#dead reader

[hihomeghere]

[pomegranatelifethis]

Whispers in the Void

The summer of your seventeenth year was a relentless crucible, its heat pressing down on New York like a judgment. The city shimmered under a golden haze, alive with the pulse of freedom—children shrieking in sprinklers, music spilling from open windows, the scent of hot asphalt and street vendor pretzels thick in the air. For others, summer was a reprieve, a canvas of possibility. For you, it was a sentence, each day stretching into an eternity of isolation and dread. You were Tony Stark’s daughter, a name that should have draped you in invincibility, but instead, it was a chain, tethering you to a life where you were perpetually unseen.

School was out, but the torment that defined your days didn’t pause for the season. The kids who made your life a nightmare during the academic year—those sharp-eyed vultures who thrived on your pain—found you in the wilds of summer. They roamed the streets near Stark Tower, their laughter a siren call of cruelty. You’d try to slip through the city unnoticed, your worn sneakers silent against the pavement, your head down, clutching a few crumpled dollars you’d earned from odd jobs—organizing files for Pepper, fetching coffee for Tony’s assistants, tasks that made you feel like a ghost in your own home. But they always found you.

“Hey, Stark’s kid!” The shout was a blade, slicing through the humid air. Caleb, the ringleader, was tall and wiry, his smirk a weapon. His posse—Mia, Tyler, and a rotating cast of others—closed in like wolves. They’d circle you, their voices a cacophony of mockery. “What’s it like being a nobody with a famous dad?” Mia would taunt, her eyes glinting with malice. Your money, meant for a slushie or a used book to escape into, was snatched from your fingers. “Thanks for the donation,” Tyler would sneer, pocketing the bills. You learned not to fight back; resistance only sharpened their claws.

Their cruelty wasn’t just theft. It was physical, deliberate, a ritual of breaking you down. Caleb once shoved you into a chain-link fence behind a bodega, the metal biting into your back as he leaned close, his breath sour. “You’re nothing without your daddy’s money,” he hissed, his fist grazing your shoulder, hard enough to bruise. Mia was worse, her cruelty laced with a theatrical flair. One blistering afternoon, she cornered you near a vacant lot, a pocketknife glinting in her hand. The blade danced inches from your cheek, catching the sunlight as she whispered, “Bet no one would even notice if I cut you.” Your heart thundered, your body frozen, until she laughed and snapped the knife shut, sauntering off with her friends’ cackles echoing behind her. Another time, they trapped you in a dumpster, the stench of rotting fruit and damp cardboard choking you as they wedged a crate against the lid. You screamed, your fists pounding metal, until a homeless man, his eyes kind but weary, pried it open hours later. He didn’t ask questions, and you didn’t offer answers. His pity was a weight you carried home.

The city itself seemed complicit. Shopkeepers, distracted by their own hustle, didn’t notice the kids harassing you outside their stores. Neighbors, dazzled by the Stark name, saw only a privileged girl, not the one trembling in their periphery. You’d tried, during the school year, to tell teachers about the torment—the fists, the taunts, the time someone snipped chunks of your hair in the bathroom, leaving you to gather the strands from the tiles. “They’re just jealous,” one teacher had said, her voice dismissive. “You’re Tony Stark’s daughter. They want what you have.” Another had sighed, “Kids will be kids,” and turned back to her lesson plans. Summer stripped away even that flimsy recourse. There were no authority figures to appeal to, no one to witness the slow erosion of your spirit.

Home was no refuge. Stark Tower was a marvel of glass and steel, its panoramic views a testament to your father’s genius. Inside, it buzzed with life—JARVIS’s smooth voice orchestrating the tower’s systems, the Avengers’ laughter spilling from the common areas, Tony’s frenetic energy as he tinkered in his lab. But for you, it was a mausoleum, cold and hollow despite its warmth. Tony Stark was a supernova, his brilliance illuminating the world but casting you in shadow. He was Iron Man, the man who defied gods and monsters, the man who built empires from nothing. To you, he was a stranger who shared your eyes, your stubborn jaw, but none of his attention.

You’d see him in fragments—rushing through the tower, a phone pressed to his ear, or bantering with the Avengers over pizza in the lounge. Natasha’s sharp wit cut through the air, Steve’s quiet strength anchored the group, Thor’s booming laugh shook the walls, and Bruce’s gentle curiosity softened the edges. They were a family, forged in battle and loyalty, but you were an outsider, a specter hovering at the edges of their world. They didn’t know you, not really. Natasha’s keen eyes never caught the tremor in your hands. Steve’s kind smiles never lingered on you. Clint, with his easy humor, never tossed a joke your way. You were Tony’s daughter, a fact they acknowledged with polite nods, but you were invisible, a footnote in their epic saga.

You’d tried to reach your father once, a desperate bid to pierce the veil between you. It was late, the tower quiet except for the hum of his lab. You stood in the doorway, your hands twisting together, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dad, I need to talk.” He glanced up from a holographic display, his eyes bleary but sharp. “Yeah, kid, what’s up?” he said, his fingers still dancing across a tablet. You swallowed, the words clawing at your throat. “It’s… it’s hard. Out there, with people. They—they hurt me, Dad. They take things, they push me around, and I don’t know how to make it stop.” Your voice cracked, tears burning your eyes, but he was already half-gone, his attention drifting back to his work. He flashed a crooked smile, the one that charmed the world. “You’re a Stark, sweetheart. You’re tougher than they are. Just keep your chin up, okay? You’ll figure it out.” He turned back to his hologram, the light casting his face in blue, and you were dismissed. You nodded, though he didn’t see, and slipped away, the ache in your chest blooming like a bruise.

You didn’t try again. Why beg for a light that would never reach you?

The days bled together, each one a fresh wound. You’d wander the city until dusk, avoiding the tower for as long as possible. At night, you’d lie in your room, the city skyline glittering through your window like a cruel promise. The mirror showed a stranger—hollow eyes, cheekbones too sharp, a body curling in suffixes. You felt like a ghost, haunting your own life. Worthless. Nothing. The thoughts were a tide, pulling you under. *You’re a burden. You’re invisible. You’ll never be enough.* You’d trace the bruises on your arms, the faint scars from moments you tried to forget, and wonder why you kept going.

Dreams were your only escape, fragile and fleeting. You’d imagine a world where you were seen, where your voice mattered, where you could be someone—someone who laughed without fear, who walked without looking over her shoulder. You dreamed of being an artist, maybe, your hands stained with paint, creating something beautiful enough to make the world pause. Or a writer, weaving stories that would outlive you. But dreams were dangerous; they made the fall back to reality sharper, the pain more acute. Each taunt, each shove, each indifferent glance chipped away at them, until they were gossamer, too delicate to hold.

The Avengers remained oblivious. You’d pass them in the tower, your head down, your heart a silent scream. Once, you lingered in the lounge, hoping someone might notice you. Natasha was cleaning her knives, her movements precise. Steve was sketching, his brow furrowed. Thor was regaling Clint with a tale of Asgard, his voice a thunderstorm. You sat on the edge of a couch, clutching a book you weren’t reading, waiting for a glance, a word, anything. But the moment passed, and you slipped away, unnoticed. They didn’t know you were drowning. They didn’t know you were fading.

One evening, as summer’s heat clung to the city like a fever, you found yourself far from the tower. The cliff was a jagged scar on the earth, perched over a sea that churned with restless hunger. You’d come here before, drawn by its solitude, its wildness. The sky was a canvas of crimson and violet, the clouds bruised and heavy. The wind howled, tugging at your clothes, whispering secrets you’d never share. You stood at the edge, your toes curling over the precipice, your heart a fragile thing, battered by too many storms.

You thought of your father, his distracted smile, his unseeing eyes. You thought of the Avengers, their laughter a world you’d never touch. You thought of the kids who’d broken you, piece by piece, and the world that had let them. You thought of your dreams—those beautiful, fleeting things you’d guarded in silence, never daring to speak aloud. A life where you were enough. A life where you were seen.

The waves below roared, their rhythm a lullaby of peace, of release. You closed your eyes, the wind weaving through your hair like a final embrace. The world didn’t know you, didn’t need you. Your story, unwritten and untold, folded into the darkness. With a breath, you let go, surrendering to the call of the void, your heart a silent hymn to a life that might have been.

The city spun on, its lights glittering like stars indifferent to your absence. Tony worked in his lab, unaware of the hole in his world. The Avengers fought their battles, their bonds unbroken. The kids who’d tormented you moved on, their cruelty a fleeting game. No one paused, no one mourned. You were gone, a whisper lost in the wind, your dreams buried in the deep, where no one would ever find them. The girl you were—quiet, broken, yearning—faded into the silence, her heart a secret the world would never know.

[freakywrites]

Hello I'm not sure if ur requests are open but if they are could I request sakamaki headcannons with finding out that one of the past sacrifical brides still resides in the Manor as a ghost, because her soul is trapped there, but unlike the other ghosts, she's visible

She had been fairly neutral to them, mostly but with some weird distaste/hatred for kanato and she mostly aimlessly wanders around the mansion, somewhat annoyed with her soul being trapped there and visible

(Sorry if this is far too detailed and I apologise if your not taking asks as of now! I like your blog alot btw♡)

The wandering bride

My requests are mostly always open! And no problem, it's best to know what the dear reader wants! So being specific is GREAT!!

Sakamaki headcannon! Ghost!reader-fem!reader

No shipping tho bride does have favoritism and it’s Yui!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you see her

She is usually seen in the corner of eyes.

Seeing the white glow of a dress and the grumbling and echos of her voice.

She was nothing really bothersome to the brothers she mostly wanders the halls only to faze into walls or just stand and stare out at the gates of the mansion a pained expression on her face only to turn and disappear into fog.

She is most loud at night mumbling about wanting to leave this tragic land to the other world.

Interaction

She wouldn’t pester any of the brothers, but sometimes, when she is disturbed by them, such as them telling her to shut up, she will play petty little tricks.

When upset, she will hide their things or break them almost like a tantrum.

While she doesn’t care for most of the brothers, she finds Kanato disturbing she would find herself disgusted by the vampire.

With the other vampires, when they do see her, she will float by them, completely ignoring them.

But when she sees Kanato, she frowns like she ate something sour and disappears into fog.

Yui’s arrival

When Yui first came to the mansion, a cold chill went down the brides dead spine some what of an instinct.

She would follow Yui around, though the human can’t see her completely. Yui could still see a shadow in the mirrors and whispers that tell her to leave along with cold winds brushing her skin.

She does her best trying to protect Yui, thinking maybe she will fall the same fate as her, and she would never want that for no other person.

When Yui becomes prey for the brothers, the bride will try her most best to keep her safe it being locking the doors for her dropping painting on the floor or moving furniture.

With that, the bride became more aggressive and more to the purple haired vampire as he threatened Yui.

She would no longer roam the halls but stay at the balcony of the sleeping Yui just in case she needs defending.

Because she can’t let another girl lose her life for the vile greed of a vampire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N

☕️

Idk if this is what you wanted but I did the best I can do! Honestly I’ve been waiting for requests and thank god someone finally asked!! Also I made the bride a girls girls! Or maybe… wuuh luuh wuuh idk 🤷 maybe Im self reflecting it could also just be girls protecting girls!

I hope this did satisfy you! Anyways

Love yall xoxo!!! 💋💋💕💕💕💕

[yutxsgf]

If you died, Katsuki's heart and soul would be crushed. Even worse if he was the reason why.

Ever since you passed away from that one accident, he's never been the same. He's officially retired as a pro hero, locking himself up in the very same four walls that used to be your shared room. Now, it's just a soulless, empty pit of what it used to be.

He's cut off all of his friends, even Kirishima to the best of his abilities. He'd barely eat, only eating when Kirishima would get fed up enough to literally shove food down his throat.

The only thing on his mind was you and you only. Your future, your future kids, how you'd look if you aged. Your smile lingered in his brain every time it could to the point where all he could do was curl up and sob, wishing you were here and alive.

He wanted to see you again. He needed to see you again.

And so, he did.

[noisytoadhoundzipper-blog]

Batfam x neglected reader

Idk wwhy I did this

Everytime I read a batfam x neglected reader I'm just really tempted to say so why not kys and I just thought of a scene of reader dying in their lovers arms after leaving. The yandere still isn't on just yet they haven't figured out your dead and by the time they do, lover would be only connection to reader and They. Are. PISSED they had to hold reader as they were dying smiling and reaching out to their face telling them to be happy while blood is oozing from there mouth hands trembling looking at them with so much love and longing in there eyes as their life slowly slipped away. Example:

Reader: *hand reaching to cup lover face* "hey it's OK. It's OK" voice barely coming out as a whisper holding lovers face in hands

Lover(VILLAIN NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS ACCIDENT) : *sobbing holding reader like there life depends on it like reader could disappear any moment, sobbing pleading* "no please no anyone but them they're too good PLEASE NO PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE" *they're screaming for anyone, anyone at all they'll stop they promise* "I'll hand myself in I'll never steal again just PLEASE PLEASE"

Now keep in mind batfam only realized they were gone MONTHS nearly 3/4 of a year after reader death and she died YEARS after moving out.

So what do you think? Idk why I do this to myself I was also listening to "so my darling x another love" while writing this

[itsreallynotriri]

Hi, dear! I'm sorry if you don't write character death, I read your 'rules and disclaimers' and I didn't see death at either yes or no so this is just me shooting my shot and ask you if you would write an Regulus x reader where, preferably the reader, dies, and Regulus goes through grief? Again, I'm sorry if this made you feel uncomfy, I absolutly love your writing. All the love <3

Where you are

Regulus knew he wouldn’t survive, but he didn’t mind. Death meant seeing you again.

pairings: Regulus Black x Dead!Fem!Reader

word count: 4.6K

warnings: Angst, mentions death, torture, drowning, implied depression. Read on your own accord

note: I usually write fluff rather than death, so this is definitely outside my comfort zone, but in a way I enjoy. To answer your question, I see death as a natural part of angst, so no need to apologize. Again, PLEASE READ ON YOUR OWN ACCOUNT. I changed the way I post my stories. Do you think it looks good? Yes or no?

more here: masterlist, Regulus masterlist

requested by anon.

Regulus Black sat before your grave, his back hunched, his once-impeccable robes now wrinkled and dusted with dirt. His hair, usually neat, hung in unruly strands around his pale face. He hadn't left since your funeral, unable to tear himself away from the cold stone that bore your name. The world had moved on, but he had not. He could not.

The sickness had taken you swiftly, cruelly. One moment, you were laughing with him, teasing him about his brooding nature, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. The next, you were weak, burning with fever, and he was powerless to stop it. Even the best healers could not save you. And now, Regulus was left in a world that no longer made sense, with only memories to replay over and over again in his mind.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he was back in the candlelit glow of your shared bedroom, your laughter ringing in his ears. "Regulus, you're staring again," you'd tease, poking his chest as he smirked down at you. "Can you blame me?" he'd reply, pulling you into his arms. But when he opened his eyes, he was alone. Always alone.

The two of you had been caught outside during the season’s first snowfall. You had thrown your head back, eyes wide with delight as you stuck your tongue out to catch the falling flakes. Regulus had only watched, mesmerized. "You look ridiculous," he muttered, but his lips twitched in amusement.

You grinned, tugging on his scarf to pull him closer. "Admit it, you love it."

"I love you," he corrected softly. And as the snow fell around you both, he sealed his words with a kiss, his hands cupping your chilled cheeks.

Regulus lay beside you in bed, staring at the ceiling, while your fingers lazily traced patterns along his arm. "If you could be anywhere, doing anything, where would you be?" you asked.

He turned his head to look at you. "Here. With you."

You rolled your eyes. "That’s a cop-out answer."

He smirked. "It’s the truth."

You huffed, but he could see the warmth in your eyes, the way your lips curled slightly at the edges. You leaned over, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You’re such a sap, Regulus Black."

One evening, long after the world had fallen asleep, you had pulled him to his feet in the sitting room. A record played in the background, its melody soft and crackling with age.

"I don’t dance," he had grumbled.

"Then stand there and let me dance with you," you countered, resting your head against his chest as you swayed gently. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved with you, his arms wrapping around your waist. The world outside did not exist in that moment—only the two of you did.

Regulus had never felt fear like this before. Not in battle, not in the presence of the Dark Lord. Nothing compared to the helplessness that gripped him as he knelt beside you, his hands trembling as they brushed against your fevered skin.

"Love, please," he whispered, his voice raw. "Stay with me. Just a little longer."

You offered him a weak smile, your fingers curling around his wrist. "Reg… don’t look at me like that."

"Like what?" he choked out.

"Like you already think I’m gone."

His throat tightened. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell you that you weren’t allowed to leave him. But even as he held your hand tightly in his own, he could feel you slipping away.

"I don’t know how to live without you," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

You exhaled softly, the weight of exhaustion evident in your features. "You don’t have to. Just… just promise me you’ll keep living. Even when it’s hard."

Regulus swallowed past the lump in his throat. "I can’t."

You gave his hand a faint squeeze. "You can. You’re stronger than you think."

But he wasn’t. He was weak without you. And when your eyes finally fluttered shut, and your grip on his hand loosened, something inside him shattered beyond repair.

Days turned to weeks. Regulus stopped attending Death Eater meetings. The Dark Lord sent summons, but he ignored them. Nothing mattered anymore. He barely ate, barely slept. It was as if he had died with you; only his body remained, trapped in this hollow existence.

The Dark Lord’s patience began to wane. He could not tolerate insubordination, not even from the Black heir. At the next gathering, Regulus's absence did not go unnoticed.

"Where is Regulus?" Voldemort’s voice cut through the room, cold and sharp.

Silence.

Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat, exchanging a glance with the others. "He has… not been well, my Lord."

Voldemort’s expression remained unreadable. "Not well? Or unwilling?"

A heavy tension filled the chamber, the air thick with unspoken fear. Then, with a slow, deliberate nod, he turned his gaze to Narcissa Malfoy.

"Go to him," he commanded. "Remind him where his loyalties lie. And if he refuses to remember… persuade him."

Bellatrix Lestrange let out a sharp laugh, the kind that sent a chill down the spine. "Oh, dearest cousin has lost his spirit?" she cooed, her dark eyes glittering with amusement. "Mourning a little lost love? How... pathetic."

Narcissa shot her sister a warning look before bowing her head to the Dark Lord. "I will see to it, my Lord."

Bellatrix sneered. "And if he does not listen?"

"Then we ensure he does," Voldemort replied simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Narcissa arrived at Grimmauld Place within the hour, her expression composed but laced with concern. She knew grief. She knew how it twisted inside a person, warping their reality, making the rest of the world fade to nothing. But she also knew the cost of disobedience.

She found Regulus where she expected—by your grave. His head was bowed, his fingers tracing the etched letters of your name. He did not look up as she approached, did not acknowledge her presence.

"Regulus," she said softly, kneeling beside him. "You have to come inside. You’ll make yourself ill."

He did not move.

She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "She wouldn't want this for you. She loved you, Regulus. You think she would want you wasting away like this?"

His voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse from disuse. "Don’t. You don’t understand, Cissy."

"I do understand," she countered, squeezing his arm. "But I also understand that the Dark Lord does not tolerate weakness. He sent me here to remind you of that."

Regulus exhaled sharply, finally lifting his gaze to her. His eyes were hollow, void of the sharp intellect that had once defined him. "Let him kill me, then. It would be easier."

Narcissa’s stomach clenched at his words, but before she could respond, the fireplace in the house roared to life, signaling another arrival.

Bellatrix.

She strode into the clearing like a phantom of death, her wand twirling between her fingers as she observed the pathetic sight before her.

"Look at you," she taunted, tilting her head. "The great Regulus Black, reduced to nothing more than a lovesick fool." She sighed, shaking her head dramatically. "What a waste."

Regulus did not react, not even as she stepped closer. Bellatrix crouched before him, her dark curls falling over her shoulder as she studied him with twisted fascination.

"You think grieving makes you noble?" she whispered mockingly. "It makes you weak. She’s gone. Dead. Nothing you do will bring her back."

Regulus's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. "Shut up."

Bellatrix grinned. "There’s fire in you still. Good. You’ll need it when the Dark Lord decides you are no longer worth keeping."

Narcissa rose to her feet, stepping between them. "That’s enough, Bella."

Bellatrix huffed, rolling her eyes. "Enough? Oh, dearest sister, our cousin here needs a lesson in duty."

Regulus finally looked up, his gaze meeting Bellatrix's with something dangerous simmering beneath the emptiness. "My duty?" he echoed. "Tell me, Bella—what would you do if it were Rodolphus? If he was the one buried here?"

For the first time, Bellatrix faltered. It was brief, barely noticeable, but it was there, a flicker of something human beneath her insanity.

She scoffed, straightening up, mask falling back into place. "That’s the difference between us, dear cousin. I would not be weak enough to let love ruin me."

Regulus gave a hollow laugh, shaking his head. "Then I pity you."

Bellatrix’s eyes darkened, but before she could retort, Narcissa stepped forward, voice firm. "That’s enough. We came here for one reason."

She turned to Regulus, her expression softening. "Come back, Regulus. At least pretend, for your sake. If you keep ignoring the Dark Lord’s summons, it will not be my voice or Bella’s he sends next."

Regulus looked at her for a long moment before exhaling, the weight of his grief pressing down on him. "Fine," he murmured. "I’ll come."

Bellatrix smirked. "Smart boy."

But as Regulus stood, casting one last glance at your grave, he knew the truth.

He would never truly return. Because a part of him had died with you, and no amount of pretending could change that.

A few days later, the night was thick with smoke, the air filled with the distant echoes of screams and the crackling of fire. The raid was nothing new, another display of the Dark Lord’s power, another night of violence. Regulus moved through the wreckage like a specter, his wand gripped tightly in his fingers, his expression empty.

The mission had been simple: take down those who resisted, leave an example behind. It should have been nothing more than another task to complete. And yet, something in Regulus had cracked.

His wand was raised, the curse spilling from his lips before he had even registered the words.

“Crucio.”

The man collapsed instantly, his back arching off the ground as if an invisible force had seized his spine and twisted it. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, his fingers clawing desperately at the dirt, nails breaking as he convulsed. His legs jerked uncontrollably, his body writhing like a trapped insect beneath a magnifying glass, unable to escape the unbearable fire coursing through his veins.

Regulus didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. His arm remained steady, his grip on his wand firm. The screaming filled his ears, louder than the roaring flames consuming the house behind them, louder than the shouted orders of other Death Eaters in the distance. It should have been enough. But it wasn’t.

“Crucio.”

Another wave of agony slammed into the man’s already broken body. He choked on his breath, gasping as though drowning, his limbs seizing up before thrashing violently against the cobbled ground. His skin was slick with sweat, his face contorted into something beyond recognition—beyond human. A broken animal, screaming for mercy that would never come.

Regulus’s heart pounded against his ribs, his fingers twitching as he tightened his hold on his wand. The pain in the man’s eyes—it reflected something back at him. Something raw. Something that made his own grief flare like an open wound. He wanted to stop feeling nothing. He wanted to make the world feel what he did.

“Good,” a voice purred from behind him.

Bellatrix.

Her presence slithered through the smoke like a serpent, her dark eyes gleaming with sadistic delight as she watched him work. She stepped closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Again.”

Regulus hesitated for only a second before his grip tightened once more. The man on the ground barely had the strength to whimper, his body twitching, his consciousness fraying at the edges. His breaths came in wet, strangled gasps, his eyes rolling back in his head. He was close to the edge, teetering between agony and oblivion.

Bellatrix chuckled, her voice dripping with approval. “Yes, dear cousin, let him suffer. Make him beg.”

Regulus’s expression was unreadable, his heart hammering. He lifted his wand once more, ready to cast again, to drag the man deeper into suffering. To let the pain swallow them both whole.

And yet, as he stared down at the broken body beneath him, something twisted in his chest. The man’s face was a mess of blood, sweat, and agony. His fingers twitched, his body barely responding to the torture anymore. He was nothing but a shell now.

Regulus took a slow breath and lowered his wand.

Bellatrix’s smile faltered, her excitement giving way to scrutiny. “Why did you stop?”

Regulus didn’t answer. He turned away from the broken man at his feet and walked past her, his expression void of anything. Bellatrix watched him go, amusement flickering in her gaze.

“Oh, cousin,�� she whispered, laughter dancing on her lips. “The Dark Lord will be so pleased.”

Regulus didn’t react. He just kept walking, the man’s screams still ringing in his ears, merging with the ghosts of the past he could never escape.

Another raid. Another night drenched in screams and the scent of burning wood. The world around Regulus was a blur of fire and shadows, but none of it truly touched him. He moved as if in a trance, detached from the chaos that once might have rattled him. Nothing mattered anymore.

The target of their raid had been reduced to a heap of trembling limbs, barely clinging to consciousness. A once-proud wizard, now on his knees in the mud, his body wrecked with exhaustion and pain. Regulus stood over him, wand still raised, breath slow and measured. He didn’t even remember how long he had been casting.

Death Eaters gathered in a loose circle around them, the flickering firelight illuminating their masks, their dark robes shifting like shadows. Some watched in silence, arms crossed, their expressions hidden but their satisfaction clear. Others smirked, whispering amongst themselves, reveling in the spectacle. This was entertainment. A lesson. A show of power.

“Crucio.”

A gurgled scream ripped from the man’s throat, his head snapping back as another wave of unimaginable pain consumed him. He twitched and writhed, his fingers digging into the dirt as if the earth itself could save him. But there was no salvation. No mercy.

Bellatrix’s laughter echoed through the ruined village, a sweet and cruel melody that slithered into Regulus’s ears. She stood nearby, watching him with an indulgent sort of pleasure.

“That’s it, darling,” she cooed, stepping closer. “Feel it. Let it consume you.”

Regulus tightened his grip on his wand, watching the way the man’s body spasmed, his eyes rolling back, his screams hoarse and broken. He should have stopped. This should have sickened him. But all he felt was the void.

“Again,” Bellatrix urged, voice thick with delight.

Regulus obeyed. The curse tore from his lips once more, and the man shrieked, though his body was barely responding now. He was slipping, teetering on the edge of death, barely holding onto life by the frayed strings of his shattered nerves.

Bellatrix stepped around Regulus, her movements slow, predatory. She knelt beside the broken man, running a gloved finger through the blood seeping into the mud.

“See how beautiful suffering can be?” she murmured, her gaze flicking up to meet Regulus’s. “You understand it now, don’t you?”

From the corner of his eye, Regulus saw some of the Death Eaters nodding approvingly, their postures relaxed, satisfied. Others murmured to one another, their voices thick with amusement, speaking as if this were nothing more than a game.

Regulus didn’t answer. His wand was still raised, his heart hammering beneath his ribs. He wasn’t sure if it was from exhilaration or sickness. He wasn’t sure if he cared.

Bellatrix smirked, her dark eyes dancing with a manic sort of glee.

“The Dark Lord will be pleased,” she said, almost sing-song. “You’re finally becoming who you were meant to be.”

Regulus swallowed hard, his fingers tingling from the magic coursing through him. His chest felt hollow, his veins filled with ice. He didn’t look at the man he had broken. He didn’t want to.

Instead, he turned away, stepping over the crumpled body as if it were nothing more than debris in his path.

Bellatrix followed him, still smiling, still watching.

The Death Eaters parted as he passed, some murmuring words of approval, others giving him silent nods of respect. This was his place now. This was who they believed he was becoming.

But Regulus felt nothing. Nothing at all.

The first time Regulus killed someone after your death, it wasn’t intentional. At least, not in the beginning.

The raid had gone as all the others did, rushed movements, shouts, spells flying through the air like lightning, the scent of burning wood and flesh thickening the night. Regulus had been moving on instinct, his mind caught somewhere between the present and the past, the ghosts of his memories keeping him at a cruel distance from reality. He barely registered the man he had cornered, barely recognized the wand shaking in the desperate grip of someone who had already lost.

It should have been over quickly. Stun him. Leave him. Move on. But something snapped.

The man had looked up at him, eyes wide, pleading, and there was something—something in his expression.

It was the way his lips parted, the way his chest heaved, the way his entire body braced for the worst but still hoped, still begged for mercy. It was the same way you had looked at Regulus once. The same way you had reached for him in your final moments, fingers weak, trembling, before they had gone cold against his skin.

His wand moved before he could think.

“Crucio.”

The man screamed.

Regulus had cast the curse before, had heard the sound of agony a hundred times over. But this was different. This wasn’t calculated. This wasn’t controlled. It was raw, vicious, and desperate. He poured everything into it—his grief, his rage, his emptiness. He watched as the man writhed beneath the force of his magic, body twisting unnaturally, breath choking in his throat as his screams turned ragged.

And Regulus didn’t stop.

He barely noticed when the others fell silent around him, when the fight moved on, when the only sound left in the alley was the crackling fire and the wet gasps of a dying man. His hand was shaking, grip tight around his wand as though it were the only thing tethering him to the world.

The man stopped moving. His chest barely rose. His fingers twitched, his mouth opened, whether to speak or to breathe, Regulus would never know. Because, in that next instant, the last thread of life snapped, and he was gone.

Regulus stared down at him, at the way the light had left his eyes, at the way his body had gone slack in the dirt, at the way his blood soaked into the ground as if the earth itself was eager to erase his existence.

He waited for the guilt. He waited for the satisfaction. He waited for anything at all.

But there was nothing. No regret. No triumph. No relief.

Just emptiness.

A void where something should have been.

And as the night stretched on, as the echoes of death faded into the wind, Regulus realized that maybe, just maybe, there was nothing left of him to save.

Regulus hadn’t looked at himself in weeks. Maybe months. There was no need. He already knew what he would see—someone who wasn’t really alive anymore. A hollowed-out thing, a ghost wrapped in skin.

But tonight, something had drawn his eyes to the mirror.

It was accidental. He had stumbled into the Black family bathroom after another sleepless night, reaching for the basin to splash water on his face. But then his gaze flickered up, and there he was.

He froze.

The man staring back wasn’t him. He looked sickly, his once-pale skin now ashen, stretched thin over his sharp cheekbones. The deep shadows beneath his eyes made them look sunken, like the empty sockets of a corpse. His lips were chapped, bloodied in places where he had bitten them raw without realizing it. His dark curls, once so carefully combed, were a tangled, matted mess.

His mother would have been horrified. His father, disgusted. He might have cared once.

Regulus gripped the edge of the sink, his knuckles turning white. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, staring, unable to look away. A thought flickered through his mind—how much he looked like you in the last days before you died. How the sickness had drained the life from your body, how your eyes had dulled, how you had wasted away until there was nothing left but a fragile shadow of the person you once were.

You were dead.

And he was still here. Why?

Something cracked inside him, something he had been holding together for too long. His breath hitched, his vision blurred, and suddenly he was moving, his hand lashing out before he could stop himself.

The mirror shattered.

The pieces clattered to the floor, sharp fragments catching the dim candlelight, scattering across the black-and-white tiles. He stared down at them, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, his fingers shaking. Blood dripped from his knuckles where the glass had sliced him, but he barely felt the pain.

It was quiet now.

Too quiet.

His reflection was gone. No more proof that he was still here, that he was still breathing when you weren’t.

He slumped to the floor, his back against the sink, staring blankly at the broken shards surrounding him. It felt fitting. Like his body had finally caught up with the state of his soul.

He wasn’t sure how long he had sat there. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever. The thought of moving, of getting up and continuing like nothing had happened, felt impossible. The weight in his chest, the crushing emptiness inside him, was too much.

And for the first time, he didn’t want to fight it.

The thought came slowly, creeping in like a whisper in the back of his mind, curling around him like smoke.

It would be easier. To just… stop.

To close his eyes and never open them again. To let go.

He wasn’t scared. He had nothing left to be afraid of. No one left to disappoint.

You were waiting for him. Somewhere out there, beyond all of this, you were waiting.

Regulus let his head fall back against the cabinet, his bloodied hand going limp at his side. He exhaled slowly, almost peacefully.

Maybe it was time to go home. Go back home to you.

The cave was silent, save for the rhythmic lapping of the dark lake against the stone. The air was damp, thick with the scent of decay, of something ancient and long-forgotten. Regulus stood at the water’s edge, his wand raised, the golden locket heavy in his trembling hand.

This was it. His final act of defiance.

He had spent so long lost in grief, spiraling deeper into the abyss of the Dark Lord’s service, hollowed out by your absence. He had tried to fill that void with cruelty, with violence, with mindless obedience. But none of it had numbed the agony of losing you. And now, he stood here, at the edge of his own demise, finally understanding what you would have wanted for him.

He wasn’t meant to be this. He wasn’t meant to be a monster.

“Kreacher,” he whispered. The elf trembled beside him, eyes wide with terror. “Take this. Go. Destroy it.” He forced the locket into Kreacher’s small hands, curling the elf’s fingers around it.

“But Master Regulus—” Kreacher’s voice cracked.

“Please,” Regulus breathed, kneeling before the only soul who had remained loyal to him. “You must live. You must finish what I started.”

Tears burned his eyes as he thought of you, of the way you would have scolded him for throwing his life away, for giving up. But this wasn’t giving up, was it? This was finally doing something right.

Kreacher vanished with a crack.

And then, the water stirred.

Cold fingers clawed at the air, skeletal hands breaking through the surface. The Inferi moved unnaturally, jerking toward him with silent, gaping mouths. He lifted his wand, but he already knew—there was no escaping this.

His body screamed to fight, to run, but Regulus let himself sink to his knees. A hand gripped his wrist, another clawed at his shoulder, and suddenly he was being pulled under, the icy water swallowing him whole.

Darkness wrapped around him, numbing his limbs, slowing his heart. He exhaled a shuddering breath, bubbles escaping his lips as the last remnants of air left his lungs. He didn’t fight. He didn’t thrash. He simply closed his eyes and let the memory of you carry him away.

Your laughter. Your warmth. The way you whispered his name like it was something sacred.

He saw you waiting for him in the depths, reaching out, just as you had before you were taken from him. And as the abyss claimed him, for the first time since your death, he felt peace.

Your name was the last thing that left his lips before the darkness took him forever.

When Regulus opened his eyes, he was somewhere else. The cold was gone, the suffocating weight of water no longer pressing against his lungs. Instead, there was light—soft, warm, golden light. The kind he had only seen in dreams.

And then he saw you.

You stood before him, untouched by time, just as he remembered you—beautiful, radiant, alive. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as he stumbled forward, almost afraid that if he touched you, you would disappear.

But you didn’t.

The moment his arms wrapped around you, the dam inside him shattered. A sob ripped from his throat, raw and broken, and he clung to you as if he were drowning all over again. His fingers dug into you, desperate, needing to make sure this was real, that you were real.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, burying his face in your shoulder. “I’m so—so sorry.”

Your hands came up, running through his dark hair, soothing, grounding. “Shh, Regulus,” you murmured. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”

But he wasn’t sure he deserved to be. He had done terrible things. He had let grief consume him, let it turn him into something unrecognizable. He had been lost for so long.

Yet, in your arms, he finally felt found.

You pulled back just enough to cup his face, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. “You did the right thing,” you whispered. “You’re here now. With me.”

Regulus let out another broken sob, pressing his forehead against yours. For the first time in what felt like eternity, the void inside him wasn’t empty anymore. He was home.

With you.

[thronesoldaccido]

The World We Could Have Created

Pairing: Kyle “gaz” Garrick x Fem!Reader

TW: Pregnancy, death, Angst, Grief, Mentions of loss, Hurt /no comfort

WC: 2.6K

(I just wanted to write something sad)

The night was still, the kind of quiet that only comes in the deep hours when the world is asleep and even the wind seems to rest. A soft, silvery moonlight spilled through the windows of the modest suburban home, casting gentle shadows that played across the walls. In the bedroom, the only sound was the slow, rhythmic breathing of two people entwined in sleep, their bodies close, their hearts beating in time with one another.

Kyle Garrick lies in bed, his arm draped protectively over you, his wife. In the dim light her face was serene, a soft smile curving her lips even in sleep. It was a face he knew better than his own, every line and freckle, every expression that had captured his heart all those years ago when they first met.

Back then, he had been a young man full of ambition and promise, studying hard to make something of himself, to build a future he could be proud of. You had been his anchor, the steady presence that grounded him, the light that guided him through the darkest times. They had been inseparable, two halves of the same whole, moving through life in perfect harmony. Kyle had known that you were the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

They had done everything right, everything by the book, they had taken their time building their relationship on a solid foundation before taking the next step. Marriage had come naturally a beautiful ceremony surrounded by friends and family; vows exchanged with tears of joy in their eyes. It had been the happiest day of kyles life, standing at the altar, looking into your perfect eyes, knowing that they were about to embark on a journey together, hand in hand.

After marriage, they had talked about starting a family, about the joy of bringing a child into the world and raising them together. It was something they both wanted, something they had dreamed about during late-night conversations and quiet moments of reflection. And when you told him you where pregnant, Kyle had felt a joy so profound it had nearly brought him to his knees. It was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever worked for, coming together in that one perfect moment.

They had been so careful, so diligent. The nursery had been painted, the crib assembled with meticulous care, tiny clothes folded and put away in drawers. Every detail had been attended to, every step taken with the kind of love and devotion that only parents-to-be could understand. They have spent hours together, planning, dreaming, imagining the life they would give their child, the home they would create.

If only that was possible

It had started as a small spot of blood, barely noticeable, a mere hint that something might be amiss. But soon, the spotting had grown worse, accompanied by a sharp, stabbing pain that had caused you to collapse in your own home. The memory of it haunted kyle, replaying in his mind like a nightmare that wouldn’t let go- the way you had crumpled to the floor, your hands clutching your belly, the fear in your eyes as you looked up at him.

He had acted on instinct, scooping you up in his arms and rushing to the hospital, his heart pounding with terror, his mind a whirlwind of prayers and pleas.

The drive to the hospital had been a blur, his mind filled with the sound of your laboured breathing, the feel of your body trembling in his arms. He had begged the doctors to save you, to do anything they could.

The nurse looked up, meeting his gaze with a calmness that seemed almost surreal against the backdrop of his frantic emotions, she offered a gentle smile and for a brief fleeting moment kyle felt a sliver of hope pierce through his terror. “She is in stable condition, Mr. Garrick” she softly said, her voice soothing like a balm to his frayed nerves. “she’s in room 122”

Relief crashed over him, he released a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, nodding gratefully at the nurse before turning down the hallway she had indicated. Each step felt heavy, weighted with the anticipation and anxiety that had been building since he arrived. But the thought of seeing you, of holding your hand, of hearing your voice. These thoughts drove him forward, propelling him through the sterile corridors.

The number on each door blurred as he passed them, his entire focus narrowing to one goal: reaching room 122. When he finally arrived, he paused, his hand hovering over the handle as if needing to steel himself for whatever could be on the other side. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room was quiet, bathed in the soft, golden light of the early morning. It was a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. And there, in the centre of it all, was you, sitting up in the hospital bed, your face radiant despite the exhaustion etched in her features. In your arms, you cradled a tiny, swaddled figure- so small so fragile.

Kyles breath caught in his throat. His heart swelled as he watched the scene before him the sound of your gentle laughter filling the room like music. Your eyes, so full of warmth and love, met his as you noticed him standing there. “Kyle” you whispered, voice tender and full of joy. The smile that spread across your face was like the sun breaking through clouds after a storm. You looked down at your daughter, then back up at him, your eyes sparkling with unshed tears “do you want to hold her?” you giggled softly, lifting the tiny bundle of joy just slightly. As if to introduce their newborn to the man who had been waiting so long to meet her.

For a moment, everything else faded away. Kyle felt a rush of emotions – overwhelming love, Pure happiness, and a profound sense of completeness. This was the life they had dreamed of, the life they had built together through years of love and commitment he stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the small, perfect face of his daughter and reached out to touch her soft cheek, his fingers trembling with awe and reverence, your hand found his, their fingers intertwining as they both gazed down at their child, the embodiment of their love.

But just as he was about to speak, it was gone. It was all gone. The warmth, the light, the laughter it was all gone. The image of you so vibrant and full of life, was gone. Kyle blinked and just like that he was back at the reception desk. “I’m sorry, sir….” The nurses voice trembled, each word landing like ablow to kyles chest, the pit of dread in his stomach widening until it felt as though it might swallow him whole  “ it says here she passed due to placental abruption.”

The world seemed to stop. Time, which had been rushing forward in a frantic blurt of anxiety and fear, suddenly slowed to a crawl. The nurses words echoed in his mind, the meaning clear but impossible to accept. Kyle stood there, rooted to the spot, as if the ground had opened up beneath him, threatening to drag him into an abyss from which there was no return. Everything he held dear – his hopes, his dreams, his future – shattered in an instant, leaving him feeling hollow and numb.

A single tear traced  a slow. Deliberate path down his cheek, the first sign of the storm brewing inside him. He had tried so hard to stay strong, to keep it together, but now, in the face of this unbearable truth, the fragile damn of composure he had clung to was beginning to crack, His hands, which had always been steady and strong, trembled uncontrollably as he forced himself to speak, his voice barely more than a whisper, “can.. can I see her...?” The nurse nodded; her eyes filled with a sorrow that mirrored his own. She turned and led him down a different hallway, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling the air, the silence of the hospital pressing in on him from all sides. Each step felt like an eternity, every fibre of his being screaming at him to turn and run, to escape this nightmare, but his feet carried him forward, one heavy step after another, towards the moment he had been dreading.

When they reached the room, the nurse paused, offering him one last glance of sympathy before gently pushing that door open. Kyle stood at the threshold, his heart pounding in his chest, his breath coming in shallow uneven gasps. The frigid air from the room seeped into his bones, making his body feel as lifeless as his soul. He knew what awaited him inside, but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him.

The room was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioner, a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside him. On the bed, beneath a stark white sheet, lay.. you. For a moment, he could convince himself that you were just sleeping, that if he whispered your name, you would stir, your eyes would flutter open, and you would smile at him the way you always did. But the stillness of your body and the unnatural pallor of your skin, told a different story. The woman he loved, the woman he had planned to grow old with, was gone.

Kyles legs felt like they might give out beneath him as he approached the bed. His hands shook as he reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the cold fabric of the sheet. He hesitated, his mind screaming at him to stop, to turn back, to run from this unbearable reality. But he couldn’t, he had to see you, had to say goodbye. With a deep shuddering breath, he pulled back the sheet, revealing your face. You looked peaceful, almost serene, as if you were merely asleep. But there was no mistaking the lifelessness in your features, the finality of death had claimed you. The sight of you like this, so still, so cold, was a knife twisting in his chest, cutting deeper with each passing second.

He buried his face in your chest, his sobs breaking free in the torrent of pain and anguish. He clung to you, his tears soaking through the fabric of your gown, as if somehow, by holding on tight enough, he could bring you back, could reverse the cruel fate that had stolen you away from him. But no amount of tears, no amount of pleading or praying, could change the reality that you were gone, and with you, the life you had dreamed of together. The dreams they had shared, the future they had planned, were now nothing more than cruel fantasies. He could still see the vision of you holding their daughter, the smile on your face as you introduced their newborn to him. It was now nothing more than a fading echo, a desperate attempt by his mind to cope with the unbearable truth.

Hours seemed to pass in that cold, sterile room, the silence closing in around him like a suffocating shroud. When he finally found the strength to pull himself away from you, to stand on trembling legs, he knew that this was his new reality: a life defined by loss, haunted by the memory of what could have been. The light in his world had been extinguished, leaving only darkness and the unbearable weight of grief.

The days that followed were a blur, each one bleeding into the next, marked only by the rituals of mourning. The funeral was arranged in a haze of numbness, Kyle moving through the motions as if in a dream. Friends and family gathered to pay their respects, their faces etched with sorrow , but their presence brought him no comfort. How could it? Nothing could fill the void left by your presence.

On the day of the funeral, the sky was overcast, heavy with unshed rain, as if even the heavens were mourning your loss. Kyle stood at the graveside, his body stiff with the effort of holding himself together. He watched as they lowered the casket into the ground, the finality of it crushing him. It was real now, you were truly gone, buried beneath the earth, and with you, all of the dreams they had shared. As the last of the dirt was shovelled onto your grave, something inside Kyle snapped. The grief, which had been a constant, gnawing pain in his chest, suddenly flared into something darker, something that threatened to consume him whole. He turned away from the grave, unable to bear the sight any longer, and walked back to the car, the faces of those around him blurring into a sea of meaningless condolences.

When he returned to their home, the emptiness was suffocating. Every corner, every piece of furniture, every photograph on the wall was a reminder of the life they had built together, a life that was now reduced to memories and what-ifs. The nursery, once filled with hope and anticipation, now felt like a tomb, a place where dreams had come to die.

In the days that followed, Kyle found solace in the bottom of a bottle. Alcohol became his constant companion, numbing the pain, dulling the sharp edges of his grief. He drank to forget, to escape the unbearable reality that you were gone, that the future they had planned was no more. But the alcohol also fuelled his anger, his frustration at the cruel hand fate had dealt him.

One night, in a drunken haze, Kyle stumbled into the nursery. The sight of the crib, the tiny clothes, the toys neatly arranged on the shelves—it was too much. The rage that had been simmering beneath the surface erupted, and he tore through the room, destroying everything in his path. The crib was smashed to pieces, the clothes ripped from their hangers, the toys hurled against the wall. By the time he was done, the nursery was in ruins, a reflection of the desolation in his heart.

He collapsed on the floor, surrounded by the wreckage of what had once been his hopes and dreams, and let the tears come. They were hot, bitter, and unrelenting, a flood of grief that left him exhausted and empty. The house, once filled with love and laughter, was now a silent, barren shell, and Kyle was left alone to face the darkness that had taken hold of his life.

In the weeks that followed, Kyle became a ghost of the man he had once been. He withdrew from the world, isolating himself from the people who cared about him. He couldn’t bear their pity, their well-meaning attempts to help him move on. How could they understand? How could anyone understand the depth of his loss, the gaping hole in his heart that nothing could fill?

The days blurred into one another, each one marked by the same routine: drink until the pain dulled, sleep, wake up, and do it all over again. But even in his drunken stupor, Kyle couldn’t escape the memories of you, of the life they had shared, of the future they had planned. Those memories haunted him, a constant reminder of what he had lost.

And so, he drifted through his days, lost in a sea of grief and alcohol, a man broken by loss, clinging to the shattered remnants of a life that had slipped through his fingers. The future, once so bright and full of promise, was now nothing more than a bleak, endless void. And in that void, Kyle was left to face the unbearable truth: that you were gone, and with you, the light in his world had been extinguish

[hyperfixiation-station]

Price(or any of them really) with a college age kid who he promised he was gonna take leave for and help them move up to college. Who accepts a mission that will have him gone on his kids move-in date. Who gets into a fight with his kid about it. Who leaves without apologizing. Who comes home to dark house. Who freezes when he sees the door is cracked open. Whis world ends when he's finds your decaying body lying in the hallway, a round of bullets embedded in your chest.

Turns out one of his many enemies wanted revenge. According to the estimated time of death, you were shot the night he would have been moving you into a college 3 states away. It's a pity he broke his promise to you and accepted that massion. Maybe if he hadn't none if this would ever have happened.

[alicerosejensen]

Mistake

Warning: death of the reader; indirect mention of Leon's infidelity.

This is a re-posting since my account was blocked on the same day I posted this.

It was a mistake to let you go alone. It was a mistake to believe that a stupid trip would end well and you would return to his house unharmed. And that was his mistake.

Leon holds you in his arms and the noble ladies from the old portraits look disapprovingly at the one he dared to save. You can feel his firm grip on your hip and under your armpit as he carries you to the evacuation site with a pale, cold-blooded face down which tears are flowing. What should he feel besides the searing pain in his chest from just your bloody appearance? Through the veil you hear his strangled wheeze and quiet orders not to dare to die. His fingers dig deeper into your once tender skin when you feel the cool breeze blowing under your dirty white shirt, the only thing left for you besides underwear. The hair was tangled because of blood and dirt, but for Leon it was all so unimportant. He kept carrying you to save you, promising himself that you wouldn't die.

Not having the strength to scream, you would like to regret your last stupid quarrel because of which you left him because of the influx of stupid jealousy. But you just didn't have the strength to go back to your sad life anymore. Leon's jacket still warmed your body, but the stopped heart suggested that you left this world plunging into a dark space, black as the night itself, thickened in the sky where there is no longer any heat, heat, pain or abyss.

It's a nice strange feeling when death enchants you.

And now you are like a fallen petal of a rare flower, floating between the seasons. If either of you understood each other well, you and Leon would never have parted. But when Leon, after a few shouts of your name, squeezes you in his arms, he realizes that you have gone limp… his heart stops.

You left him alone. Sad and lonely.

"Don't you dare die!" Leon is screaming out of breath, trying to get your heart to beat again. As if, having heard him somewhere from the outside, you felt such pity for him. He put so much effort into finding and saving you. All the last few months of imprisonment were like a requiem before a fateful finale without a happy ending. Leon hugs you to his chest, trying to share his warmth; kisses your thin wrists and dirty face to return to your embrace and kind love. This feeling of hopelessness in his chest was never like what he experienced when Simmons attacked Ada.

He realized that he had lost you.

"Sweetheart" Leon tucked his blood-soaked hair behind his ear. Your hand is in his. Sticky and cold where the wrist does not feel the pulse. "forgive me..."

It was your ticket to hell. With all these terrifying bloody rides for a stupid girl who knows how to hold a gun, just because at the beginning of the relationship Leon took the liberty of taking you to the shooting range. No physical or psychological training. Even if you hadn't died, your brain would have turned into a recurring nightmare for the rest of your life. Fortunately, like any attraction, everything tends to end, and the road to hell led you to the gates of paradise with a white ocean, cool water and complete silence where a small flimsy boat was ready to take you to the other shore.

To your personal paradise. In which there are no mutated monsters, no blood, no pain from wounds, no deaths, no Leon Scott Kennedy, who previously broke your heart.

You've seen enough to make the desire to live leave you, but Leon kept trying to make your heart beat with useless indirect heart massage. You went to the deep bottom, as if she had never been with him and did not love him. Leon's tears are dripping on your cheeks, laying clean paths, washing away dirt and blood from you. The human brain lives for about five minutes after death and your precious seconds are almost running out. This man tore you into a thousand pieces and now he's holding you to him, but it should have been done before. The eternal scarlet sunset would never have caught up with you if the day before your trip and on the day of the quarrel Leon grabbed you in his arms, chaining you to him with hot hugs without letting you go anywhere.

This horror could have been prevented.

But when you were thrown like a mangy puppy, he cherished his love for Ada Wong. No one knows what happens in those last moments when the soul leaves the body, but that very last second of your life without hearing or seeing him, you wanted him to be as hurt as you were when you found out the truth.

One single second before your feet dipped into the water and you got into the boat, and your wish was fulfilled…

You died in the middle of the night, despite the fact that you loved him very much anyway. Every creature has a mate but you don't have anything else. Let anyone but you be Leon's mate from now on. Before that ill-fated quarrel, you could even die for him, only Leon would quickly move away from your unnecessary sacrifice.

How monsters surrounded you from all sides and the light of your soul was extinguished forever. Then why did you continue to love his light half-smile and the expensive suit in which you first met him until the end? It is always cold outside, but inside of which sabantuy is raging. Leon is a man who often contradicted himself and you're just unlucky that he didn't dare to push you away.

There was no point in saving you anymore, but Leon continued to carry your body, pressing it closer to him, as if you were just unconscious and his legs were failing him, as if you were an unbearable burden, although before he always carried you lightly in his arms. He won't have a chance at redemption and he'll always live with the guilt of your death. But if you were alive, Leon thinks that you would be sarcastic to him right now, like Ada would be able to comfort him. And Leon is angry even though he knows it's stupid. You're silent in his arms.

He doesn't care how dirty you are. He kisses your face, squeezing your wrists tightly and for some reason trying to warm you up. His lips will imprint a kiss between eyes, temples, cheeks and lips themselves, leaving him a salty taste of blood. Leon catches you comfortably so that his jacket does not fly off you. your face is pressed against his shoulder, but he's not looking anymore. He thinks that maybe there will be a first aid kit in the helicopter from which there will be no sense. And even when they're taken away, Leon doesn't give you to anyone. He strokes your hair, begging the medic in his team to do something, but she looks at him with an indifferent look and then at the gaping wound on your chest and is silent, realizing that their captain has in fact already brought a corpse.

But in the end, you still end up in a corpse bag where they put you right away, taking you out of Leon's hands. No matter how he tried to take you back, he was not allowed. You didn't have time to see the sunlight and Leon feels like he let you down. Did not save. Shouted at the doctors, shouted at those who without regret stuffed you into this black cloth with a lock hiding from him like those scoundrels who ruined you. And then when everyone cooled down, he was simply confronted with the fact.

If dead, then the body belongs to forced sterilization.

But Leon won't even get your ashes... as if you kept torturing him while he drowned his pain in a bottle, breaking all the glasses. He kept your chiffon scarf close to him on purpose so he could smell you. His weakness... he just wanted you around again.

And all because of one damn mistake he made.

[dennieshmany]

ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʜᴇʟʟ ɪꜱ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ

-Chrollo holds onto your soul, even long into your demise-

-Word count: 800-

(Yandere!Chrollo X Dead-GN-Reader!)

There was an eerie feeling in the air, a pensive tension that couldn't be dismissed. Of course, you wished nothing more than for peace, for freedom from your current cage of hell. 

But with such sweet certainty, there was no way in hell you’d ever escape the grasps of who caught you. Not even death would allow you freedom. 

To your admission, you’d met Chrollo before. But by meeting, that meant a brief glance every time you passed him on the street, within the safe bounds of your street, your home, a place you’d never suspected to have criminal activity. You’d had no conscious idea of what he was capable of. 

Like a caged animal you’d soon become, prey to a looming predator, you were clueless. Meaninglessly brushing shoulders as you crossed the road that were forgotten on your mind were forever engraved into his. But like prey, it always dies at the hands of the predator.  

You’d never held a conversation with him, never once spoken a mere word. Exchanges of glances at most, just as you did with every passerby. 

To everyone else, it was almost as if you were a ghost, even long before your pitiful demise. 

Perhaps if you had been more attentive, more interested, you would never be caught in the mess you were in now. 

Chained to a post in a bedroom that you could not call home. 

At least the chain allowed for complete freedom within the bounds of those four walls. But the moment you stepped too close to the door, leading to who knows what, a burning sensation would break out along your skin. A tug would pull at your ankle until you were forced back into submission, back into the small convinds. 

You sighed softly, watching the steam from your breath disappear as if you’d never breathed in the first place.

A window was the only place you could dare to venture to. It was small, but it showed you a peace from the outside world that you longed for. 

Even if it was just cars passing by, looking like tiny ants from the high up apartment you’d been coddled into. It let you know the world was still going, still moving. 

Which in itself was a comfort. 

Chrollo had vanished a couple of hours ago, leaving you to your window with attempts of a sweet domestic goodbye, one you did not reciprocate. 

You hated him.

More than life itself. 

Death. It was the only path of escape reasonable, but with the baby proofing done to ensure your safety, you couldn't even begin to fathom a way for you to harm yourself in a way that would end your life relatively quickly. At least, for when you were alive you had hoped for such. 

Even then, hours of pain and suffering would be worth it if it would escape his bounds. 

“You stare out that window alot, my love.” You hadn’t heard him come home, or enter the room, but even if you’d been paying attention, what good would that do. 

You tucked closer in on yourself, holding your legs close to your chest. “Outside is prettier than in here with you.” Your words were soft and muttered, fear for if you lashed out, he would constrain you further, chains preventing you from properly being able to see out of your only source of freedom. 

“Oh dear, prettier than I,” he chuckled smooth like honey. “Prettier than you?” 

“How would I know?” You whispered, eyes slowly turning to him. “The only reflection within this hell is in your eyes.” 

He approached, reeking of washed off blood. Sharp and metallic along your senses. “Then why not stare until you see what it is you are looking for?” 

Your face pulled into disgust, though you were quick to whip it off. “Because I fear a monster like you would turn me into stone.” 

“A beautiful statue you’d be.” His words brought yet another bitter look to your face, head turning away. 

“Your vanity should be studied.” 

“I'd allow you to study me to your heart's desires.” You could feel a small heat radiating off him, indicating he was close, far too close. 

“I would rather study anything else.” You blinked, noticing his reflection within the mirror, but not yours. 

You sighed softly, looking over at him. 

“What is it, my love?” 

“You hold onto nothing more than a memory of me, Chrollo. How long will you allow these chains to rot against my skin.” You words were said with a ghastly air, in vain and in pain. 

“For even in your death you comfort me, my love.” His hand reached out for you, but it was all too evident that he would never touch nor reach you. 

“Then you will die of your own obsession as I did.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

First time I've ever posted anything on Tumblr (lowkey shitting balls). Just a small dribble of something that I couldn't get off my mind! I hope to write more in the future <3

[meguminne]

Love, Lost and Wandered࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

dainleif is scared of forgetting you, he would traverse the cursed plains of the irminsul to remember you. — cursed grounds that belonged to one of those damned archons just to remember you. his curse now includes you as well. im gonna be honest and tell you straight up idk how the irminsul or dainsleif work and whether or not this is accurate to their lore, i just want to write a devoted lover dain who’s willing to beg to the archons for reader like that one questline. also!! reblogs and follows are very appreciated as it lets me know you guys enjoy my writing!! . (reader x dainsleif) oct. 15 2023 part one (?)

dainsleif is too ashamed to admit this aloud but he finds himself forgetting you. who once was his most precious, his beloved; your voice, your laugh, even your smile. — the gods are merciless but were ‘kind’ enough to spare you from turning you into the hilichurls doomed to wander the earth, loyal only to their most primal instincts. they were ‘kind’ enough to spare you from the curse of immortality, the pain of living and unable to die. he wonders which fate would have been better for the both of you, but he does believe death has been the most merciful outcome.

the only thing he has of you is the memory of your name, the love he can’t forget, and the dreams you’ve left with him. — but they’re not immune to the weathering of time. he finds himself slipping, forgetting the little things that complete your image, the treasures he salvaged from the remnants of his home broken down with the centuries that came with immortality and the dreams you held with him now seem blurry as though he couldn’t fathom to sleep and dream without you. it’s been eons and yet he still hasn’t gotten used to your absence beside him.

when fate is kind enough to grant him the time to paint, his mind goes over to the idea of you and he seems to get the gist of your frame, your figure but your face only seems to be drawn as a mixture of swirls, indescribable and indistinguishable from the fog that surrounds the memory of you.

as much as he hated to admit it, he was slowly forgetting you.

but he’s not ready yet, to forget you is to let you die once and for all. he’s the only one who holds the memory of you and if he forgets, you’re gone forever. — amidst the false gods, their endless pride and the heavens; you were the angel that almost made dainsleif believe in divinity.

he’s desperate to maintain that memory of you, to keep you alive and beside him to the best of his ability for forgetting you might doom to an eternity of restless living cursed only for vengeance.

dainsleif was desperate enough to keep that memory of you that he was willing to trek onto the irminsul, the ‘sacred’ grounds of the dendro archon that records say remembers everything. the memories stored within the ley lines that have touched all of teyvat, the ley lines that rooted itself deep beneath the grounds; roots that listened to every drop of rain, whisper and wind. — he was willing to traverse and resort to the divinities he loathed just to remember you. whether it’s be by force, or if he had to kneel, beg and grovel at the archon’s feet just to be welcomed into the dreamlike plains; he would do it for his pride was nothing next to his devotion for you.

the only obstacle now was whether or not the archon, buer was willing to let a khaenri'ahn survivor step foot into the holy grounds. — or if he could even ask for help from the traveler..

[pomegranatelifethis]

In another universe again

Promise?

The Wayne Manor was a labyrinth of secrets, its towering walls steeped in history and whispers of the past. You’d grown up within those walls, a daughter of the Wayne legacy, twin to Damian, the son destined to inherit the mantle of Robin. But where Damian was sharp edges and fierce determination, you were a shadow, slipping through the cracks of a family that never seemed to notice you were there.

You were Y/N Wayne, the other half of a pair, but to the Batfamily, you were an afterthought. Bruce, your father, was a man consumed by his mission, his eyes always fixed on the horizon of Gotham’s endless night. Dick was the golden son, too busy charming the world to see you fading. Jason, with his jagged edges, spared you fleeting glances but never lingered. Tim was lost in his own mind, his coffee-fueled nights leaving no room for you. And Damian—your twin, your mirror—carried the weight of expectations you could never touch. He was the heir, the prodigy. You were just… you.

The neglect wasn’t loud. It was quiet, insidious, like a slow bleed. A missed birthday here, a forgotten promise there. Training sessions where you were left to spar with dummies while Damian was molded by Bruce’s hands. Family dinners where your seat was filled with silence, your voice drowned by their laughter. You tried to be seen, to be heard. You trained harder, studied longer, patched your own wounds after patrols. But the harder you tried, the more invisible you became.

Then came Lila.

She arrived like a burst of sunlight, a foster girl with wide eyes and a smile that disarmed even the coldest hearts. The Batfamily welcomed her with open arms. Dick ruffled her hair, Jason taught her to throw a punch, Tim helped her with homework, and Bruce—*Bruce*—smiled at her in a way you’d never seen directed at you. Even Damian, your stoic twin, softened around her, his rare laughter echoing through the manor.

Lila was everything you weren’t. She was wanted.

You watched from the sidelines as they showered her with affection, their voices bright with praise. “Lila’s a natural,” Dick would say. “She’s got heart,” Jason added. “She’s one of us,” Tim declared. And you? You were the ghost in the room, your presence barely acknowledged. The realization settled in your chest like a stone: you were worthless to them.

The doubt crept in slowly, then all at once. Why weren’t you enough? Were you too quiet, too weak, too *you*? You spent nights staring at the ceiling of your room, the weight of their indifference pressing down until you couldn’t breathe. You stopped joining them for meals, stopped waiting for them to notice you. They didn’t.

The kidnapping was almost a relief.

It happened on a rainy Gotham night, the kind where the city seemed to drown in its own despair. You and Lila were grabbed off the streets, thrown into a van before you could react. The world went dark, and when you woke, you were in a warehouse, wrists bound, the air thick with the scent of rust and fear. Lila was beside you, her face pale but defiant, her eyes darting to the cameras mounted on the walls.

The kidnappers were professionals, their faces hidden behind masks. They spoke in clipped tones, their words broadcast live to the city. “The Batfamily has one hour to choose,” their leader said, his voice cold as steel. “One girl lives. One dies. Make your choice, or we kill them both.”

You knew what would happen before it did. You saw it in the way Bruce’s voice crackled through the comms, calm but strained. You saw it in the way Dick hesitated, his eyes flickering to Lila. You saw it in the way Jason’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed on the girl who’d become their sister in all but blood.

“We’re coming for you,” Bruce said through the feed, his words meant for both of you but landing on Lila like a lifeline. “Hold on.”

The clock ticked down. The kidnappers paced, their guns glinting under the flickering lights. Lila whispered to you, her voice trembling. “They’ll save us, Y/N. They have to.”

You wanted to believe her, but the truth was a blade in your gut. You’d always been the one left behind.

When the Batfamily arrived, it was with the precision of a military strike. Batman led the charge, Nightwing and Red Hood flanking him, Red Robin and Robin covering the exits. They moved like shadows, neutralizing the kidnappers with ruthless efficiency. But when the moment came—when the leader grabbed you and Lila, a gun to each of your heads—they froze.

“Choose!” the leader roared, his finger twitching on the trigger. “Now!”

Bruce’s eyes met yours through the haze of smoke and chaos. For a moment, you thought he saw you—really saw you. But then his gaze shifted to Lila, and you knew.

“Save her,” he said, his voice steady, final.

The world slowed. Dick lunged for Lila, pulling her from the kidnapper’s grip. Jason tackled the man holding her, his fists a blur. Tim and Damian cleared the room, their focus on the girl who mattered. You were still there, the gun pressed to your temple, your heart a hollow drum.

They’d chosen her.

The cameras were still rolling, broadcasting every second to Gotham and beyond. You looked into the lens, your reflection staring back—a girl forgotten, a shadow no one would mourn. You thought of the manor, of the family that had never been yours. You thought of Damian, your twin, who hadn’t even glanced your way.

The kidnapper’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “Looks like you’re the one they don’t need.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You just stared into the camera, your lips parting to whisper one final word.

“Goodbye.”

The gunshot echoed through the warehouse, a single, deafening crack. The world went black.

The echo of the gunshot hung in the air, a jagged wound in the silence of the warehouse. The cameras, cold and unyielding, captured every moment—the blood pooling beneath your motionless body, the kidnapper stepping back, the world watching as Y/N Wayne, the forgotten daughter, became a ghost before their eyes.

Bruce Wayne—Batman—stood frozen, his cape a heavy shroud around him. His mind, always calculating, always planning, had betrayed him. He’d made the call, the tactical choice: save Lila, neutralize the threat, then save you. It was supposed to be clean, precise. But the plan had unraveled, and now you were gone. His daughter, his *child*, lay dead because of him. The weight of it pressed against his chest, a suffocating force that no kevlar could shield. He stared at your body, the camera’s red light mocking him, broadcasting his failure to Gotham. He wanted to move, to cradle you, to scream, but Batman didn’t break. Bruce Wayne, though—he was shattering.

“No…” The word slipped from Dick Grayson’s lips, barely a whisper, as he stumbled forward. Nightwing, the heart of the family, was unraveling. He’d been the one to pull Lila to safety, his hands gentle but firm, his focus on the girl they’d all come to love. But now, as he looked at you, your eyes still open, staring into the void of the camera, guilt clawed at him. He’d promised to protect you, hadn’t he? All those years ago, when you and Damian came into their lives, he’d vowed to be the big brother you needed. Yet he’d let you fade, let you slip through the cracks. “Y/N, I’m sorry,” he choked, falling to his knees beside you, his gloved hands hovering over your still form, afraid to touch what he’d already lost.

Jason Todd’s rage was a living thing, coiled and ready to strike. Red Hood had taken down the kidnapper who held Lila, his fists a blur of vengeance. But when the shot rang out, when he saw you crumple, something inside him broke. He’d always seen you as the quiet one, the kid who patched her own wounds and never asked for anything. He’d meant to check on you, to pull you into his orbit, but there was always another mission, another fight. Now, he stood over your body, his helmet hiding the tears burning his eyes. “You bastards,” he snarled, his voice cracking as he rounded on Bruce. “You *chose* her over your own kid!” He wanted to hit something, to tear the world apart, but all he could do was stare at you, the sister he’d failed, and feel the weight of his own worthlessness.

Tim Drake’s mind was a storm of data, replaying every second, every decision, searching for the moment it all went wrong. Red Robin was supposed to be the strategist, the one who saw every angle. But he hadn’t seen you. Not really. You were always there, a quiet presence in the Batcave, working beside him in silence while he buried himself in cases. He’d noticed your absence at dinners, your retreat from the family, but he’d told himself you were fine. You were strong. You didn’t need him. Now, as he knelt beside Dick, his hands trembling as he scanned your vitals—knowing it was pointless—he felt the full force of his neglect. “I should’ve… I should’ve checked on you,” he murmured, his voice hollow. The cameras caught his failure, too, and he knew the world would judge him. He deserved it.

Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still in hand, blood dripping from its blade. Robin was trained to be unyielding, to prioritize the mission above all else. But you were his other half, the shadow to his light, the one who understood the weight of being Talia’s child in a world that didn’t want you. He’d pushed you away, told himself it was to protect you from his own darkness, but the truth was uglier: he’d been too proud, too focused on proving himself. Now, as he looked at your lifeless body, your blood staining the concrete, something inside him fractured. “Ukhti,” he whispered, the Arabic word for sister slipping out, a plea and a prayer. He didn’t move toward you. He couldn’t. If he did, he’d have to face the truth: he’d failed you, just like the rest of them.

Lila, the girl they’d chosen, stood trembling in Dick’s arms, her wide eyes fixed on your body. She didn’t speak, didn’t cry, but the guilt was there, etched into her face. She’d been the one they saved, the one they loved, and now your death was her shadow. The cameras caught her, too, the girl who’d taken your place, and Gotham would whisper her name with scorn.

Bruce finally moved, his steps heavy as he approached you. He knelt beside you, his gloved hand reaching out to close your eyes, a gesture too late to matter. “Y/N,” he said, his voice low, broken. “I thought… I thought there was time.” But there hadn’t been. He’d calculated wrong, prioritized wrong, and now his daughter was gone. The world watched, and he felt their judgment, but it was nothing compared to the war raging inside him. He was Batman, the protector of Gotham, but he couldn’t protect his own child.

The Batfamily stood in a fractured circle around you, each grappling with their own guilt, their own failure. The cameras kept rolling, the live feed searing your death into Gotham’s memory. The city would mourn you, the forgotten Wayne, but the family who’d lost you would carry the weight forever.

Dick’s hand rested on your cold cheek, tears streaming down his face. “We didn’t see you,” he whispered. “God, Y/N, we didn’t see you.”

Jason’s fists clenched, his voice a raw growl. “This isn’t over. Whoever set this up—they’re gonna pay.”

Tim’s head bowed, his mind still racing, still searching for a way to undo the impossible. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words useless against the void.

Damian’s grip on his katana tightened, his voice barely audible. “You deserved better, ukhti.”

Bruce remained silent, his hand lingering on your face, the weight of his choice a noose around his neck. He’d failed you, just as he’d failed Jason, just as he’d failed Gotham too many times before. But this—this was different. This was his daughter, and he’d let you die.

The warehouse was silent now, save for the hum of the cameras and the distant wail of sirens. The Batfamily stood over your body, a family broken by their own hands. They’d chosen Lila, and in doing so, they’d lost you.

And Gotham watched, its heart as cold and unforgiving as the night

Bruce Wayne knelt beside you, his hand still resting on your closed eyes, as if he could will you back to life. His mind was a battlefield, replaying every second of the night—his choice, his hesitation, his failure. He’d chosen Lila because she was the civilian, the one they’d welcomed into their home, the one who’d seemed so fragile. But now, as he looked at your lifeless form, a gnawing doubt clawed at him. Something was wrong. The kidnappers’ precision, the cameras, the broadcast—it was too orchestrated, too perfect. His instincts, honed by years as Batman, screamed that this was no random crime.

“Bruce,” Tim’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and urgent. He was crouched by one of the kidnappers, a tablet in hand, his fingers flying across the screen. “You need to see this.” His face was pale, his eyes wide with something that looked like fear. Bruce rose, his movements mechanical, and joined Tim. The screen displayed a series of encrypted messages, traced back to an unlisted server. The sender’s codename was innocuous—*Starling*—but the content was damning. Instructions for the kidnapping, coordinates for the warehouse, even the exact wording of the ultimatum: *Make the Batfamily choose.* And at the bottom, a single line that turned Bruce’s blood to ice: *Eliminate Y/N Wayne. Secure the family.*

Bruce’s gaze snapped to Lila, who was still clinging to Dick, her sobs perfectly timed. His heart, already fractured, began to splinter further. “Lila,” he said, his voice low, dangerous. “Step away from Nightwing.”

Dick frowned, his arms tightening protectively around her. “Bruce, what—”

“Now,” Bruce barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. Lila’s sobs faltered, and for a fraction of a second, her mask slipped—a flicker of calculation in her eyes before she buried her face in Dick’s chest again. But Bruce saw it. And so did Damian.

Damian Wayne, your twin, stood apart, his katana still dripping with the blood of the last kidnapper he’d dispatched. His green eyes, so like yours, were fixed on Lila, and the realization hit him like a blade to the chest. He’d always been wary of her, the girl who’d slipped so easily into their lives, but he’d dismissed it as jealousy, as his own struggle to share the family he’d fought to claim. Now, as he pieced together the puzzle—her sudden arrival, her effortless charm, the way she’d drawn their attention away from you—he felt a rage unlike any he’d known. It wasn’t the cold, controlled fury of the League of Assassins. This was personal, visceral, a brother’s wrath for the sister he’d failed.

“You,” Damian hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. He took a step toward Lila, his katana rising, but Jason grabbed his arm, holding him back. “She did this. She *planned* this.” His eyes burned with unshed tears, his voice breaking as he looked at your body. “Ukhti, I should’ve known. I should’ve protected you.”

Bruce’s mind raced, connecting the dots. Lila’s foster records had been clean—too clean. Her arrival had coincided with a lull in major threats, a perfect distraction. She’d played them all, weaving herself into their hearts while you faded into the background. And now, you were dead because of her. Because of *him*. The guilt was a noose, tightening with every breath. He’d failed you as a father, and now he’d failed you as Batman, blinded by a girl who’d weaponized their affection.

“Tim,” Bruce said, his voice steady despite the storm inside him. “Secure the evidence. Dick, restrain her.”

Dick hesitated, his eyes darting between Bruce and Lila. “Bruce, she’s just a kid—”

“She’s a traitor,” Damian snapped, wrenching free of Jason’s grip. He lunged for Lila, but Bruce stepped in front of him, his hand on Damian’s chest.

“Not yet,” Bruce said, his voice a low growl. “We need answers.”

Lila’s performance faltered as Dick gently but firmly pulled her away, his hands cuffs-ready. Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic breaking through her facade. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, her voice trembling. But the cameras were still rolling, and Gotham was watching. The city would see her unmasked, just as the Batfamily had.

Damian sank to his knees beside you, his katana clattering to the ground. He reached for your hand, cold and still, and pressed it to his forehead, a gesture of grief and apology. “Ukhti,” he whispered, his voice raw. “I was supposed to be your shield. I let you down. I let her take you.” His shoulders shook, the weight of his failure crushing him. He’d been raised to be a warrior, not a brother, but you’d been the one constant in his life, the one who’d understood him without words. And now you were gone, stolen by a girl who’d played them all.

Bruce watched, his heart a bleeding wound. He wanted to comfort Damian, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the words wouldn’t come. He was the father, the leader, and he’d let this happen. He’d chosen Lila, not because he loved her more, but because he’d underestimated you. He’d thought you were strong enough to wait, to endure. He’d been wrong.

The sirens grew louder, GCPD closing in. Tim was already uploading the evidence to the Batcomputer, ensuring Lila’s betrayal would be exposed. Jason stood guard, his gun trained on the remaining kidnappers, but his eyes kept drifting to you, his sister, the one he’d never truly known. Dick cuffed Lila, his face a mask of betrayal and guilt, while Tim worked in silence, his jaw tight with suppressed grief.

Bruce knelt beside Damian, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make this right,” he said, though the words felt hollow. “For her.”

Damian didn’t look up. “There is no right,” he said, his voice barely audible. “She’s gone.”

Talia al Ghul stood in the heart of her fortress, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across her sharp features. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and steel, a reminder of the empire she’d built. Her spies had just delivered the news, their voices trembling as they recounted the events in Gotham. The live broadcast had reached even the remote peaks of Nanda Parbat, and Talia had watched, her heart a storm of ice and fire, as her daughter—*her* Y/N—was shot dead on camera.

She stood motionless, her emerald eyes fixed on the tablet displaying the frozen image of your body, your blood pooling beneath you. The world had seen it, but only Talia understood the true cost. You were her daughter, her legacy, the child she’d trained in secret, hoping to mold you into a weapon as deadly as Damian. But you’d chosen Gotham, chosen your father, and she’d let you go, believing Bruce would protect you. She’d been wrong.

Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her dagger, the blade glinting in the torchlight. “Lila,” she murmured, the name a curse on her lips. Her spies had uncovered the girl’s treachery, the messages linking her to a shadowy network that rivaled even the League. Lila had played the Batfamily like pawns, orchestrating your death to secure her place. Talia’s lips curled into a snarl. The girl would pay, but not before she suffered.

“Beloved,” Talia said, her voice soft but laced with venom, addressing the empty air as if Bruce could hear her. “You failed her. You let a viper into your home and called it family.” Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed. She’d lost you, her daughter, her shadow, and the pain was a blade in her heart. But Talia al Ghul did not break. She planned.

She turned to her assassins, her voice a whip. “Find the girl. Bring her to me alive. She will learn the price of crossing the al Ghuls.” Her gaze returned to the tablet, to your still face, and her voice softened, a mother’s grief breaking through. “Rest, my daughter. Your blood will not be spilled in vain.”

Talia would burn Gotham to the ground if it meant avenging you. And when she was done, Lila would beg for the mercy you’d never been given.

[bugsmunched]

💔And I'm so sorry that I failed you || Peter parker X DEAD ! GN! Reader

Summary: Peter visits Y/N's gravesite and tells them everything that they've missed since they've been gone. 

Contents: dead reader, mentions of death, Peter couldn't save reader, hurt/no comfort, angst

Word Count: 1.1 k

--------------------

It was a perfectly gloomy day, clouds looming over New York City, the occasional drizzle falling down onto the people of the bustling city. Peter sighed, head pressed against the glass of the car window, flowers clutched in his hands resting in his lap. They were Y/n's favorite flowers, and he took them every time he visited them. Most of his visits were short, as he couldn't bring himself to stay there for more than a few minutes at a time, but today was different. Today was the one-year anniversary of their death, and Peter thought that deserved to know everything that they had missed since being gone. 

He blamed himself for their death. It had been during the fight with Harry Osborn, they had fallen off the clock tower and he tried to save them, but they were falling too fast and their spine and neck snapped as they were caught by the web. There was no way he could've saved them, but he always blamed himself for their death. The truth was, he was in love with them, but he never got the chance to say it, they died before he was brave enough to say three simple words. He hated himself for being such a coward. 

He was broken out of his thoughts as May placed a hand on his shoulder, "We're here, sweetheart. Remember, we'll stay as long as you need to, okay?" she said softly, rubbing his shoulder as he sat up straight, hands shaking a little bit. "Want me to stay in here so you can talk to them in private?" 

"Please." Peter said softly, looking at his aunt with a broken smile. He opened the car door and stepped out, the cold air hitting his face. He started to walk over to their grave, hands shaking more as he felt his heart rate accelerate. He could feel tears forming already in his eyes, just at the idea of seeing their grave. He had never made it more than three minutes without bursting into tears, and today every single emotion of his was heightened. 

He finally arrived at their grave and sighed, leaning down and placing the flowers on their tombstone. "Hey, Y/n, how've you been?" he asked, a broken smile forming on his face. "I know, it's been a few weeks since we've seen each other, I've been busy, doing Spider-Man stuff...saving the city. " His words were shaky and his breathing was uneven. " I've also been avoiding you, I know, how cruel of me. " he said with a broken laugh. 

"It just hurts to not hear your voice anymore, to not be able to see your smile or hold you in my arms. I've managed to last a whole year so far, but god, it's been so hard." He said as tears fell free, streaming down his face. "Look at me, I'm already crying like a baby." he attempted to joke, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. "Must be record timing. Haven't even been here a minute." He said softly, sniffling and trying to stifle his sobs. 

"Anyway, I know i don't normally stay here that long, but since it's been a year, I thought you should know everything that you've missed since you...passed. " he muttered, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a list. 

"May is going to nursing school again, she's passing all of her classes. I'm so proud of her for pursuing her dreams. She's close to graduating." He said, a tear falling down onto the paper and smudging some of the words. 

"Gwen got into Oxford, she's been doing really good there. She's gonna come and visit you sometime soon, a special trip just to see you. Isn't that great?" He asked, wiping his tears and snot from his face once again. 

"I still haven't picked out a college yet- I know, how stupid of me. I have so much potential and I shouldn't waste it. it's just hard to think about leaving you behind. " He choked out, the paper in his hands quivering because his hands were shaking so badly. 

"That deli you really liked- it has a sandwich named after you, it's your favorite sandwich to order from that place. Mr. Wayne told me to tell you that he misses your smile, and your tips. " He said with a broken laugh. "He thought you'd laugh at that. "

" I tried getting a tattoo in your honor, found out that my skin heals too fast to get one. It was gone in a few days, unfortunately. So I just wear a necklace with your picture instead. It's cheesy, you'd hate it. " He smiled softly, biting back more sobs. He folded the paper back up, stuffing it into his pocket as the trickle of tears turned into a downpour, sobs escaping his mouth. 

"I miss you. Every day I miss you. Every day I look in the mirror and ask, 'why couldn't I save them?' Every day I regret telling you that I'm Spider-Man. Every single damn day I regret becoming Spider-Man. The mask is a painful reminder that no matter how many people I save, I can never make up for who I lost. But I can't stop saving people. It's just not in my nature." He muttered out, falling down to his knees in front of the grave. 

" But I would give it all away, just to be able to see you one last time, to be able to hold you in my arms and feel you against me, one last time. To be able to crack a joke and hear you laugh and see you smile one last time. To be able to hear your voice, one last time. I would give up everything I have to be able to see you again. To be able to say a proper good-bye. " he sobbed out, just letting it all out. 

"I don't deserve to wear the mask. I'm just a coward hiding under the guise of someone strong. Hiding beneath the powers, but they don't make me brave. I couldn't even tell you three simple words. I couldn't tell you how I felt about you. " He closed his eyes tightly, feeling small drops of rain begin to fall from the sky onto his hands and face. 

"Every day I'm plagued by words I couldn't say. But I think it's finally time I say them. Y/n L/n, I love you. I always have, and I'm so sorry that I failed you." 

[callsignfangs]

The 141 boys as widowers. (bc i feel like torturing myself /j)

141 x late (implied) spouse! reader

cws: grief, mentions of loss, implied alcoholism/alcohol as a coping mechanism, mentions self-destructive behaviour, very brief mention of addiction, etc (Please lmk if I've missed anything!)

(Note: This little drabble is a little self indulgent, a bit about my own journey with grief. Each little 'story' thing does end with acceptance. Please don't read if you're not in the right headspace, and remember that you're loved and you're not alone, and make sure to reach out if you need help <3)

--

Price is the one inclined to bargaining. Maybe he could've done something - what if he'd taken a bit more time off work, what if he spent more time with you, what if he'd agreed to retire early with you, what if he was there? Ironically enough - he just ends up drowning himself in more work, probably turns to smoking or alcohol in an attempt to drown everything out.

141, Gaz and Soap especially, will definitely be the only thing he holds on for. As capable as they all are, he couldn't just up and leave his boys without a captain - he couldn't make the same mistake over again, they gave him something to care for, to nurture and to look after.

I don't think he'll ever marry again - just making half-hearted attempts to peek into the dating scene whenever leave got especially lonely. He'd never be able to find anyone quite like you, so he eventually stopped bothering with it, finding warmth and comfort in himself and the other people he loved.

He keeps a photo of you, one of your handwritten notes, and any little trinket you'd given him at all times. Saved every single snippet of you talking he could - even still paying off your phone bill occasionally ringing your phone to hear your voicemail message, maybe sending you texts when things got especially hard. Definitely does chores the exact way you always did - from the time you went out to shop in the morning to how you stacked dishes. Loves hot showers but still takes a lukewarm one each morning because your habit of taking cold showers meant the water was never hot enough for him. I think he probably adopts something after the rough edges of the hole you'd left in his heart smoothed over.

It wasn't intentional in the slightest - maybe a stray cat had clung to his pant leg while he was on a hike or the task force managed to pick up an orphaned little kid on one of their excursions. He's very hesitant with them, still not quite trusting himself with caring for another being. But he warms up to them eventually. No matter human or animal, they've definitely been brought to your gravesite once or twice.

Maybe it would be alright, eventually. He'd at least have something interesting to entertain you with the next life he found you.

--

Soap is definitely in denial. Convinces himself it's a mistake - that when deployment's finally over, he'll trudge home, kick off his boots, and be met by his sweet love, bouncing at his heels like an overeager puppy and lathering his face in flittering little kisses. He still avoids coming home like the plague - resorts to anything from taking on way too many missions, to picking up another job on the side, even to staying in hotels as if he was in some sort of covert op.

He'd be forced to go back to your house eventually, though. Not home, it wasn't home without you there. Just the same four walls and roof he camped out in on deployment. Nothing warm or special about it.

He still pretended, though. Made your bed every morning the way you liked it and prepared meals for two every day.

While Price and Ghost undoubtedly pulled him out of his slump, Gaz was the person who really started him on the road to acceptance. Having the boys over near constantly was soothing, giving him something to occupy his mind with and overshadowing the cold emptiness of the house. The occasional cuddle piles and game nights reminded him of the warmth of their bond - like the nights they spent on stakeouts, letting their own sweet joy shield them from the brutal realities of their situation.

Gaz was the first person he cried to. Soap couldn't bear the way his buzzed sides were starting to fluff out, but he'd slowly gotten used to letting your gentle hands preen him and tidy him up. Of course, Gaz had noticed, and of course, he'd insisted that Soap just had to let him have a go at doing up someone else's hair. Soap didn't know when he'd devolved into tears - somewhere between the first gentle touch he'd felt in weeks and the crippling realisation that you'd never be there to do it again.

Either way, he'd managed to cry himself to sleep in Gaz's arms that night. He continued to sob himself away for weeks, filling each day with tears.

Until each day turned into each few.

And each few turned into once a week.

And slowly, his tears dried up.

It was an arduous process, grieving. But he stubbornly forced through it, just as he'd forced his way into your heart.

And he did his very best not to change. He determinedly kept the mohawk - even used the same shampoo because it made his hair feel perfectly fluffy under your touch. He did his best to continue being his perky, bubbly self, because he knew how you practically basked in his energy.

However, he still let himself grow, let his hawk grow out so he could braid it the way he'd always considered, and he let himself have his bad days, didn't force himself to keep up his energy when he didn't really have enough.

Admittedly, though, he never married again. He found temporary enjoyment in little flings, though he let them pass when the time was right. No matter what, he always came back to your house.

Sure, it wasn't quite home without you there. But you'd been there - no matter how little the time you'd had together felt in hindsight - so maybe he could learn to make it home again. For you.

--

Gaz is angry - furious to the point of enraged tears. If it was him? He'd understand. He'd hurt people, torn apart lives and taken his fair share of them. He deserved it. But you? It wasn't fair. In his eyes, you couldn't possibly hurt a fly, so delicate and tender and so, so soft. It just wasn't fair.

His attempt at coping is to delve headfirst into a tedious slew of missions - one after another after another. It gives him something to dump all his blind rage and hurt and desperation into. His morals were a writhing, flailing, unrecognisable mess for a long time, and the best comfort he could find was in the chaotic monotony of work.

So what if he burned everything in his path to ash? At least the threat was dealt with.

Price and Ghost are the most essential to his recovery. He needs guidance, needs some sort of structure, and needs to relinquish the tight hold on his need to be good, to fix things, to help, to finally restore what he was so reliant on, even if that meant tearing himself to shreds in the process. What he needs is time to grieve, time to come to terms with the unforgiving reality - that it just happened. No-one did anything wrong, there was no violence or intent, it just happened.

He'll absolutely come to deeply regret everything he did in his grief-induced warpath, but eventually accept that he was hurt and lost and just needed the help - the intervention.

Like Price, I think he might attempt to put himself out there and find someone new every once in a while, maybe even builds up to a couple dates, but he never really finds interest in anyone. He definitely remains friends with many of the people he meets, but he just can't quite find a spark - mainly because they're not you.

He never throws out anything of yours, his wardrobe is still mostly full of random articles of your clothing, and the third drawer on the nightstand is still yours.

He always wears something of yours when he goes out, from shirts and shorts to hoodies, even some of your jewelry.

Despite it being admittedly pretty late, he finally watches all of the shows you liked and reads all the books you did. It makes him feel closer to you - cuddling up under your favourite blanket in your favourite spot and picturing you being there with him, imagining each and every one of your reactions, practically seeing your lovely face curl with smiles as you commentated over the whole thing.

Sure, you weren't really there with him anymore, but the sweet, warm mark you'd left on his heart was enough to carry him over until he inevitably returned to you.

--

Ghost is mostly depressed. He's so agonisingly hurt and lost, but you were his sun - what gave him life and love, and without you? He just couldn't muster up the energy to do anything beyond simply existing. Even he'd expected himself to crash and burn - follow in his brother's footsteps and drown in a spiral of addiction. But he just... Didn't. The affirmation that he didn't blow up and take everyone he loved down with him would be reassuring, comforting, but it wasn't. Not without you whispering praise in his ear, assuring him of his goodness and softness.

I think he'd also be reliant on Soap and Gaz, but Price would be a surprisingly big factor as well. No-one could ever really replicate the effect you had on him, the way your encouragement kept him going, but having some amount of structure, of motivation? It helped. Despite that, he absolutely tried to push them out at first, convinced that the acrid shadow of death looming over his shoulder would eventually take them as well. What are task force 141 if not determined and unfathomably stubborn, though, especially when it came to caring for their own.

Soap undoubtedly led the charge - seeing as his ceaseless energy and affection were mildly more normal (god knows Simon needed a little bit of comforting normalcy). Gaz came second, still snarky and headstrong as ever, but with softened edges and an air of gentle care. Price was last. He'd been there before Simon was Ghost, he was aware enough to piece bits of his past together - and he'd be damned if he managed to scare Simon, if he was the reason he regressed further. So he was tender. Delicate, even. Ghost would despise being handled like fragile porcelain in Price's kid gloves, but it soothed a part of Simon that hadn't peeked out since you left.

It'll take a bit longer than the others - more therapy, reassurance and care, but he'll recover eventually, let the wound you left in his porous heart scar over and go on as best he could.

I don't think he'll look for romance again either - his interest in it just died out alongside you. He wants to preserve the sanctity and tenderness of what you had, and is more than content with holding that love in his heart, and keeping it safe for you until he meets you again.

After you're gone, he attempts to follow your advice more, occasionally dragging himself out of his comfort zone, picking up new hobbies and trying to emulate your passion for life in himself, keeping a little bit of you alive with him. He absolutely douses the house in your favourite fragrance, refuses to use any hygiene products other than yours and carries something of yours everywhere, whether it be your ring or even your purse, just something to remind him he had to look after things (including himself) for you.

Even if you were cremated or buried in some other way, he'd ensure there was a gravestone for you placed alongside his mother, Tommy, Beth and little Joseph. You'd always be part of his family - his heart, and when his time came? He'd be buried alongside you, trailing along with you into whatever came next. By your side forever.

<3

Yippee. This was. A journey. /lh

Sorry if this isn't formatted the best, it was more of a massive brain dump that I forcibly shoved into something just about understandable lol

If you're seeing this, tyvm for reading mwah 😚😚

[sxulcxtcher]

pity.

screams.

Of children. Who know no mother or father with a beating heart. Left to caress the corpse of their own.

Of the buildings that came crashing down to dust and rubble. Who's walls could not bear the pressure of the explosions. Tear one limb from limb with every slab of concrete and every spine of metal imbedded inside.

Of every gun. Bullets leaving their home to target the next living thing in its path. Rendering families to an end and bloodlines to a harsh stop.

Of you.

Then one they would wring their heart out just to not see you hit the dirt. Blood spilling from your skull down to the outline of your nose. Eyes open but not a single thing left in them. Body still warm but your fingers were cold. Heart present, but not beating.

The world stopped.

Everything went silent like time was stuck in place.

As if the way gods themselves forced them to mourn. To see your lifeless body on the ground. To feel nothing when they try to grasp at the last part of you.

Nothing.

They should pity themselves for being so blind to the obvious.

Time isn't patient. Neither is death.

[imaginetheywerereal]

Short Story: Ghosts of the Hollow

kay so just finished The Hollow. loved it. mostly watched it for the Weird Guy lol. Gustaf. The Game Host. so yes this is Gustaf(Weirdy) x Reader. the bit after the haunted metro. and Skeet lives. because add one thing and the rest is changed anyway:p oh uh btw real you died so mentions of death not graphic. season 2 stuff. so also spoilers ig? bit of angst some cute. some eh ig.

The Hollow Games were never meant to be easy, but this was something else entirely. Gustaf stood alone in the darkened corridors of the haunted metro station, the weight of guilt heavy on his shoulders. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows, making the environment feel even more oppressive.

You and the kids had navigated the haunted metro, dealing with the ghost train, and now you all had one goal in mind: finding a way to go home. Having been stuck in the game after every reset since your last game ten or fifteen years earlier, you were the most experienced. The kids, including Skeet who was alive thanks to your healing powers, looked to you for guidance, sensing you had been there the longest.

Finally, the journey led you to the jazz club, where Gustaf was meant to perform. Inside, the melancholy notes of the band echoed in the dimly lit space. You noticed things from the "previous game" but different—Benjamini, Benjamin, Death, and the Horsemen were there, but none of them remembered the kids or you. The kids were just starting to piece things together. You're used to it.

As Gustaf sat alone on the stage, playing the piano, the haunting melody of "Creep" by Radiohead filled the air. The lyrics were heavy with sorrow, and he was lost in the music. "I'm not supposed to be here," he sang, unaware of your presence.

Desperate to get his attention, the kids tried everything from using their powers to screaming at him. Each attempt was thwarted by Benjamini, Benjamin, and the crowd, leaving you no choice but to wait. You knew Gustaf would eventually come into the crowd like he always did—he was the crowd-walking performer type.

When Gustaf made his way through the crowd, he barely stuttered in his song when the kids finally reached him. "You're not supposed to be here!"

But when he saw you, he broke out of his trance. His eyes widened in shock and recognition.

"Are you real? Are you really here?" he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

"Yes, I'm here," you answered, stepping closer.

"I wish you were," he whispered again, this time with a mixture of hope and sorrow.

"I am real, at least I feel real, Gustaf," you replied.

"I mean, I wish I could see you again."

"I don't understand. You can?"

"No. I can't. You're... the other you, the real you, is dead. I—I killed you. Not literally. But if it wasn't for me, you—the real you would still be alive."

"Stop. Stop saying that," you insisted, reaching out to him. "I am real, Gustaf. I'm real. This is real. Help us. Help them. Please."

Gustaf's shoulders slumped, the weight of his guilt almost too much to bear. He could see the desperation in your eyes, the plea for understanding. Despite everything, he couldn't ignore the connection he felt, the bond that defied logic.

"I'll help you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it's hard. Knowing what I know."

You nodded, your expression softening. "I know it's hard. But we're here now, and we need you."

As the band played a slow, mournful tune, you stepped closer to him. "May I have this dance?" you asked, your voice a gentle whisper.

He hesitated for a moment, then took your hand, pulling you into a slow, somber dance. The music wrapped around you both, a reminder of the losses and the love that still lingered.

"I wish things were different," Gustaf murmured.

"So do I," you replied, resting your head on his shoulder. "But for now, let's just be here. Together."

In that moment, amidst the haunted echoes and the lingering guilt, you found a small measure of peace. The dance, though tinged with sorrow, was a reminder that even in the darkest times, there was still a connection, a bond that refused to be broken.

As the music faded, Gustaf held you a little tighter. "Thank you," he whispered. "For being real to me."

"And thank you," you replied, "for not giving up."

One of the kids, unable to hold back any longer, interrupted the moment. "Uh, hello? We came here to ask for help on how to get home. Not to do...whatever you two are doing."

You and Gustaf shared a small, sad smile before turning your attention back to the task at hand. Together, you would find a way to get everyone home. Even if it meant you wouldn't.