#Memory loss

[dikdikpronouncedxylophone]

The most terrifying part of having memory issues is when you can feel something from 5 seconds ago be thrown out the window and there's an empty hole where it once was. You remember that you forgot something.

[rosesnr0t]

Let me just say... Holy cow you did my headcanon request perfectly! So here's my full request!

How about Platonic Yandere Dark Cacao with a reader that became a villain because Dark Enchantress erased some of reader's memories and twisted stories?

Now Dark Cacao is trying to catch reader and get them back to the way they once were by basically keeping Reader in what would be considered a 'golden cage' with the help of those he trusts.

(Including his son helping him, and him finding out how his son became evil as a subplot if you want a little more angst. Up to you though.

And no, I'm not doing character x character with them. This is simply a suggestion, and character x character is against your rules last I checked.)

You don't have to do this if you don't want to! If it's too detailed, then I'll request something else and try to give less detail.

Hope you have a great day/night!

-❄💗🖋

The Snow Forgets, But I Do Not

Platonic Yandere Dark Cacao x GN!Reader

…

It’s been two weeks since you were captured.

Four weeks since since you had turned.

Once, you were the child Dark Cacao had taken under his wing—after the war, after the kingdoms fell to ruin, after you'd been orphaned by a raid that was never meant for you. You had been small then, quiet but wide-eyed, and Dark Cacao Cookie—stern and bitter as he was—had grown to call you kin.

But that was before.

Before she got to you.

Dark Enchantress Cookie had twisted many souls, but yours was the cruelest blow. She hadn’t corrupted you with power, or temptation. No, she had erased you from yourself—bit by bit—replacing cherished memories with bleeding shadows, warping truth into betrayal, until all you saw in the King’s face was control.

And so you ran. And you became something else. 

A villain in the eyes of the world. 

A lost child in his.

Until Dark Choco took you - and you wake now in silk.

Golden light pours into your chamber through frost-bitten windows. Servants smile at you like nothing’s wrong. Every luxury is provided—books, food, warmth, even music.

But the door is always locked.

You are free to wander the palace, but never past the gates. There are eyes on you always—guards, attendants, sometimes Dark Cacao himself. 

In fact, he visits every morning. He doesn’t smile. He never did. But he brings stories from when you were younger—when he taught you to hold a sword, when you saved a wounded bird, when you fell asleep reading in the war library and he carried you to your room.

You listen, mouth tight, trying to picture it, trying to remember.

But those memories are gone.

In their place are cold hands. Fire. Screaming.

A voice like silk: “They feared you. He feared what you could become.”

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

That night, you try to escape.

The guards don’t stop you.

Because he knew.

He was waiting at the gates.

You fall to your knees in the snow, breath ragged, fury and grief boiling in your chest.

“You can’t keep me here,” you cry. “You don’t even know if I’m the same person. Maybe I never was! Maybe she didn’t change me. Maybe she just showed me the truth.”

“I don’t care,” Dark Cacao says. His eyes gleam like amethyst under the moonlight. “Even if what I remember is a lie—I will protect it. I will protect you.”

You shake your head, desperate. “Then you don’t love me. You love a memory.”

“No.” He steps forward. “I love you. That is why I will rebuild you, piece by piece, if I must.”

He places a hand to your cheek. You flinch.

“Let the snow bury the lies she fed you. Let me teach you again. Let me make you whole.”

And you realize then—this is not a man driven by cruelty. This is a man consumed by loss.

So desperate to undo fate that he’s willing to freeze time.

Even if it means your soul withers in the ice.

Even if it means you forget yourself all over again.

[glassd0ll601]

[solidwater05]

Apparently this needs to be said so

Forgetting things is morally neutral! Memory issues are morally neutral!

You're not a bad person if you...

forget things quickly

forget people

can't remember entire stages of your life

can't remember important things

can remember some things very well and forget other things all the time

can't remember things (or anything!) about your interests

forget to eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, etc

forget to reply to texts

remember things and immediately forget them again

can't remember birthdays, events, etc

frequently answer 'I forgot' to questions

can't retain new information

forget things you used to know

only remember things when it's too late

have vague, distorted and/or unreliable memories

depend on others to know how an event you were in played out

have other symptoms that are worsened by memory issues and vice versa

... and anything else I might have missed!

[caintooth]

seeing people my age talk about how scared they are of memory loss, which they only associate with old age, is so surreal to see as a 24 year old who has actively experienced memory loss for a long time now

there are causes for memory loss besides dementia and alzheimer’s, i hope y’all know that. dissociative disorders, trauma, brain injuries, thyroid problems, even just stress and lack of sleep can fuck up your ability to store, process, and access memory. and that’s just a few of the many causes i can think of off the top of my head right now.

please stop treating disabled people like some scary “other” that you might become only in the distant, decades-away future. we are your age, too. you may become one of us sooner than you know. stop acting like memory loss marks the end of a life, when so many of us have so much living left to do!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are. 

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference. 

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn

[kizzer55555]

Blanked

Some time anomalies happen and a bat member is completely erased from existence. That bag only realizes this when none of their family know who they are. I’m talking completely erased like they were never born. No media coverage, no pictures (exiting pictures altered), no birth records or anything. Not their family, not their friends, not fellow heroes, not even their parents (depending on who it was, default is Bruce and Alfred though) remember them. All except one. Phantom, who confusedly asks said bat why they are upset. Addressing them by name. (because he has a time medallion stuck in his chest that makes him immune to time anomalies.)

Danny is just passing by and sees the upset bat and goes “Hey! (Insert bat), what’s going on?” The bat freezes and then practically tackles Phantom like he’s their only lifeline.

[valkyraine]

au where james and regulus have been dating since high school. their relationship started to get rocky during their law (james) and med (reg) school years. one night, during one of their most heated arguments, james decided to take a break and leave for a while, where he ended up in a car accident that left him unconscious for three days. when he finally woke up, he had no recollection of anything. overwhelmed by guilt, regulus asked their friends and family to refrain from reminding james of their relationship.

regulus packed everything that could remind james of their relationship and moved out of their home. he focused on graduating from med school and kept a distance from james. then during his first year of residency, james was rushed to the emergency room by his boyfriend to the hospital where regulus was working.

regulus was attending to another patient when he heard james’ boyfriend screaming for help. as he tended to james, who suddenly felt a sense of familiarity and asked regulus if they had met before. regulus quickly denied it and handed him over to an intern.

ever since that encounter, james has been unable to get a certain doctor out of his mind. he has made it his mission to learn more about him and uncover if regulus is one of the things he had forgotten in the past…. that’s when he stumbled upon an old polaroid photo of them beaming at each other, with regulus showing off his engagement ring.

[chroniccoolness]

this post is for the people with memory issues

people who's memories are getting worse every day, who's memories are stable but poor, people who can't remember what they did today or yesterday or this week, people who's childhoods are a faded blur. people who have slow greying-out amnesia that seems to just fade in and out of existence, and people who have complete blackouts, and people who have both. people who mourn the happy memories they know they've lost, who fear the bad memories they've lost that still affect them.

people who have "emotional amnesia" that makes it feel like none of their memories are their own, because there's few or no feelings attached. people who can ONLY remember the feelings from certain or even most memories, not actual events. people who's memory issues scare them or make them angry or make them miserable. people who's memory issues get them called childish or difficult or rude. who can't remember the names or faces of those they love. who are constantly forgetting the things that "you'd remember if you really cared". who misplace everything. who remember so little of their lives that they barely know who they are. people who's memory issues come from trauma/dissociation, ADHD, traumatic brain injury, brain fog/chronic fatigue, drug use, alcoholism. people who have no idea what causes their memory issues. people who's memory issues come from something else entirely.

i love you, you're strong, and you deserve support and care for what you're going through. memory issues can be frustrating and upsetting and disabling, and your suffering deserves to be recognized. whether you're soaring through recovery or are only ever going to get worse, you deserve good things in life and to live the fullest you can, regardless of how much you remember.

[thebibliosphere]

There are a lot of things I'm sad about in my life. You don't get to go through the kind of medical trauma I've been through and come out unscathed on the other side.

But one thing I'm really bitter about is that I can't remember my wedding anymore. The pernicious anemia took it from me and wiped my brain clean. Except it's not clean, not really. I remember it in patches. Like red wine stains on a white rug that have never quite lifted out no matter how hard you try.

I look at the pictures on my bookcase, and they feel like remembering a story someone else has told me. There's a young woman in a white dress wearing my face, and she looks happy. I'm happy for her. But you can see the strain around her eyes, too. The pain she's hiding because no one with authority believes her when she says her body doesn't feel right. That something is Wrong.

They won't believe her for another decade. They won't believe her until it's almost too late, and it's that lateness that will rob her of her memories and turn them into a wavering rainbow suspended in the fine haze of watery sunlight that occasionally surfaces through the blanks.

There's one memory that's real, though. Solid. It's not my vows. It's not my father walking me down the aisle. (Though those are there, just hazy and dream-like). It's our first dance.

It's the lights dimming around the room as the staff cleared the floor, causing the fishbowls full of white roses and LED lights on the tables to wobble like pools of moonlight against dark paneled walls.

It's the band inviting us out onto the floor and us giggling because we know what's coming next, and no one else does. It's the twang of a banjo reverberating around the room through the speakers, followed by the dulcet tones of Kermit the Frog wondering why there are so many songs about rainbows.

It's us waltzing around the enclosed circle of light, singing to each other out of tune and grinning like idiots as everyone around us starts to laugh.

It's everyone joining in on the song because it's the Muppets, and everyone knows the words. It's 100+ people singing the Rainbow Connection, some laughing, some a bit tearful, because it's bringing back memories. Because it's making a new one.

It's looking up at my new husband through the brain fog and all the pain in my body and thinking, "I want to remember this moment forever."

I don't know what entity was out there listening to me at that moment and chose to grant that wish. I don't know why this is the one memory that stuck while everything else in my brain got decimated into scattered, fragmented snapshots. But I'm so, so thankful it is.

[phantomwithbreakfast]

DANNYMAY DAY 09: Underground

Day 08 • Day 10

⟢ I was getting confused with this prompt. As—underground could mean so many things, depending on the context. But one idea kept clawing back into my brain—corpse AU. And oh, dude. I got way too hyped about it. Turns out, @ghostlyglimmer and I had the same deliciously dreadful idea! Go check out her hauntingly good work here! As for mine? Uhh, well—I turned Danny into uhh—something a little more post-mortem than usual (duhh). Think like—half-dead, half-ghost, full-on corpse aesthetic. Possessed corpse? Danny as a ghostly remnant that crawled his way out of his grave. (More under the cut)

Genre: Angst / Horror • TW/CW: Death — Memory Loss — Identity Loss — Emotional Distress • AU — OOC

Danny was dead. He just didn’t know.

His eyes snapped open to pitch black—thick, suffocating, endless. The silence was too loud.

Then—

A green eerie light. A flickering glow bloomed somewhere in the dark. Acidic light pushed into retinas that no longer needed to see, searing across nerves that shouldn’t be burning. He gasped, or… he tried to. But his lungs didn’t move. His heart didn’t beat. No air, no space. Just… cold.

There was nothing. No memory. No name. No life.

All he knew he was trapped.

I need to get out.

He reached upward, lifting his trembling hands—and they met something rough. Wooden. Dry. Pressed against his palms like a lid. A box. Too small, too tight.

A memory sliced through the fog—white light, searing heat and pain. A scream that never ended.

His.

“No,” he rasped, his voice cracked like brittle glass. “No, no—”

Panic shot through him. His fingers clawed upward again, splinters digging in—except… they didn’t. His hand passed through the lid. Not touching it. Just… slipping.

“The fuck…?”

His breathing quickened—but there was nothing to breath. His chest rose on instinct, not oxygen. There was no warmth, no blood. But something churned inside him, rising from deep within the center of his chest. Something icy. Wild. Terrified.

Realization crept in—this was a coffin. A grave. He was underground, sealed in silence and death.

Six feet under. Buried. Gone.

“I’m not—I’m not dead!”

His body shuddered. A jolt of agony ripped through his spine.

He screamed, and then—something changed.

His clothes tore into black and white in a blur of flickering energy. He didn’t feel it happen. He didn’t mean to. He just panicked—and something inside him answered.

He clawed his way upward, intangible, through dirt and soil and death. His body no longer felt like his own. Cold. Weightless. Wrong.

He burst out of the earth and soil with a gasp he couldn’t feel. And when he looked down at his hands—they weren’t the same. They were covered with white gloves, faintly glowing, trembling. His hair was pearl-white, catching the corner of his glowing green eyes.

And finally, he understood.

He was a ghost.

But he didn’t know who he’d been, didn’t know what he’d lost, didn’t know how he got here or why his bones felt weightless and hollow. Didn’t know what came next.

All he knew was that he’d died… and death hadn’t stuck.

They’d buried him alive—or so it felt. But no… he’d been dead. Truly dead. And now he was back—aware, conscious, no longer rotting in silence. No longer sleeping in that box meant to hold him forever. And now? He was alone, hollow, lost. With no memories, no name, and nothing but the weight of death clinging to his… skin, he had to piece together a life he couldn’t remember.

“I’m not… I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m still here. But I don’t feel anything. I don’t need to breathe—I don’t need oxygen. There’s nothing inside me. No heartbeat. No warmth. Just this… silence and… cold. I’m a ghost. I’m a fucking ghost. Fuck. No. Why? Why wouldn’t you just let me die? Why couldn’t you let me rest in peace?”

He swallowed hard, even though he didn’t need to.

“What do I remember? I remember… a flash—no, a blast—of… of white light, ripping through me. I remember the pain—so much pain—tearing through every nerve like… like fire. I don’t… that’s all. That’s all I have left. There’s… there’s nothing else.”

He grabbed his hair with both hands, pulling so hard like it might help him get his memories back. Confused… he was so confused. Panic consumed him again. He could still feel—but it was hollow, empty. Feeling devastated. Like remembering emotions he couldn’t place. The physical sensations were gone. No pain, no nerves. Just… nothing.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

The only thing he felt was weightlessness. Like gravity had let go of him. Like the world no longer needed to hold him down.

He let go of his head, lowering his translucent arms as he slowly turned around. His eyes landed on the stone sticking out of the earth—the one he’d just crawled from.

There was a name carved into it.

“Daniel James Fenton.”

He stared. The letters made sense. He could read. So… not all of his memory was gone. But the name—it didn’t mean anything. It didn’t feel like his. He could still speak. That was something.

“The fuck is happening to me?”

His knees gave out. He sank to the ground, one hand sliding up to the gravestone. His gloved fingers traced the curved lettering with a kind of detached reverence.

“Was that… me?”

He asked himself. But no answer came. He sighed—a useless motion, but it came anyway. Muscle memory, maybe. A mimic of something human.

His fingers hovered over the name like it might spark something—some memory, some feeling. But there was nothing. Just letters. Just stone. Just silence.

“That… is me?”

He whispered again, quieter this time. But the wind didn’t answer either. He stared at the name like it belonged to someone else. Someone real. Someone who was loved, who laughed, who had a life. Someone human.

But that wasn’t him anymore.

Whoever Daniel James Fenton was… he’d been buried six feet under. And what clawed out of that grave wasn’t the same.

He sat back, knees sinking into the soil, the chill of death wrapping around him like a second skin. His white hair drifted in the still night air. His chest didn’t rise. His body didn’t ache. His heart didn’t beat.

But something deep inside him did hurt. And he didn’t even know why.

“I don’t… I don’t know who I am.”

He said, voice barely above the wind, like a broken echo. But the grave didn’t answer.

And neither did the boy… who once lived.

⟢ That second part wasn’t planned—it just came out of nowhere. And I really needed to stop myself before I ended up writing an entire phic about it, lol.

[pink-petal-horns]

Threads of Memory

Bob Reynolds x Female Reader

The facility was quiet.

Not sterile like the hospitals you’d known—this one was… soft around the edges. Calming, almost. It was government-funded, sure, but clearly designed by someone who wanted him to feel safe. The hallways were wide and open, the windows tall. Light filtered in through gauzy curtains. But it still couldn’t reach the corners of his room.

That’s where you found Bob most days—sitting in the corner, arms resting on his knees, staring out at the trees like he was waiting for them to disappear.

You’d come every day. They’d called you when he first woke up, unsure if he’d even recognize you.

And at first, he didn’t.

—

He called you “Miss” the first three times you visited.

Not cruel. Not cold. Just careful.

“Miss,” he’d say, that deep, uncertain voice cutting the silence as you placed tea on the little table beside him. “You don’t have to stay.”

You’d smile gently, taking the chair across from him. “I know. I want to.”

His eyes—bright gold beneath the shadows—would flick to you. Study you like a puzzle. You knew he was searching for something. A memory, a flicker, a spark of recognition.

It wouldn’t come.

But you stayed anyway.

—

It was the fifth visit when something changed.

You brought old photos. Printed ones. Glossy edges, a little worn. From before the fall—before the mission where things went wrong, where the Void broke free and Bob was lost inside himself.

You laid them out gently. A small table. Two cups. A photo of the two of you on a rooftop, your head resting on his shoulder, wind in your hair. A rare moment when he’d let you be that close without panic.

He stared at it a long time.

“Is that…?”

“You and me,” you said softly. “We were close. We are close.”

He swallowed. His hands hovered above the photo like he was afraid to touch it.

“I look… happy.”

“You were,” you said, voice thick. “Not always. But sometimes.”

His eyes flicked up. “Did I ever hurt you?”

The question hit like a weight.

“No,” you answered immediately. Then, quieter: “You were scared. But you never hurt me.”

Bob looked down. “I don’t remember being him. The man in that photo. I want to. But it’s just… blank. Like someone else lived it.”

“You did,” you whispered. “You’re still him. He’s still you.”

—

The next week, he sat next to you.

Not across the room. Not in the corner. Next to you, on the couch, barely an inch of space between.

“I keep seeing flashes,” he said. “Tiny things. You—laughing at something I said. A blanket. Music. Your hand in mine.”

You looked at him slowly, heart pounding. “You remember that?”

“I don’t know if it’s memory or imagination,” he said with a soft, strained laugh. “But it’s warm. It feels real.”

You reached out, hesitating.

“May I?”

He nodded.

Your fingers curled into his. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Feels right,” he murmured.

—

He asked you about the past.

Not the missions. Not the combat. The little things.

“Did I cook?”

“Once. You burned the rice.”

“Did I ever sing?”

“Only in the shower. Terribly.”

“Did I make you laugh?”

“Every damn day.”

He smiled.

And it wasn’t the strained, unsure smile of someone trying to be polite.

It was the first real one.

—

One afternoon, you brought the old hoodie.

His.

Faded black. Smelled like cedar and safety. You’d kept it after everything, not sure why. You didn’t think he’d ever want it back.

He took it in his hands like it was fragile.

“I wore this a lot, didn’t I?”

You nodded.

“Sometimes,” you said quietly, “you’d leave it on the couch just so I’d pick it up and wear it.”

Bob huffed. “That sounds manipulative.”

“It worked.”

His eyes flicked up to yours. That smile again. Softer this time.

He pulled it on slowly, like muscle memory.

When he looked in the mirror across the room, he paused.

“I know that face,” he said.

You stepped beside him, wrapping your arm around his.

“You’re not gone, Bob,” you whispered. “You’re finding your way back.”

—

That night, he fell asleep with his head in your lap.

You didn’t dare move. You just ran your fingers through his hair, watching his breathing slow. His hand was wrapped around yours, like even unconscious, he didn’t want to let go.

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Bob Reynolds slept without waking up screaming.

[artepti]

"And you, my dear friend… well, you're my very fortunate assistant. Lucky you, huh?"

Next

Another small idea I just wanted to get down on paper!

[cei1ne]

—You have Amnesia and it begins taking a toll on you and your husband

༺ღ༒ Summary: You got into a accident which lead to you not remembering your life with your husband. As you arrive and don’t remember a single detail, it slowly begins to burn Bakugou out and in the end, an argument leads into you falling into a coma.

* . : ｡ ✿ Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader

˚ ೃ࿔₊•Tags: Angst; Angst with fluff ending; Fluff; married life; Aged!up

*˚⁺‧͙Warnings: Amnesia; Angst; swearing maybe; Coma; Arguments?

•˖*⑅♡Word count: 4.2k

ˏˋ°•*➷A/N: I was feeling sad and thought, why not make a scenario of a tsundere man breaking down and living a miserable life after his wife he adored more than anything can’t remember a single about him? English isn’t my first language! I’m sorry if you shed a tear xx

The hospital smell still lingers on you as you step out of the car, Katsuki’s hand firm yet careful on the small of your back. He walks beside you silently, guiding you up the path to your home—his home. The once-familiar sight of the towering house now feels foreign, even intimidating.

Katsuki hasn’t said much since picking you up. His usual fiery demeanor has been subdued, his sharp tongue dulled into quiet restraint.

“It’s your home,” he mutters, his voice unusually soft, laced with an almost painful longing. “Our home.”

The words hang in the air as you stare at the house, your mind blank. He’s hoping for something—anything—a flicker of recognition in your eyes. But nothing comes.

After the accident, everything changed. The doctors had explained the severity of the head trauma, the memory loss that might be permanent. It wasn’t your fault, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to accept. Katsuki Bakugou, the number one Pro Hero, couldn’t protect the one person who mattered most to him.

He takes a deep breath, opening the door for you. “Go ahead.”

You step inside hesitantly, the space feeling vast and unfamiliar. The faint smell of burnt caramel—a scent that should’ve been comforting—makes you wrinkle your nose instead.

“It’s…nice,” you say after a pause, your voice awkward and distant.

His ruby eyes narrow slightly as he studies you. The words feel hollow, a far cry from the warmth and vibrancy you used to radiate. You weren’t smiling like you used to. You weren’t cracking jokes or teasing him like you used to. And most of all, you weren’t looking at him the way you used to—with love.

“Take your time,” Katsuki says gruffly, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching for you. “It’ll… come back.” But even he doesn’t sound convinced.

__________________________________________

Weeks after the accident, your condition had not improved much. The bruises on your face, though fading, were stark reminders of what had happened. Bandages still wrapped tightly around your head served as a physical representation of the mental gap that now defined your life. Your movements were slow and cautious, often unsteady. Sometimes you’d pause mid-step, as if unsure where to go or what to do, and Katsuki would rush to steady you, his hands firm but trembling slightly.

Your demeanor had shifted entirely. Where there was once a spark in your eyes, a curiosity and a fire that drew people to you, now there was only a distant emptiness. You spoke softly, often hesitantly, as if the words you were saying didn’t belong to you. Simple things—like recognizing objects around the house or remembering how to make tea—became monumental tasks, and each failure weighed heavily on you.

Katsuki noticed it all. Every stumble, every fleeting expression of frustration that crossed your face when your memory failed you, he took it to heart. At first, he masked his emotions well, trying to be the strong one, as he always had been. But it was impossible to hide the cracks forming beneath the surface. COME BACK GIRL WE NEED YOU

_________________________________

He started skipping meals, spending every waking moment either helping you or drowning himself in work to avoid his thoughts. His patrols as the number one pro hero became a crutch—an escape. But even there, he wasn’t the same. He’d snap at his sidekicks over minor mistakes or growl at reporters asking about your condition.

When he was home, he barely slept. Most nights, he sat by your side, watching you sleep restlessly. Sometimes you’d mutter in your dreams—names of people he didn’t recognize, fragments of a past life that wasn’t tied to him—and it killed him inside. He’d reach out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, hoping that maybe, just maybe, something would change.

But nothing did.

His physical appearance began to reflect his inner turmoil. Dark circles formed under his eyes, and his sharp jawline became slightly hollowed from missed meals. His usual confidence—bordering on arrogance—was nowhere to be found. Even his explosions, once a controlled release of power, became unpredictable and reckless during training sessions. He was pushing himself too hard, too fast, as if trying to outrun the reality of what had happened.

_________________________________

One night, after a particularly grueling day, he came home to find you sitting in the living room, staring blankly at a family photo. It was one of the two of you from a happier time—your arms around each other, your smiles radiant. You turned to him as he entered, your eyes filled with confusion.

“I… I don’t remember this,” you said, your voice trembling. “Was I happy?”

The question shattered him. He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. His hands cupped your face, his eyes burning with an intensity that only he could possess.

“Of course you were,” he said, his voice breaking. “You were the happiest damn person I knew. You lit up every room you walked into. You made me… you made me better.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but they didn’t fall. You nodded, as if trying to accept his words, but the doubt in your expression was unmistakable. He felt his chest tighten, the weight of your uncertainty crushing him.

Later that night, after he thought you had fallen asleep, he sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He didn’t hear you stir, didn’t see the way you watched him through half-lidded eyes as his shoulders shook with silent sobs. NOOO STAY STRONG MY BABY

_________________________________

The days pass in a haze of awkward silences and hesitant conversations. Katsuki tries to act normal, but the cracks in his fiery confidence start to show. Every time you flinch at his touch or hesitate to respond to him, it’s like another stab to the heart.

You spend most of your time wandering the house, unsure of what to do with yourself. Katsuki keeps himself busy training or patrolling as much as possible, but he never strays too far. He’s always home by nightfall, keeping a watchful eye on you from a distance.

One evening, you’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a plate of food that’s long gone cold. Katsuki sits across from you, arms crossed, his expression tight with frustration.

“You haven’t eaten all day,” he says, his voice low but firm.

“I’m not hungry,” shut your big back ass up girl you murmur, not meeting his eyes.

“Damn it, you’ve got to eat something,” he snaps, the edge in his voice slipping through despite his efforts to keep calm.

You look up at him, frowning. “I said I’m not hungry.” I say as I’m devouring a whole chips bag while writing this

The silence that follows is heavy, the tension between you palpable. Katsuki stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Fine. Do whatever the fuck you want.” He stalks out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Later that night, you lie in bed, tossing and turning. The bed feels too big, too empty, even though Katsuki is right there beside you. His back is turned to you, his breathing steady but shallow. You can tell he isn’t asleep.

Your eyes drift to the walls, lined with framed photographs. Pictures of the two of you—laughing, kissing, holding each other. There’s even one of you in his hero agency, grinning proudly with your arms around his neck.

You should feel something looking at them. Nostalgia, love, something. But all you feel is emptiness.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into the darkness.

Katsuki hears you. His fingers twitch, and for a moment, it seems like he might turn over and pull you close. But he doesn’t. Instead, he clenches his fists under the covers and mutters, “It’s not your fault.” MY SHAYLAAA

_________________________________

As the weeks drag on, Katsuki begins to unravel. The fiery determination that once defined him is now replaced by a simmering frustration he can barely contain.

One afternoon, you’re sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. The news is playing, but you’re not really paying attention. Suddenly, a memory surfaces—a fleeting thought about a song you used to like.

“I remembered something!” you exclaim, sitting up straighter.

Katsuki, who’s just walked in from patrol tired and pissed as always, raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? What is it?”

“I think I used to like that song… the one that goes, uh…” You hum a few bars, struggling to recall the rest.

His face falls. “That’s it? That’s what you remembered?”

You frown. “Well, yeah. It’s a start, right?”

He scoffs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A start? That’s useless.” I can’t blame him, I hate this girl even tho I created her

The words hit you like a slap. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, his voice rising. “Every time you remember something, it’s something stupid like a song or a movie. What about us? What about the things that actually matter?” Boy it’s not our fault ain’t no way you’re blaming us!?

“I’m trying my hardest!” you shout, standing up to face him. “Do you think I like not remembering? Do you think I chose this?”

The argument escalates quickly, both of you yelling over each other until finally, Katsuki storms out, slamming the door behind him.

_________________________________

You wander aimlessly, tears streaming down your face. Your vision blurs as you make your way to the kitchen, your heart pounding in your chest. You don’t see the edge of the counter until it’s too late.

The sharp corner slams into your injured head, and you collapse to the floor. Pain explodes in your skull, and darkness begins to creep into the edges of your vision.

Katsuki hears the loud thud and rushes in, his heart stopping at the sight of you on the floor.

“Shit!” He’s at your side in seconds, his hands trembling as he lifts your head gently. Blood seeps through the bandage on your head, staining his hands and the floor.

“Y/n, stay with me!” he barks, his voice shaking with panic.

You look up at him weakly, your lips trembling. “Katsuki… I’m sorry… I’m sorry for being a horrible wife…” “UNNIE” — “Young-mi! Young-mi!”

“Don’t say that!” he growls, his voice breaking. “You’re not horrible. You’re perfect. You hear me? You’re fucking perfect.”

Your eyes flutter shut, and Katsuki’s heart feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest.

_________________________________

The next few weeks are hell. You’re in a coma, and Katsuki is barely holding it together. He spends every waking moment by your side, refusing to leave the hospital even when his friends and colleagues beg him to take care of himself.

His once fiery spirit is now a pale ember. He hasn’t shaved in days, his stubble growing thick along his jaw. Dark circles rim his eyes, and his usual sharp demeanor has dulled into quiet despair.

He talks to you constantly, hoping that somehow, his voice will reach you.

“Wake up, damn it,” he mutters one night, his head resting on the edge of your bed. “You can’t leave me like this. You’re too stubborn to give up, remember?” We love a man that motivates us

But the days pass, and you remain unresponsive.

_________________________________

One evening, Katsuki finally succumbs to exhaustion. He falls asleep with his head resting on your lap, his hand gripping yours loosely. For once, his face is peaceful, the lines of worry softened in sleep.

When your eyes flutter open, the first thing you see is him—your Katsuki. Memories come rushing back in fragments, like pieces of a shattered mirror slowly coming together.

“Katsuki…”

His eyes snap open, and for a moment, he looks dazed. Then he sees you—really sees you—and his heart nearly stops.

“Y/n?” His voice cracks as he sits up, his hands cupping your face gently. “You’re awake?”

You nod, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I remember… I remember everything.”

The relief that washes over his face is indescribable. He pulls you into his arms, holding you so tightly it’s as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he mutters into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought I lost you.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, clinging to him. “I’m so sorry, Katsuki.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes red and glassy. “Don’t be. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

He kisses you, his lips gentle but desperate, as if trying to pour every ounce of his love and relief into that one moment.

For the first time in weeks, the house feels like home again. For the first time in weeks, he feels like life is worth living again. For the first time in weeks…

He feels alive.

[starstruckchilli]

Billy Batson Fic Idea:

Billy has been in the Justice League for just over a year, as an eleven-year-old parading in an adult’s body.

Unfortunately, in an especially difficult battle he’s forced to reveal his identity to his teammates, and they don’t take it well.

With a little digging from Batman, his foster history and eventually drop from the systems are exposed. Now the entire JLA view him as a pathetic child in need of saving by them.

Superman orders Martian Manhunter to remove all of Billy memories of Captain Marvel so that they can protect him from the “dangers of hero work.” Subsequently, Billy is fostered by Bruce and placed in the Wayne household.

The batfam keep their ‘bat’ secrets from him, and after six months acclimating to the manor, Billy starts keeping his secrets from them.

Clearly, he’s some sort of meta.

Lightening has been arching off his body in, powerful, sporadic bursts whenever his emotions are particularly heightened. As a citizen of Gotham, he’s well aware of the “no meta” rule and fears what Batman (a cool, cryptid vigilante that he’s never seen before no matter how much it feels like he knows him on a personal level) will do to him.

So he tells no one, especially not his foster siblings.

Furthermore, his mind has been messing with him, inserting fragments of memories that he can’t quite place.

He gets especially dizzy around news stations. He swears he can envision Captain Marvel in detail, despite his certainty that he’d never met the hero. The feeling is so powerful though, to the point that he compulsively starts collecting news articles about “the hero that went missing.” He begins unconsciously seeking connects to his former life.

When Billy works out that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and the Batfam work out Billy has magic, it’s already too late.

Cap’s god-like powers have already returned all of his memories.

Billy is overcome with unadulterated fury at the revelation.

Marvel’s powers have been suppressed within Billy for far too long and they excitably respond to these emotions.

Billy confronts Batman, screaming about how they invaded his mind and stripped him of his autonomy. All the while, thunder and lightening rains down upon Gotham, menacingly striking the manor.

He yells at Batman for coercing him into their family in order to fulfil some sort of guilt complex. They basically kidnapped him and kept him as a pet.

They stripped him of his home, his life goals, his morals, and worse of all, his identity.

Every few words, Billy pauses to yell Shazam. The lightening tears apart the manor, setting the south wing aflame.

Nobody can get close to him without being struck by a particularly vengeful beam of light.

“Shazam. You ripped me from my home. Shazam. You kept me like a pet. Shazam. You stripped me of everything I believed in. Shazam.” He booms, voice thunderous and hateful.

The Mightest mortal looks intimidating as he switches forms. His hair whips in the wind and his eyes glow white with electrical rage.

As he turns of fly back to Gotham, Billy swears that he will never stop heroing for Fawcett, and if the JLA tries to interrupt him, he will have no choice but to treat them as enemies.

Bruce is left to rot in his regret and dread as he watches his foster son that he’d come to love fly away. He puts on his cowl and heads up to the Watchtower with a new resolve; to convince the superheroes that Captain Marvel needs to come back to the league.

In the end, more stuff goes down. Dick and Steph and some other family members go to Fawcett to convince Billy to come home. He ignores them. Bruce is wallowing in the Batcave while presenting weekly PowerPoints to the JLA about Captain Marvel’s essentialness.

Eventually they are all united by a big bad. Bruce saves Billy’s life then Captain Marvel saves the day. He accepts his invitation back into the league and starts living with the Wayne’s again. Everyone is happy. Yay.

Lemme know if u think I should write this lol

[aventurineswife]

aventurine, sunday, and any others when reader pretends to not remember them after a bad injury hehe…[angst with fluff at the end] i love giving my poor babies heart attacks mwahaha

anyways love u and ur writings btw k byeee drink water ok byeee 💕✨

“I'm sorry, but who are you?”

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Sunday x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Soft Fluff, Light Humor Angst to Fluff, Established Relationship, Memory Loss, Reassurance.

Warnings: Emotional distress (brief moments of fear and confusion).

A/N: thanks for the reminder, anon! 😪😮‍💨I really need to drink some water

Aventurine's eyes widened, his usual playful smirk faltering as you looked at him, confusion clouding your gaze. He reached out, as though instinctively wanting to close the distance between you, but he hesitated. Your words cut through the air, soft and fragile.

"You… you are… who exactly?"

The words stung more than he expected. His heart raced in his chest as he observed the faint, distant look in your eyes. He had always been in control of the game, masterful in reading people, but this? This was a blow to his carefully constructed facade.

"You don’t remember me?" His voice was softer now, the bravado slipping as his pulse quickened.

You shook your head, an empty feeling creeping into your chest. "I don’t think so. Sorry… am I supposed to?"

Aventurine's smile faltered, and for a moment, you saw something raw beneath his cool exterior. Pain. Fear. He stepped back slightly, trying to hide the cracks forming in his walls.

"I suppose I’ve miscalculated…" he muttered to himself, voice barely audible.

But then, you reached out and touched his arm gently.

"I—"

Aventurine looked at you, his breath catching in his throat as you softly smiled. "I do remember you, though. Maybe I was just… testing you?"

The game was on again, but this time, it was different. He chuckled, a soft, relieved sound that made the weight of his worries lift just a little.

"You're dangerous, you know that?" he said, his voice returning to its usual lighthearted tone, though there was an underlying tenderness now.

You smiled. "I think I’ll keep you on your toes."

And with that, the shadows of doubt lifted, replaced by the warmth of your presence—one he could no longer imagine being without.

Sunday stood there, his eyes darkened with a mix of concern and confusion, staring at you as if you were a stranger. His fingers twitched slightly, an impulse to reach out, to make sure you were real, that you hadn’t slipped into some other world.

"You… you don’t recognize me?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper, fragile under the weight of his own disbelief.

You blinked at him, the blank look in your eyes unnerving him more than he cared to admit. "I’m sorry… I don’t think I do. Are we… close?"

The air between you seemed to freeze, thick with unspoken emotions. His mind was racing—how could you forget him, forget everything you had shared? The kindness, the warmth, the bond he’d built so carefully with you...

"I see," Sunday murmured, his gaze softening with a hint of sadness. "I suppose it’s a part of the dream, isn't it? To forget… to lose everything."

You could see the strain in his expression, the hope fading from his eyes. "Sunday, I… I didn’t mean to forget you."

You reached for him, your hand trembling as you touched his sleeve. The contact seemed to pull him out of his thoughts, and his breath caught.

A moment of stillness.

Then Sunday smiled faintly, the sadness still lingering. "I suppose we’ll just have to make you remember, won't we?" His voice was gentle, though you could hear the underlying fear in it.

You smiled, this time with a reassurance he needed. "I think I already do."

A sigh escaped him, a soft, grateful breath as he pulled you into his arms.

"Don't ever scare me like that again." he murmured into your hair, holding you close.

Ratio’s usual air of unshakable confidence was nowhere to be seen. He stood before you, his eyes wide with confusion and an almost frantic edge to his movements.

"You—don’t remember me?" he repeated, his voice betraying a crack he hadn’t expected.

You stared at him, trying to piece together the fragments of the world around you, the details of his appearance leaving you more unsettled than anything. "I… I’m sorry, I don’t think I know you."

His frown deepened, his expression unreadable but filled with something you couldn't quite place—was it hurt? Disbelief?

"I see. This is… unfortunate," he said, voice smooth yet tinged with something that didn’t fit. He folded his arms over his chest, eyes narrowing slightly. "I expected better from your memory."

You looked at him more closely, sensing a vulnerability underneath the sharpness of his demeanor. He was, despite his intellectual brilliance, losing himself in this.

You took a step closer, closing the distance between you, your hand reaching for his, gently catching his wrist. "I’m sorry… but I’m sure we’ve met before. I just—"

He paused, his sharp breath catching in his throat as he looked down at your hand on his. For a brief moment, his composure cracked, and you could see the raw emotion behind his usually controlled facade.

"Don't do this to me," he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if the weight of the situation was too much to bear. "You must remember."

You smiled softly, understanding now. "I remember. You’re the one who always insists on teaching me things."

His gaze softened instantly, a relieved exhale leaving him. "Good."

Ratio’s usual brilliance returned, but this time, there was something gentler about him. "Perhaps next time, try not to lose your memory so easily."

And though his words were sharp, his hand reached out to take yours, a reassurance that you were not lost to him.

Me lmaoo