. the second that thought crossed his mind, he groaned and shoved his face into his pillow, thumping his head against it in frustration.

clearly, lying in bed and overthinking wasn’t working.

instead, he wandered the castle alone, his footsteps echoing softly through the corridors. the distant sound of laughter and music from the party filtered in through the open windows, but he ignored it. he wasn’t in the mood for noise, for drinking, for pretending he gave a shit about anything other than the storm inside his own head.

but then, he saw you. it was strange - he had just been thinking about you, and suddenly, there you were.

he hadn’t seen you in two days, but he could always recognize you, even from behind. the little tattoos scattered across your arms - the ones he adored on you. your hair fell to the middle of your back, and you usually carried yourself with perfect posture. but now, you were hunched over, your head in your hands. as theodore stepped closer, he noticed the subtle rise and fall of your shoulders, the faint sound of sniffles reaching his ears.

you were alone, standing near the entrance to an empty hallway, body slightly hunched as if you were trying to make yourself smaller. something felt… off. even through the half lit corridors, he could see the way your hands trembled, the way your posture screamed hesitation.

“you’re missing your big party,” he said, his voice calm. you flinched at the sound of his voice, but you didn’t turn to face him.

he took a step forward, trying to move into your line of sight so he could see your face. but the moment he moved, so did you, turning away just enough to keep yourself hidden from him.

he frowned. “what, too drunk to look at me?”

silence.

you stayed silent, and so did he. he watched you closely, searching for any sign that you were okay. when he stepped forward again, trying once more to see your face, you flinched and pulled away, still refusing to let him see you.

his stomach twisted. he stepped closer. “let me see your face.”

you shook your head instantly, stepping back. “no.” your voice was so thick - like you’d been holding back tears for a while now. “just leave me alone, theo.”

your voice carried the poundage of a forming lump, the kind that comes just before you completely break down. you never sounded like that - your tone was always sharp, laced with sarcasm, never… shaky. your words were slurred - theodore could smell the alcohol on your breath from a mile away. he clenched his jaw. “not happening. let me see.”

“no.”

his patience snapped.

before you could retreat further, he reached out, his hands catching your wrists. you struggled weakly, but you were too drunk, too sluggish, and in one swift motion, he cupped your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him.

and that’s when he saw it. a deep, ugly purple bruise spread across your cheekbone, darkened by the light but unmistakable. his fingers twitched against your skin as his breath hitched.

his grip tightened. “who the fuck did this?” it looked awful - probably even worse than it felt. the deep purple stood out harshly against your skin, made even more noticeable by the tears rolling down your face. but more than anything, it made you feel ugly. it made you feel marked.

you jerked away from him, your balance wavering as you wiped at your eyes with shaking hands. “just drop it, theodore.” you tried to make it sound like a demand, but it came out more like a plea. “this is your fucking fault for telling him… telling him -“ your voice broke, the words tangled in hiccups, sobs, and drunken slurs. you couldn’t even get them out. “just drop it. please.”

he wasn’t dropping shit. his jaw clenched so tightly it ached, his mind already putting the pieces together. drunk, voice slurring, didn’t want to go back to archer.

you hadn’t spoken to theodore in two days - hadn’t even let him get a word in. but that didn’t stop the rage simmering just beneath his skin.“the fuck do you mean drop it?” his voice was so fucking dangerous. “he did this? huh?”

you squeezed your eyes shut, letting more tears slip down your cheeks and into theodore’s palm, which was still gently cradling your face.

that was all the confirmation he needed.

he exhaled harshly through his nose, hands clenching into fists before he forced himself to relax. right now, you were drunk. you were barely standing. he had to deal with you first - he could deal with archer later.

“you can’t go back there,” he said finally.

you scoffed, wobbling slightly. “oh, and what? stay with you?”

“yeah. that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.”

you glared at him, but it was sloppy, unfocused. “you’re so fucking bossy.”

“and you’re fucking drunk,” he shot back, moving to steady you as you swayed. he’s sure as hell wasn’t going to press for more details - he’ll settle for getting the truth out of you in the morning.

“i can walk -“ as if on cue, you pushed away from him, acting like you could walk just fine. but you overestimated yourself, immediately stumbling forward. theodore was right behind you, catching your forearm to steady you.

“no, you can’t.”

you huffed in frustration, but before you could argue, theodore crouched slightly and hooked an arm behind your knees, lifting you off the ground effortlessly.

“- hmph.” you let out a startled noise, your hands gripping onto his shoulders. “theo - put me down!”

“shut up,” he muttered, adjusting you as you squirmed. “stop moving before i drop your ass.”

“you wouldn’t dare.”

he smirked, but there was no amusement behind it. “try me.” you scowled at him but settled down, letting your head lull against his shoulder as he carried you through the halls. you reeked of alcohol, body warm from drinking, but despite the mess you were in, he still held you with ease.

as you stared up at him, your eyes glossy and clouded, you couldn’t help but wonder why he was helping you now. you felt like an ugly mess, with a bruise marring half your face. you’d done everything in your power to push him away, refusing to have the ‘conversation’ he’d been begging for. for what? you had no idea. and though you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol speaking or a quick moment of clarity, you found yourself wanting to hear him out.

when he finally reached his assigned dorm, he kicked the door open with his foot and carefully set you down onto the bed.

you groaned, shifting as you buried your face into the pillow. “m’gonna throw up.”

he sighed, walking over to the bathroom connected to the dorm and grabbing the small trashcan before placing it beside the bed. “if you’re going to throw up, do it here.” you made a sound of protest, shaking your head, your face still buried deep in the pillow. “gonna throw up on your bed.”

“you better not. i’m not cleaning up your shit.”

you peeked up at him, eyes bleary. “such a gentleman.”

“sleep.”

he grabbed an extra blanket from enzo’s bed and draped it over you. you immediately snuggled into its warmth. “sleep. we’ll talk in the morning,” he murmured, then grabbed another blanket and pillow from draco’s bed, tossing them onto the floor before settling down.

the room was quiet for a few moments, just the sound of your unsteady breathing filling the space.

then, your voice came out, soft and almost hesitant. “it’s…it’s too cold. just get in the bed, theo.”

he went still.

he hadn’t planned on sleeping. was going to stay awake until his friends got back from the party, so he could tell them to leave and crash in pansy’s dorm instead. but the moment you asked to get in bed, theodore felt a sudden warmth spread up to his ears.

he exhaled, long and slow, before grumbling, “you’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” still, he got up. slipping under the covers beside you, he kept his distance, body stiff.

but then, you shifted closer, and before he could react, your head rested lightly against his shoulder.

he felt your hair brush against his skin, your warmth seeping into him almost instantly. he didn’t stop you when your hand slipped over his waist, nor when you draped a leg over his. you lifted your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, right below his beauty mark. “thank you,” you whispered.

he swallowed hard, staring up at the ceiling. “…get some sleep,” he muttered, voice quieter this time.

you didn’t protest either, your lashes brushing against your eyebrow piercing as you gazed up at his face before finally letting your eyes flutter shut. the alcohol left you feeling everything at once - sleepy, hungry, mad, annoyed, on the verge of tears - and it had drained you completely.

theodore didn’t fall asleep right away. instead, he lay there, staring up at the ceiling with his hands tucked behind his head, your head resting on his bicep. you looked so at peace without those sharp, beautiful eyes glaring at him - lips slightly parted, soft breaths spilling from them.

your hair was everywhere, strands tickling his neck, but he didn’t mind.

twenty minutes passed before he heard his friends drunkenly fumbling with the dorm door, trying to get inside. theodore had locked it and placed a spell on it, wanting to avoid any questions about why you were fast asleep in his bed.

after three failed attempts, they finally gave up. he heard pansy mumble something about just crashing at her assigned dorm for the night before their footsteps faded away.

THE MORNING LIGHT filtered through the dormitory windows, casting a strip of golden glow over theodore’s chest as he stirred, stretching slightly before reaching toward the space beside him - only to find it empty. his fingers brushed against the cool sheets, the warmth that had been there just hours ago completely gone.

his beautiful eyes snapped open, scanning the room: everything was perfectly in place. the extra blanket he had thrown over you was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, the trash can he had set beside you was gone - assuming to be back in the bathroom, and even his pillow where your head had rested was fluffed, as if untouched.

it was as if last night had never happened.

the soft creak of a door caught his attention. he turned just as you stepped out of the bathroom, your face freshly washed, your expression carefully guarded. relief settled over him, but it didn’t last long, because the first thing he noticed was the deep purple bruise still marring your skin.

“you were just going to leave without saying anything?” his voice was quiet, still recovering from his sleep.

you didn’t answer right away. instead, you walked over to the dresser, grabbing your things with slow movements.

“at least tell me where the bruise came from,” theodore pressed, standing up now, his sharp eyes never leaving you. “it doesn’t matter,” you muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

“it does to me.”

you let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “why? so you can play hero? so you can tell me what i already know?”

theodore took a step closer, his patience thinning. “just tell me, what happened?” you swallowed hard, your fingers gripping the edge of the dresser. “you already know,” you whispered.

he did. but hearing you admit it made his blood run cold. “archer,” he said.

you nodded, exhaling shakily. “he told me what you said to him during capture the flag and…” your voice faltered, and you turned away slightly. “he said he didn’t care whether it was true or not - just the fact that you even thought that about me must’ve meant something.”

it had. but archer didn’t know that.

theodore’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “he beat the shit out of you for what i said?” his voice was dangerously low now.

you hesitated before nodding again. “it’s not the first time,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. you took a shaky breath. “after archer’s mother died, i was the only one there for him, comforting her and everything. and the first time he… the first time he actually hit me was over something so stupid.” your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeves. “i got paired up with a boy for a school project, and archer thought i was laughing and smiling too much. which is insane because i just wanted to get the damn thing over with.” you swallowed hard. “but he punched me. and i swear to you, theo, i wanted to leave. i was going to leave. but then he broke down. said his head was a mess after losing his mother, that he was losing everything -“ your voice cracked. “i couldn’t just leave him.”

theodore was silent for a long moment, his jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grind. “so he manipulated you.”

you said nothing.

his eyes darkened. “how many times after that?”

again, silence.

theodore stood abruptly from the bed, his entire body taut with barely contained rage. “i asked you a question.” maybe it was wrong to push you like this, but if someone was hurting you, he needed to know. he needed to do something.

you exhaled shakily, staring down at your hands. “every time he gets mad,” you admitted softly. “or… when he’s stressed.”

it was strange - wrong, even - how small your voice had become. you were always sharp tongued with theodore, always snappy and confident, never one to back down from a fight. and yet, sitting here now, you were so quiet. it was so fucking weird.

just like the first time he had seen you walk out of those doors with archer’s arm around you - your body there but your mind somewhere far, far away.

“if i leave him, it’ll be worse.”

you sounded so certain, so resigned, like you had already convinced yourself this was just the way things had to be. “you don’t know that,” he argued, stepping closer. “you don’t have to stay with him.”

“you don’t understand, theo,” you said, finally looking at him. “he will hurt me. worse than this. he’s not just going to let me go.”

god, you had tried to leave. so many times. so many times. even sleeping with theo — letting him mark you up with hickeys you made sure archer would see - that didn’t work. if anything, it only made things worse. he made sure you knew exactly who owned you after that, and it was the worst fucking day of your life.

you were so tired of people telling you to ‘just leave’ like it was that simple. if it were, you would’ve been gone a long time ago. “even novalie tried to help,” you muttered, voice hollow.

“novalie?”

“my best friend.”

“she told the headmaster.” a humorless, bitter laugh escaped you. “but for fuck’s sake, what can you really do when the headmaster is your grandfather?”

fontaine had scoffed at the accusation, his expression cold and dismissive. archer wouldn’t do such a thing. his perfect grandson would never do something like that. and oh, how archer had smirked at you when you reported it - when fontaine barely spared you a glance before saying, ‘report false information again, and you will be expelled. both of you.”

you and novalie had left without a word. because what was there to say? the message was clear — archer was untouchable.

theodore stared at you, heart pounding. he wanted to tell you he wouldn’t let archer hurt you again, that you didn’t have to be afraid - but he could see it in your eyes. the fear. the exhaustion.

the belief that there was no way out.

his jaw tightened. his mind raced. and then, suddenly, his lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. “fine,” he said, voice calm. “i’ll transfer to ilvermorny and spend every single day fucking his life up.”

“theo -“

“i mean it.” his gaze darkened, his fists still clenched at his sides. “if he thinks he can do this to you and get away with it, he’s dead fucking wrong.”

for a moment, you just stood there, staring at him, your heart pounding as hard as his.

he wasn’t just saying this. he meant it.

you stayed silent, and theodore waited, expecting you to say something, anything. but you didn’t. you simply stared at him for a moment before turning away, opening the door, and slamming it shut behind you.

—

the ilvermorny campus was alive with color and sound, with students hopping from booth to booth at the annual fundraiser event. laughter rang in the air, mixed with the occasional cheer from someone winning a prize or the playful groans of a lost game. banners waved in the waft, enchanted lights twinkled despite it being midday, and the scent of caramel popcorn and cotton candy lingered around every corner.

at the far end of the courtyard stood the cupid booth, easily one of the most talked about attractions. the booth was an oversized, ridiculous pink monstrosity, covered in paper hearts, glittering fairy lights, and a glowing neon sign that read; FIND YOUR PERFECT MATCH! the magic of the booth was its biggest draw - once inside, the space expanded into a cozy, candle lit room, perfect for a blind date experience.

novalie was handling the sign-ups when theodore strolled up, hands in his pockets, looking as if he wasn’t taking the event remotely seriously.

novalie barely spared him a glance. “not a chance, nott. move along.”

theodore was about to ask how she knew his name but quickly remembered - she was your best friend. of course, you’d talked about him. and judging by the way she was silently glaring at him, it hadn’t been in the most flattering light.

with that in mind, theodore smirked. “i haven’t even said anything yet.”

“you want me to set you up with her.”

he shrugged. “what can i say? i’m a man of simple desires.”

novalie rolled her eyes, arms crossed. “yeah? and i desire not to deal with your nonsense.”

theodore leaned on the booth, dropping his voice. “come on, just slot me in.”

when novalie simply shook her head, theodore’s mind worked fast. then it clicked - blaise had mentioned that she’d been giving him ‘the eyes’ all night. or whatever the hell that meant. but despite that, she hadn’t made a move, and blaise, being the prideful idiot he was, refused to make one himself.

a complete pussy, if you asked theodore.

“okay, how about this,” theo said smoothly. “you set me up with her, and in return…” he leaned in conspiratorially. “i’ll put in a good word for you with blaise.”

novalie’s eyes narrowed, but there was interest in them now. “you’re lying.”

“why would i lie about my best friend? us guys aren’t like you girls.” novalie’s head snapped up from the sign up sheet. “watch your mouth.”

theodore tilted his head, unfazed. “come on, nov. blaise likes you, you know. he just needs a little… push t-“ “- don’t call me nov,” she scoffed, but the way she chewed her bottom lip gave her away. considering.

“a good word?”

“the best.”

novalie let out a dramatic sigh. “you are the most annoying person in existence.”

“thank you.”

she glared at him for a few more seconds before snatching a quill and scribbling something on the sign up sheet. “fine. but if you don’t follow through with blaise, i will hex you.” he couldn’t wait to tell blaise about this. about how much novalie actually cared enough to ask for a good word on her behalf.

theodore grinned. “noted.”

novalie found you near the ring toss booth, talking with some classmates and holding a bag of pink cotton candy. archer was nowhere to be seen, which was perfect - no chance of his annoying self barging in. novalie walked up to the group, ignoring the comment from one of the boys you were talking to, who started to say, “looking sexy, nov -“ she grabbed your wrist and yanked you away without a word.

“uh - what the hell?” you protested, stumbling after her. you licked your lips slightly, the sweet blend of cotton candy and your lip gloss lingering on your tongue.

“you, my queen, are going on a blind date.”

you blinked repeatedly. “excuse me?”

novalie gave you an innocent smile. “the cupid booth! it’s for charity! for love! and also, i signed you up.” you knew about the booth your best friend was running - you’d even helped her set up a few things. but that was as far as your involvement went; you’d help her, sure, but actually participating? that was out of the question.

you frowned. “since when?”

“five minutes ago.”

you tried to dig your heels in. “nope.” especially with archer lurking around — he could pop up anywhere at any time. and if he so much as caught you slipping into a blind date booth, you might as well start digging your own grave.

“oh, come on, it’ll be fun!”

“if archer sees -“

“- i’ll distract him -“

“ - and i hate blind dates.”

“but this one is special.”

“why?”

novalie hesitated. “um. because magic? and, uh, fate?” you’d known this girl for most of your life - you could spot her lies a mile away. she’d avoid your eyes, stare at the ground, and blink a little too much, all while keeping that small, devilish smile. you narrowed your eyes at her. “you’re hiding something.”

“no, i’m persuading.” she looped her arm through yours, practically dragging you toward the booth. “besides, it’s already set up, and it would be so rude to cancel last minute.”

“this is so sketchy,” you muttered.

novalie just beamed. “i know.”

you let her drag you along, occasionally glancing around to see if you could spot archer. you hadn’t, at least not since last night, which was strange. archer always woke up extra early, so he’d be the first person you’d see when leaving your dorm. he’d be right there by the horned serpent common room, waiting to walk you to class. at first, you thought it was just a cute safety thing. then you found out he did it to keep track of you at all times, in a way that felt more controlling than caring.

the inside of the cupid booth was nothing short of obnoxious. the moment you stepped through the curtain, the small wooden booth melted away into an entirely different space - one far bigger than it had any right to be.

It looked like valentine’s day and a unicorn had a baby, and then it exploded inside.

the walls were soft pink with gold trimmings, floating candles hovering above, casting a warm glow. a plush loveseat sat in the center, positioned near a tiny table with a tea set and a tray of chocolate covered strawberries. delicate roses curled up the corners of the space, enchanted so they occasionally released petals that disappeared before they could touch the floor.

you groaned. “i hate this.”

“you love this,” novalie corrected, pushing you forward.

“i’m going to kill you.”

“you can try! enjoy your date!” she yanked the curtain shut behind you. you watched as the shadow behind the curtain shrank and vanished, just as you muttered the words. “this better not be with some random -“

“wow,” theodore drawled, lounging casually on the loveseat, one arm draped along the backrest. “for someone who hates blind dates, you sure walked into this one easily.”

your stomach dropped. you spun to glare at the curtain. “NOVALIE!”

a muffled giggle was your only response.

theodore smirked. “so, should we start with tea, or do you just want to skip to the part where you fall madly in love with me?”

you didn’t know why he was still trying to reach you. you didn’t understand why he kept making an effort to talk to you when you’d made it clear so many times that you wanted him to just drop it. “why do you keep doing this?” you asked, your voice cracking, frustration bubbling beneath your words.

theodore’s smile faltered, replaced by that same look that made you want to slap the hell out of him. how could he look so damn handsome and yet so damn sad all the time?

“it’s always ‘why i do things’ with you,” theodore said, shaking his head. “someone shows you kindness, and suddenly you don’t know how to function properly.” theodore had you all figured out: you can whisper the melody, but you can’t make someone listen to the song.

you weren’t listening. your eyes were locked on his hands - more specifically, the bruises all over his knuckles. they looked like they’d been hitting something over and over, a thousand times. “…what happened to your hand?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

theodore hesitated, his jaw tightening. “what? thought i was just going to let that bloke roam free?” the words hung in the air for a moment, and you could feel your heart race as your thoughts spun. “what? why?”

“if his little grandfather asks,” theodore continued, his tone low, “he promised to tell him his dumbass tripped and fell somewhere.”

you stared at him, speechless.

he was still holding your gaze, and then he shrugged. “when your father’s a nott, and your best friend’s a malfoy, anything’s possible.”

your mind was reeling, processing it all; the violence, the anger. archer being hurt. theodore beating the shit out of him. theodore was waiting for you to be angry, but you couldn’t even speak. you just stood there, trying to make sense of the mess between you.

then, without warning, you started walking toward him. 10 INCHES: theodore tensed. the look on your face - he didn’t recognize it. and for that reason alone, he was fully convinced you were about to slap him. 5 INCHES: he braced himself, fingers twitching. maybe he should stop you. maybe he should fight back. but, honestly? he probably deserved it. 2 INCHES: you were close now. close enough to lift your hand, to hit him, to let all your anger spill out. 1 INCHES: but instead of striking him, you closed the distance — and kissed him.

for a split second, theodore froze, completely caught off guard. but then, instinct took over, and he melted into it. your bottom lip slipped between his parted lips with ease, the kiss so desperate, so messy, and filled with all the things neither of you had been able to say.

each kiss was a thank you. one — thank you. another — thank you. and another. thank you. thank you. thank you.

[dawngyu]

THE ARCHIVE

pairing: choi soobin x reader

"Here. Please read each clause carefully dear."

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

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

☐ Yes ☐ No

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

wc: 13k — playlist.

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

a big thank you to my beta reader.

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

"Sweetheart."

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

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

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

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

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

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

"I'm not joking," he murmurs.

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

A beat of silence. Then—

"Are you sleeping again?"

"No."

"You’re going to be late."

"Uh-huh."

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

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

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

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

"I love you," you whisper.

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

"I love you more."

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

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

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

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

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

It's always easy with him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sir."

"And—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

"What's wrong—?"

You don’t get to finish.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N."

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

"I am, Mom."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you’ll be the next one to disappear.

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

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

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

The procedure of erasing him from your memory completely.

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

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

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

And then you slipped inside. His room.

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

No one was ever allowed inside.

No one but you.

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

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

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

But pretending could only take you so far.

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

A name that no longer had a future.

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

You listened as his footsteps retreated down the hall.

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

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

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

Your hairbands.

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

"You always lose your hairbands, baby."

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

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

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

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

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

A pause. Then, softer this time—

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

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

It happens more often than not.

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

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

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

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

Because it means moving on.

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

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

That terrifies you more than anything.

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

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

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

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

His breath catches. And then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

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

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

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

The credits rolled, and the room felt heavier.

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

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

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

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

Neither of you moved.

Because some absences can never be replaced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N!"

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

"I missed you," she murmurs.

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

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

It’s too much.

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

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

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

But he's not. He never will be.

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

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

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

Except for his sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s there.

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

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew you would never see them again.

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

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

To free him.

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

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

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

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

Your breath stumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you don’t.

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

What does it truly mean to forget?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you. And I’m sorry."

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

Your wounds will never heal.

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

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

Maybe not.

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

Cry. Cry for him. Cry for yourself.

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

You're not strong enough.

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

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

Haunted.

Your own box grows heavier in your hands.

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

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

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

But she’ll be here after.

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

And that should be enough, right?

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

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

You promised.

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

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

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

You promised him.

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

No one speaks.

No one looks at each other for too long.

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

You’re all here for the same reason.

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

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

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

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

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

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

☐ Yes ☐ No

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

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

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

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

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

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

How many they’ve seen as wrecked as you.

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

You barely breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

For him. For your family.

For him.

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

Memories. It all flashes.

THE PEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don’t," you reply flatly.

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

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

He grins, reaching straight for the glitter pen.

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

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

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

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

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

"Uh… strawberry milk?"

"I hate strawberries."

"Hand massages?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE POLAROID CAMERA

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

Meet me at the playground?

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

I’ll let you copy mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TEDDY BEAR

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

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

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

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

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

“Four years.” — “What?”

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

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

“I’ll go easy on you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

Please let forever be like this.

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

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

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

His chest tightens.

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

"Hmm?"

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

"Could I please be your boyfriend?"

THE SILVER METAL BAND

"Sweetheart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re crying.

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—stillness.

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

You turn, breath shaky, searching. Soobin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then his fingers find your face.

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

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

“I don’t wanna see you cry.”

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

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

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

It feels like the end.

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

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

"Congratulations, it's successful."

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

You feel light. Weightless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother notices. "What is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re a fan of Inuyasha?”

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

He’s cute.

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

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

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

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

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

Something... archived.

"What's your name?"

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

[akascow]

i keep thinking about the end of this post i made lmfao:

"i like that in the last battle he just accepts it: realizes hes in the same position as future jayce, but just closes his eyes... he knew the only way to get through to viktor wasnt through fighting, but talking. which has been the basis of both of their worldviews for the whole show,, which is WHY IT WORKED"

bc wow i kinda cooked with that one HAHA

(also it like totally relates to the act3 message about how killing is a cycle and the only way to stop the killing is to literally Stop The Killing lmao)

but like, to elaborate on it i just think its so significant given that jayce and viktor were always opposed to killing others or using hextech against ppl less equipped:

-jayce's anti shimmer plan crumbles the second he accidentally kills a zaunite child.

-viktor adamantly opposes the idea of building weapons the entire first season because theyre scientists, not soldiers.

-jayce throws up and almost has a panic attack seeing a bunch of enforcers stain the bridge with blood after the firelight bombs.

-viktor abandons his whole hexcore idea the moment sky dies from it, begging jayce to destroy it

-jayce completely disagrees in the use of hextech weapons even after viktor dies from the attack on the council

their goal was always to use hextech to help, not hurt.

and yes they do stray from that ideology a couple times bc of like,, moments of weakness or wtvr lol:

viktor in his Machine Herald basically killing the body and leaving the soul of everyone who joins his cult i mean harem i mean community,, ((although im pretty certain the hexcore was kinda like a virus- influencing his actions with the main goal of spreading,, and i truly believe he genuinely thought he was helping people and not like, literally killing them lol))

and jayce making some weapons for the strike team later, but you can see hes clearly distraught from breaking another promise to viktor (his wound literally reopens as a metaphor lmao)

and they try to fight each other in order to share their disagreement of the other's actions, viktor tries to make jayce see his vision, doesnt work, he tries to choke him to death. jayce tries to make viktor see that what hes doing is wrong, doesnt work, he blasts vik's puppets with his hammer lmao.

but what does work ? putting down the weapons. in the end they accomplish the mutual goal without violence. mainly because they literally cannot bring themselves to kill the other but

they never really wanted to fight, no less kill, each other in the first place. because they shared that mutual worldview, they were never in favor of violence against their enemies. both of them even show regret while trying to kill each other too. jayce's anomaly screaming trying to pull away from blasting viktor in the chest, and viktor failing to persuade jayce to his side, voicing his apology before attempting to kill him.

jayce gets to the tower and sees hes in the same position as his future self. realizing he cant beat viktor like this, and everything he saw in the future timeline is inevitable, he closes his eyes, tired from fighting. but what does viktor do? does he kill him? turn him into a puppet like the others? no, viktor lets him into his world, letting him see what he sees.

viktor shares his motivation, humanity's weaknesses causes senseless war. but instead of arguing at that, jayce just talks to him, sharing his words of affection. yes humaity has weakness, but what viktor always viewed as weakness is actually what makes people admirable. and jayce hugs him, he shows viktor the truth of what is to come continuing this path, letting viktor know what he knows.

and thats how viktor breaks free. with a hug. practically the exact opposite of violence.

and again, they fix their mistake together, holding hands and embracing each other, sharing that pain and guilt of the fact that they did hurt people, and choosing to take themselves out in pursuit of correcting that mistake.

...and isnt that just beautiful HAHA