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chosok-amo · 1 month

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SLIPPING THROUGH MY FINGERS: GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU

“suguru, help!” he sounds, pathetic. gojo satoru is a pathetic man when it comes to you. “ . . . there are so many kisses to have, soul and bone for you to crash and swear that how stars are born, so please. . ., believe me, you have to believe me,” he cries, holding your hands, begging for you to love him— love him enough to stay.

warning : age-up! satosugu, depressed! fem x reader, drug mention, trauma mention, suicide, self-harm, death mention, drowning, blood, heavy angst.

w/c : 6,2k | [☆] MASTERLIST

𝜗𝜚 . . . . i had to stop so often writing this because i can't stop crying and think that i shouldn't continue because it hurts me so bad that i have to take a cold shower and think about my life. and honestly, i wasn't supposed to write the last part but yeah..

A MINUTES AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

it was too quiet. . .

gojo satoru never screams so loud in his entire life, so loud. . . the world shaking beneath his feet, ready to swallow him whole and rotten. so loud . . . he sure he can no longer hear. he ran, slipping on his way until he broke his knee on the puddle of the red, transparent liquid that spill from the bath-up.

the starling sigh, you were there. . .

“no, no, no, baby— no.”

the water, tinged with a haunting crimson, surged and overflowed, cascading into the bathroom with relentless force. it climbed steadily up gojo's legs, as if the liquid itself sought to ensnare him, to drag him down into its suffocating embrace, or just. . . mock him.

a dark mockery that seemed to whisper that it alone held the power to drown him, to swallow your trembling breaths and the last echoes of your voice. it wasn’t him, or geto suguru who was to be your executioner, but the merciless water, eager to claim your final, stutter breath.

“i-i —sorry, i’m sorry..” you stammered.

your voice stammered between choke, barely a murmur beneath the frothy waves, struggled to be heard amidst the tumult. your eyes, devoid of warmth, reflected a chilling detachment. the coldness in your gaze was almost tangible, a stark contrast to the chaotic, drowning world around you.

“suguru, help!” he sounds, pathetic.

gojo, even on the verge of your death is still so gentle, as if he's afraid you are going to die than you already are. dropping on his knees as he tries to pull your warm bodies out of the bath-up.

gojo shook his head, a soft whisper escaping from his trembling lips, “shhh, it's alright baby, it's alright, you're alright,” his mumble, each word a fragile promise against the storm of his own emotions— words and voice shaking, his bones and soul shivering. his strong arm wraps around your body, pulling you closer to his chest, feeling everything, even as his flesh trembling.

tears cascaded from the corner of your eyes, tracing silken paths down your skin, while his embrace, though trembling, sought to cradle and calm you, a sanctuary against the turbulence of your anguish.

“suguru, please help!” again, this time he shouted.

geto runs upon hearing the horror howling, and his purple irises about to peel from his face and his lungs lose air— ragged gasps, as if each inhale were stolen from him. the scene before him struck with a painful clarity: you nestled within gojo’s embrace, your body wracked with distress.

foaming at the mouth, you appeared trapped in a tormenting grip of anguish, while the open scars on your wrist bled stories of suffering and desperation. in that moment, the sight was both heart-wrenching and surreal, a vivid tableau of fear and pain, painted across the canvas of his deepest fears.

“i'm sorry— i-i'm so sorry,” you whisper between choking gasps as geto kneels beside you and your body shaking. tears cascade uncontrollably, each dropping a shimmering testament to a sudden, overwhelming regret. it is as though a profound realization has swept over you, too late to mend the wounds that have been inflicted.

the regret feels like a bitter aftertaste of the sorrow you can no longer escape. the eyes of those around you, trembling with the weight of their own anguish, are bloodshot and haunting, mirroring the crimson that flows from your wrist. in that agonizing moment, the world feels irrevocably broken, and the fleeting desire to be alive seems like a distant, unreachable dream.

they burst from the bathroom, gojo's arms wrapped tightly around you as he dashes through the chaos. your lifeless feet and hands dangle, a heavy, haunting reminder of the blood seeping steadily onto the floor. each drop forms a macabre trail, like the relentless shadow of death that clings to you, a grim companion refusing to let go.

the crimson stains splatter and pool in your wake, an anguished testament to the finality that now seems inevitable— each red stain on the ground is a haunting reminder, a stark declaration. as they run, the blood's mournful descent weaves a sorrowful narrative of moments slipping away, each drop a poignant echo of what might have been, a stark and unyielding declaration that time has run out, that it is too late.

and suddenly, everything feels like a slow motion.

6 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

the doctor spoke with a grave tone, his words laced with concern. “it appears,” he began, looking at gojo who's just sitting there with his eyes focusing on the floor, meanwhile geto standing beside him. “that she intentionally tried to overdose. we've had to act swiftly to pump the substances from her body, working to counteract the severe effects of her actions.”

geto's hand gently gripping on gojo's shoulder as they listen. his expression was one of solemn seriousness, reflecting the urgency and gravity of the situation. “we've done everything we can to stabilize her, but it's crucial that you two understand the seriousness of what she has done. this was a life-threatening situation, and we're only beginning to address the underlying issues that led to this crisis.”

the doctor continued, his voice carrying a mix of relief and concern. “fortunately, the cut on her wrist wasn't too deep,” he said, his eyes scanning the notes before them. “it seems that the severity of the injury was somewhat mitigated by her weakened state from the drugs. if she had been stronger, the outcome might have been different.”

his tone softened, acknowledging the fragile balance between the danger of the overdose and the mitigating effects of your physical condition. “we've managed to address the immediate threats, but it's crucial to understand that this is a serious wake-up call. we need to work on her recovery and the emotional struggles that led to this moment.”

if she had been stronger, the outcome might have been different,’ the words echoed repeatedly, hauntingly through the air, like a broken record stuck on a painful refrain. once, twice, three times, they reverberated through their minds, each repetition a stark reminder of how close they came to losing you, how dangerously close the edge of despair was.

even the notion of ‘almost’ carried a weight too immense to bear, a heavy presence that pressed down on their hearts. the silence that followed was thick with unspoken guilt and anguish; none of them could find the words to bridge the chasm of their shared grief. they avoided each other's gaze, unable to escape the silent blame that hung heavy between them, a suffocating testament to their collective sense of failure.

gojo stared at his hands through the thin veil of his blindfold, his fingers trembling as they traced the dried blood staining his pale skin. the sight of it was a brutal reminder of you. with a strained effort, he clenched his hands tightly, hoping to meld the dried blood with his own, as if to erase the haunting evidence of what had transpired— his last hope trying to be with you.

each breath felt like a desperate gasp, a small gap forming between his lips as he struggled to draw in air. the sensation of suffocation gripped him, a relentless pressure squeezing his chest, making each inhale a battle. despite his efforts, the air seemed insufficient, leaving him feeling as though he were on the precipice of life, teetering on the brink of an abyss that threatened to swallow him whole.

geto felt an overwhelming tide of guilt and anguish, a heavy weight pressing down on his heart. the scene that unfolded before him replayed in his mind like a relentless, agonizing loop, hunting him down like he is some kind of a fucking prey. he was haunted by the sight of your suffering, the image of your blood-streaked hands and the anguished cries that pierced the air. each moment of his own reflection, seeing the remnants of your blood on his skin and his white shirt, deepened his torment.

the sense of responsibility gnawed at him, a constant reminder of how close he came to losing you. he felt suffocated by a profound sorrow and helplessness, as if the very air around him was too thick, leaving him gasping for breath— like the death itself pointing its ugly fucking finger to his face and laugh at him, at them.

what a fucking pathetic man’ the death must be said.

the weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders, and the silence between him and his companions only amplified his inner turmoil. the unspoken blame and the aching realization that he couldn't undo what had happened created a chasm of despair within him, making each moment feel like an eternity of unbearable remorse.

both of them are buried in profound sea of grief, guilt, shame because a thousand moments with you that they take for granted— shame, for thinking, assume that there would be a thousand more. is it too selfish to be here?’ they thought.

that curse must be laughing at them, the higher-ups, everyone— pointing their finger from all directions. look at them, ’ they thought, those two who called themselves the strongest can even save a single soul,’ again they must be laughing, let alone a soul who is to be called the love of their life.

but nobody knows, none, not even a single soul that, oh, how your presence evokes such selflessness in them— even amid their silent, tormented reflections. they are consumed by an incessant questioning of the selfishness of their own sorrow, wondering if it is wrong to cling to their grief while you teeter on the precipice of loss.

the haunting thought persists, a cruel reminder of time's fragile nature and the profound depth of their remorse. in their heartache, they are acutely aware of the contrast between their own suffering and the delicate balance of your existence, each moment of their anguish a poignant testament to the sorrow they feel for having taken so much for granted.

is it okay to feel sad? ’ they thought.

even the very sensation of sadness and grief feels like an indulgence they do not deserve. i can't even protect her, what rights do i fucking deserve to be sad?’ they thought. to them, these emotions seem an opulent luxury, an extravagant gift they are not entitled to. in their hearts, the depth of their sorrow feels almost excessive, a poignant reminder of how their suffering pales in comparison to the magnitude of the almost loss they face.

each wave of grief feels like a grand, unwelcome opulence, an unjust reward for the pain they have caused and the moments they have squandered. the luxury of their sadness seems a cruel irony, a stark contrast to the profound emptiness of the reality they must now confront.

people passing by in front of them, throwing them a glance or two. seeing their red eyes and tears-stain cheeks, blood in their hands, in shirts, in pants, in their soul, laid bare. everyone wants to give them both a pat on the back, telling them that they are good at handling grief; howling, crying, and blaming each other. that's the proper way to handle grief.

18 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

your hands are warm, a stark contrast to the pallor of your pink lips, which have lost their vibrant hue, your eyes open still so retain their gentle softness, a quiet testament to the grace you still hold.

as you lie upon the hospital bed, draped in the drab, floral-patterned gown that clings to you, it feels woefully inadequate. the gown, mundane and worn, seems too insipid and shabby to encompass your beauty, too faded and forlorn.

“i'm sorry. . .” you mumble.

you can’t bring yourself to look at them as they sit beside your bed, their eyes red and swollen from sleepless nights, their uniforms crumpled and disheveled, their hair falling in untamed disarray. their faces have lost their vibrant hue, a stark contrast to their usual vitality.

gojo satoru’s once-brilliant blue eyes, which used to shimmer with an unyielding light, now seem dull and lifeless, even when the golden sunlight spills over them. the sunlight, which once might have enhanced the beauty of his gaze with its warm orange tones, now only serves to highlight the emptiness that has replaced his once-sparkling eyes— it's dull, it's dull, it is fucking dull.

geto suguru's strikingly handsome face is graced with a smile, tender and achingly gentle, as though he is pouring all his effort into offering you a sliver of solace. his lips tremble with a subtle quiver, betraying the deep sadness that lingers beneath his calm exterior. his once-vibrant purple irises have dimmed, their former brilliance faded to a shadow of their former selves.

you fear that they might darken further, losing their hue altogether, slipping into a void of despair where even color seems to vanish. the sight of his sorrowful eyes, so devoid of their usual spark, reflects a profound sadness that pierces the heart, a silent testament to the emotional toll of the moment.

oh, what i have done. . .’ you thought.

“don't, please don't,” gojo pleads, his voice trembling as he clasps your unharmed hand with a desperate grip. his blindfold has been removed, revealing eyes that are filled with raw, unfiltered emotion as he gazes at you. beside him, geto's hand rests gently at the back of your head, his touch tender and soothing. he caresses your hair with a featherlight motion, his thumb brushing softly over your scalp.

“we are so sorry for taking you for granted,” he murmurs, the words heavy with regret and sorrow. “we are sorry for offering you only a lukewarm love, when you deserved a love that was fierce and all-consuming, a love that burned brightly and fiercely. i'm sorry,” his voice wavers, each word an echo of their deep remorse, as they both grapple with the weight of their unspoken apologies and the profound realization of what they failed to give you.

they do not seek to question why your soul bleeds, nor do they dare to unravel the dark tapestry of your pain. the blood, flowing with a steady, silent, and disturbingly deliberate pace, engulfs you in its relentless embrace. it seeps into every corner of your being, a somber tide that threatens to consume you entirely.

they find themselves unable to confront this harrowing reality, their hearts too burdened to bear the weight of such a painful inquiry. the sight of your suffering leaves them paralyzed, unable to utter the questions that linger in their minds, as they grapple with the profound helplessness of watching you slowly succumb to the encroaching shadows.

“i love you, baby,” gojo whispers, “i'm sorry that you're in so much pain so to think death is the only salvation,” he stopped for a second, cocooning your hand with his large one before resting his cheek against. “i'm sorry i didn't notice your rage for the world and too busy loving you. does my love scare you, love? that's why you decided to leave, hm?” his voice shaking, lips quivering.

“if you are angry, stab me a little so you can feel better, make it hurt, i don't care. a little suffering would be worth it if it's by your hands, by your pretty little hands,” he murmured against your skin, his breath a warm whisper that sent shivers across your body. each word was a soft plea, wrapped in a tone that trembled with both desperation and tenderness.

his trembling lips pressed gently against your hand, each kissing a fleeting starburst of warmth against your cool skin. him— no they, stood ready to endure your pain, inviting you to inflict upon them the hurt you felt.

they stand poised to let you sink your teeth into them, to delve into their very flesh. to let you open them up, laid bare and vulnerable, just to offer you a chance to heal. just so they can love you a little too much, starving even— like a flesh begging to be knitting together over a wound. ruin me, ruin us, and we will let you.

“i love you, i love you, i love you,” he gave you stars in each between. they fucking love you like a rotten dog. “believe me when i said this. . . there are so many kisses to have, soul and bone for you to crash and swear that how stars are born, so please. . ., believe me, you have to believe me,” he cries, holding your hands, begging for you to love him— love him enough to stay, “we love you.”

he finally said we’ geto thought.

at first glance, people might assume that geto suguru’s love for you surpasses that of gojo satoru, that his love is somehow greater. yet, the truth remains that it has always been gojo satoru who harbors the most profound and boundless love for you from the very beginning. his love is vast, immense, and utterly astonishing, stretching beyond the horizons of understanding.

gojo’s devotion is a vast expanse, a love so deep and wide that it seems to defy the very limits of emotion. even geto suguru, who himself is capable of immense love, finds himself awestruck and somewhat intimidated by the sheer magnitude of gojo’s feelings. no one can truly grasp the depth of gojo’s love—not even gojo himself—such is the overwhelming, almost incomprehensible nature of his heart’s boundless devotion to you.

and sometimes it scares the shit out of geto.

but maybe, just maybe, they have a little too much love for you more than for each other, even more than for themselves— as if you make a space in their ribs, and call it home country.

30 HOUR AFTER YOU TRY TO KILL YOURSELF

geto stirred from a restless sleep, his head resting gently against your hospital bed, nestled close to your side. as he slowly opened his eyes, he was met with the soft, gentle sight of you gazing at him, a faint, tender smile gracing your lips. the serene moment, bathed in the quiet of the hospital room, brought a flicker of warmth to his weary heart, a small but profound comfort amid the lingering shadows of their shared sorrow.

“hey sunshine,” geto whispered in a hoarse croak, reaching a hand to brush your hair away from your face, “how long have you been awake?”

“long enough to notice the dark circles under your eyes and the tear stains on your cheeks,” you replied softly, your fingers brushing gently against his cheek, your thumb tenderly caressing the worn skin. geto hummed, his hand capturing yours and guiding your palm to his lips, where he planted a gentle kiss.

the touch of your skin was like a salve, soothing the ache in his weary soul. he chuckled weakly. his eyes were tired and his skin pale, but your touch made him feel alive. “you’re too observant for your own good,” he teased, his lips curving into a weary smile.

geto shifted in his chair, wincing slightly as his body protested the movement. he settled into a more comfortable position, still holding your hand in his, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your knuckles.

he studied your face, taking in every detail, from the delicate flutter of your eyelashes to the subtle flush in your cheeks. the sight of you, even in this vulnerable state, filled his heart with a mixture of tenderness and protectiveness.

“how are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low and gentle, his gaze fixed on your face. he knew it was a question he had asked before, but he couldn’t help himself. he needed to hear you speak, hear your voice, just to reassure himself that you were still with him.

“like shit,” you answer.

your hand is still gently cupping his cheek, thumb running low across his skin in a loving manner. at your blunt response, geto's lip curled into a soft smile. even in your weakened state, you still had a defiant spark.

he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as he savored the sensation. “i thought we agreed no profanity,” he teased, his voice laced with affectionate humor, opening his eyes to meet your gaze. he turned his head slightly, his lips brushing against the palm of your hand in a tender kiss.

“you’ve always been a bad influence on me,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and ticklish. he chuckled softly, his eyes softening as he studied your face.

he took a moment to compose his words, his expression growing serious. “there was a moment,” he began, his voice a hoarse whisper, “a moment when i thought i lost you.”

your smile faltered, and your eyes softened with concern as you listened to the gravity in his voice. you reached up to gently touch his cheek again, your thumb brushing away the remnants of his sadness.

“i’m here now,” you whispered, your voice steady but filled with warmth. “you haven’t lost me.” you looked deeply into his eyes, trying to convey with your gaze the depth of your presence and the promise of your unwavering support. “and i’m not going anywhere,” you added softly, hoping to soothe the lingering fear in his heart.

his hand covers yours, holding it against his cheek as he closes his eyes, relishing in your soothing touch. for a moment, he just allows himself to bask in your presence, letting the warmth and comfort wash over him.

“i was afraid i wouldn’t get to hear you say that,” he murmured, his voice growing thicker with emotion. he opened his eyes, the raw vulnerability in his gaze bared to you, his heart laid bare.

your heart ached at the sight of his vulnerability. you gently squeezed his hand, your voice trembling with sincerity as you spoke. “i’m so sorry,” you said softly, your eyes filled with compassion.

geto’s thumb traced gentle, small circles on the back of your hand. “you have nothing to apologize for,” he assured you, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “it was my responsibility to keep you safe, and i failed.”

the guilt and regret in his voice were palpable, the weight of his self-imposed responsibility clear. he lowered his gaze, wrestling with emotions that were etched deeply into every line of his weary face.

he lifted your hand from his cheek, bringing it to his lips and pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles, his gaze never leaving yours. “i just need you to know how much you mean to me,” he added, his voice cracking slightly. his grip on your hand tightened, as if he was holding onto you for dear life.

geto’s lips continued to brush against your knuckles as he spoke, soft and gentle. his eyes held yours captive, the depth of his affection bared for you to see.

“you are my everything,” he confessed, his voice hoarse with the weight of his honesty. “the thought of losing you, of living in a world where you don’t exist…” he trailed off, a pained expression crossing his features. he was torn between the love that engulfed his heart and the fear that threatened to consume him.

geto drew in a shaky breath, composing himself as best he could. he lifted his gaze from your hand, meeting your eyes once again. his expression held a mixture of love and devotion, but also a hint of desperation.

“i need you to know that no matter what, i will do everything in my power to protect you,” he vowed, his voice steady despite the turbulent emotions raging within him. “not just because it’s my duty, but because i love you more than i thought it was possible to love someone.”

you met his gaze with a warm, reassuring smile, the depth of your gratitude shining through. “thank you,” you said softly, your voice imbued with genuine appreciation. your smile was a reflection of the profound comfort and reassurance you felt, a silent promise to stand together through whatever lay ahead.

geto’s eyes softened at your smile, a flicker of relief passing over his weary face. he squeezed your hand gently, his touch both appreciative and protective.

he studied your face for a moment, his gaze lingering on each contour, each freckle and line, as if to further commit them to memory. “don’t scare me like that again,” he murmured, mostly in jest, but with an underlying current of seriousness.

gojo entered the room, his expression a mix of relief and lingering concern as he carried a bag of your belongings. upon seeing the tender moment between you and geto, his eyes softened, though they carried a hint of the exhaustion and worry that had shadowed him. he set the bag down and approached, took a sit at the edge on the other side of your bed, his voice catching slightly as he spoke.

“don’t scare me like that again too,” he said, his tone gentle but tinged with the weight of his emotions. his gaze met yours with a blend of earnestness and relief. “i know suguru’s been holding on tight, but i’ve been right here, too. seeing you like this... it’s been hard on all of us. please, don't leave us.” his words were a heartfelt plea, an echo of the concern and love he carried for you, a testament to the depth of his feelings and the strength of his devotion.

geto’s grip on your hand tightened momentarily at the sound of gojo’s voice, his eyes darting towards his best friend. he could hear the exhaustion and worry that laced gojo’s words and knew all-too-well the weight of the responsibility they shared.

he turned his gaze back to you, his expression a mix of worry and relief. his thumb resumed its gentle, soothing circles on the back of your hand. “yeah,” he said in agreement, his voice gruff with emotion. “please, don’t scare us like that again.”

gojo’s presence brought with it a sense of familiarity, a comfort that was both grounding and reassuring. he reached out and placed a gentle hand on your arm, his touch a silent expression of his affection and concern.

he studied your face, his eyes tracing every contour, every line, as if to commit the sight to memory. “how are you feeling?” he asked, his voice softer now, though still tinged with worry. “i wanna say like shit but suguru said no profanity,” you puff a little chuckle.

geto gives a little scoff at your comment, his expression laced with a mixture of annoyance and affection. he rolls his eyes playfully and mutters, “you’re such a bad influence.”

gojo’s lips curled into a small smirk before he turned his gaze back to you, the lines around his eyes creasing with a mix of amusement and relief. “can’t have you talking like that,” he teased, his words light but carrying a hint of genuine concern.

gojo studying your face carefully before speaking ever so softly, “well, apart from the obviously crappy mood geto’s been in, you look good. your color is better.” he noticed a faint crimson crushed on your cheeks, a little pink on your lips.

he reached his hand out to smooth a strand of hair away from your forehead, his touch light and tender. his gaze wandered from your face to where geto still held your hand, his eyes reflecting a subtle hint of appreciation.

geto watched gojo's gentle touch, his grip on your hand unconsciously tightening a little bit in response. his expression was a mixture of protectiveness and vulnerability, his eyes betraying the fear and worry that still tugged at his heart.

he took the moment to observe the soft interplay of emotions between you and gojo, the easy familiarity and the deep bond that existed between you all. he could sense the weight of gojo's concern as he studied your face, the care and attention in his touch.

gojo's voice was soft as he continued, his gaze still fixed on your face. “so, how are you feeling, for real?” he asked, his tone a gentle echo of geto's earlier question. “any pain? any discomfort?”

geto looked at you, his eyes silently pleading for you to be honest. he was hanging off your every word, each response a small insight into your well-being.

you took a deep breath, feeling the weight of their concern pressing down on you. meeting gojo’s gentle gaze and then turning to geto’s silent plea, you spoke with a mixture of remorse and honesty. “i’m sorry,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “i’m sorry for how i handled things. i know i should have talked to you both, but i didn’t—i tried to take matters into my own hands without thinking it through first.”

your eyes reflected a deep sense of shame and regret as you continued. “i actually feel like absolute shit right now, and i’m ashamed of myself for thinking i could find a quick solution without considering the impact it would have on you both.” you looked at them, hoping your words conveyed the depth of your remorse and the sincerity of your apology, wanting them to understand that your actions were not a reflection of your feelings for them, but rather a moment of misguided desperation.

gojo's expression softened with understanding, his eyes filled with compassion. he knew the weight of your words, the regret and shame that clung to them. he reached his hand back to your arm, his touch gentle and reassuring.

geto's gaze was a mix of surprise and relief as he processed your apology. his hand around yours tightened slightly, his thumb tracing reassuring circles on your skin. “it's okay,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “we all have moments of weakness. what matters is that you're here, safe and alive.”

you felt a wave of gratitude wash over you at their responses, their understanding and compassion a balm to your wounded spirit. “thank you,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion. “thank you for not being angry with me and for not questioning me right away. i know i made a terrible mistake, and i’m grateful you’re here, supporting me instead of condemning me.”

geto's grip on your hand tightened slightly, his eyes filled with a complex mixture of emotions— relief, love, and a hint of lingering fear. he shook his head gently, a reassuring smile on his lips.

gojo chuckled softly, his eyes filled with a mixture of compassion and playfulness. “we can save the anger and lecturing for when you’re not looking so terrible,” he joked, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “and trust me, baby, i had a lot of choice colorful words for you when the right time comes,” he lean in to kiss your forehead, “but right now, we just trying to be here for you.”

geto nodded in agreement, his grip on your hand still tight. he couldn’t help but roll his eyes a bit at gojo's playfulness, but there was a hint of fondness beneath the feigned annoyance.

he leaned in, reaching out with his other hand to gently brush a strand of hair off your forehead. “you are a stubborn, reckless, and stubborn pain in the ass,” he scolded lightly, his tone a soft but affectionate mix.

gojo chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners with humor. he settled himself closer, his hand still resting lightly on your arm. “he's right, you know,” he chimed in, his smile wide. “you're very good at pushing our buttons and getting under our skin.”

geto's lips curled into a small smile, his expression a mixture of feigned anger and affection. “and you're even better at making us worry,” he added, his tone light but underlined with the gravity of their concern. “but we care about you more than anything,” he added, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “so you better not do something like that again, you hear me?” his voice held a hint of authority, but mostly it was filled with love and concern.

geto's smile grew a bit wider, his eyes crinkling endearingly at the corners. “yeah,” he said, his voice firm. “you better listen. we don’t need anymore of these near-death experiences from you.”

gojo chimed in enthusiastically, leaning in a bit closer. “yeah, cause let me tell you, i can’t handle any more gray hairs than i already have.”

geto's grip on your hand tightened again, his expression a mix of sternness and vulnerability. he looked at you intently, his gaze locking with yours. “he's right,” he echoed, his voice firm but filled with warmth and care. “no more reckless decisions. no more putting yourself in danger. you hear us, my love?”

gojo nodded in agreement, his expression serious but eyes softened with concern. he added, “yeah, we can't keep having our hearts in our throats like this. it's not good for our health, you know.” geto's hand caressed your arm gently, a silent plea for your understanding. “we just want you safe and sound. that’s all we ask.”

a hint of vulnerability flashed across geto's face, his expression betraying the weight of his words. he locked eyes with you, his gaze filled with a mixture of pleading and sincerity.

“we just want to know that you're safe,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “that you're not recklessly endangering yourself anymore.”

gojo leaned in closer, his hand resting on your arm lightly. “we can't bear the thought of something happening to you again,” he chimed in, his tone carrying an undercurrent of worry.

they continued to exchange tender words and earnest pleas, their voices overlapping in a chorus of concern and affection. each spoke fervently about their love and the lengths they would go to ensure your safety and happiness. their words, though filled with their own fears and frustrations, were underscored by a deep, unwavering care for you.

as you watched them, a soft smile touched your lips. their earnest devotion, their refusal to let you face this alone, filled you with a profound sense of comfort and gratitude. you could see their love in every gesture and hear it in every word, and it warmed your heart. despite the gravity of the situation, their caring presence made you feel cherished and supported, giving you strength even in the midst of your own turmoil.

after a few moments of their heartfelt declarations, the room fell into a short silence, the weight of their words lingering in the air.

gojo ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of nervous energy. “and just so you know, suguru here basically took a week off work to sit by your bedside like a damn watchdog, he even almost made the rainbow dragon eat gakuganji because that fucker won't let him leave.” geto, caught off guard by the sudden revelation, flushed faintly and shot a glare at gojo.

geto, taken aback, shot a sharp look at gojo before retort, “you clearly about to hollow purple the higher-ups and the entire school because they won't let you stay here with her.” gojo's expression darkened for a moment, “you know i would do it in a heartbeat, if i could.” geto's grip on your hand tightened, his gaze still fixed on gojo. “i know you would. and i'd be right there with you.”

gojo and geto turned their attention back to you when they heard your soft chuckling, their expressions a mix of relief and amusement at hearing you laugh.

gojo chuckled as well, “you find that funny, huh?” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. geto rolled his eyes a bit, but his own smile betrayed his true feelings. he couldn't stay serious when you laughed. “just the thought of us going rogue and taking down the entire school system for you is amusing, i guess,” he said, his tone laced with sarcasm.

you hummed in satisfaction, “they are shit anyway.” a gentle smile lingering on your pale lips.

gojo chuckled warmly, his eyes sparkling at your comment. “ah, and there’s that signature wit of yours coming back.”

geto, still feigning annoyance but struggling to hide a grin, shook his head slightly. “still as blunt and unfiltered as ever,” he said, his eyes soft.

you glances at both of them, the comforting silence lingering between you, and with a tender smile, you mouthed softly, “i love you.” your cheeks flushed a delicate crimson beneath your pale complexion as you kissed their cheek.

gojo and geto exchanged a brief glance at your sweet words and soft kisses, their hearts swelling with warmth and love. gojo's hand reached out to stroke your hair, his touch gentle and loving. “we love you too,” he said softly.

geto's smile widened as he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead. “always,” he breathed, his voice filled with tenderness.

the thought of you coming back to them is warm.

TAGLIST :

@junni-berry @fortunatelyfurrygiver @soraya-daydreams @diorzs @dancing--devils @iloveboysinred @bounie1 @nina3871 @ohnotheusernameisbroken

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itneverendshere · 14 days

Text

it's my party, and i'll cry if i want to - r.c

request: I was wondering if you might write a Rafe x reader fic where Rafe forgets her birthday but then makes up with her?

you spent the entire day oscillating between disappointment and sadness.

crying on your birthday was a common thing when you were growing up, a girlhood achievement. everyone did it.

but now? now that you had rafe? your birthdays were amazing. he always went out of his way to surprise you and cherish you. he would’ve never forgotten something as important as your day.

at least you didn’t think he would, until today. yeah, long-distance had been tough on both of you since college started, and while rafe usually tried his best to make you feel special, today was different.

it had been radio silence. no messages. no missed calls. not even an instagram story reaction. and now, it was already past midnight, the day officially over. your birthday had come and gone, and he hadn’t acknowledged it once.

you lay on your bed, staring up at the ceiling, trying to rationalize the situation.

maybe something came up. maybe he had a family emergency or got caught up in one of his class projects. you wanted to believe that. rafe had never been perfect, but he had always tried when it came to you. this, though? It felt like a gigantic slap in the face.

the soft sound of your door creaking open startled you from your thoughts. your heart raced in your chest, confused. you lived alone off-campus—no one ever came by unannounced. you sat up, wiping at your tired eyes, and just as you were about to call out, you saw him.

rafe stood there, looking haggard, his clothes slightly wrinkled, his hair messy from a long day. but the sight of him, standing in your doorway, made your heart stop. he was there. in person.

“rafe?” you nearly gasped, “what—what are you doing here?”

his blue eyes were filled with guilt, brows furrowed, he looked like he’d been through hell and back. he dropped his duffel bag onto the floor and took a hesitant step toward you. “baby—” his voice cracked. “’m so fucking sorry.”

you blinked, trying to process what was happening. “sorry for what? for not calling? for forgetting? for ignoring me all day?” you didn’t mean for your voice to sound so broken, but goddamit it was your birthday. and you spent it all alone because you were too depressed to step foot outside your stupid apartment without a text from him.

he took another step forward, closing the distance between you. “didn’t forget, baby. i swear. i was trying to surprise you, i was supposed to be here hours ago, but—” he sighed deeply, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. “everything went to shit.”

your brow furrowed in confusion, “what do you mean?”

“i booked a flight,” he explained quietly, sitting down on the edge of your bed, his knee brushing against yours. “wanted to fly in and surprise you, to spend the whole day with you for your birthday. i didn’t want to say anything because i thought it’d be more special if i just showed up, y’know? but god must hate me or some bullshit.”

you watched him carefully, your heart beating faster, unsure where he was going with this.

“the flight got delayed—twice. then it got canceled. i spent hours trying to get on another one, but there were no other options. by the time i finally landed, it was already after midnight.” he looked down at his hands, which were fidgeting nervously. “and i know that’s no excuse, but—”

“why didn’t you call me?” you asked, “you could’ve let me know.”

rafe let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “couldn’t. my phone, uh, it broke.”

“what?” you asked, not sure if you heard him correctly.

“yeah.” he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “when the flight got canceled for the second time, i—uh—i might’ve thrown my phone against a wall. i was so pissed baby, so stressed because i knew i was ruining the surprise, and then…i couldn’t even call or text you. i was stuck.”

you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. the image of rafe, frustrated and angry at an airport, throwing his phone in a fit of rage was almost too ridiculous to believe.

“so, you didn’t forget?” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly. you spent the entire day making up scenarios in your head, about how maybe he’d gotten tired of being with you, how maybe he had found someone new back in college.

“no, god, no,” he shook his head fervently. “i’d never forget your birthday.”

the sincerity in his voice made you want to cry like a baby all over again. there was still the lingering ache of loneliness and insecurity, of the day you spent thinking he had.

“i thought…” you swallowed, unable to hold back the tears, “i thought you didn’t care anymore. that we weren’t… enough. i was scared,” you admitted after a long pause. “that maybe you were pulling away. maybe we weren’t working anymore.”

rafe’s brows furrowed, and he quickly shook his head. “no. never. we’re working, okay? this long-distance bullshit—it sucks. but you and me? it’s forever, okay?”

you nodded slowly, “i really missed you.”

his expression dropped at your words, and in an instant, he was pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly against him. his scent, the feel of him, it was all so familiar, so comforting. you buried your face in his chest.

“shh, baby,” he murmured, his hand running soothingly through your hair as he kissed the top of your head. “’m so sorry. i never meant to hurt you. fuck, i hate that i made you feel like that. i wanted today to be perfect for you.”

you sniffled, trying to calm your breathing as you clung to him. “it wasn’t perfect.”

“i know,” he whispered, “i messed up. should’ve found a way to reach you, should’ve figured it out. you don’t deserve that, not on your birthday, not ever.”

he had tried. he had wanted to be here. and while it hadn’t gone the way either of you planned, his presence now, his arms around you, felt like all you needed.

“you threw your phone?” you asked, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth despite everything.

rafe’s face flushed with embarrassment, but he chuckled softly. “yeah, it wasn’t my proudest moment, shattered pretty badly. i don’t even know if I can get it fixed.”

“that’s so stupid.”

he laughed softly at your words, the sound rumbling through his chest where you were still nestled. his arms tightened around you just a little, as if he was scared you might slip away if he didn’t hold on tight enough. “i was so pissed, baby. i thought I was ruining everything.”

you pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, your eyes red and puffy from the tears you’d been holding in all day. “you did ruin it,” you teased softly, though there was no real bite behind your words.

rafe still winced even thought he could tell you were joking, “maybe i could’ve borrowed someone’s phone at the airport, or... i don’t know, sent a smoke signal or something.”

it wasn’t the grand birthday surprise he’d been planning, and it wasn’t the perfect day you had imagined, but right now, having him here—seeing how much he cared—it was starting to feel like enough.

you snorted, “smoke signal, huh?”

he smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked down at you as you audibly cooed at his dimples, "yeah, or, like... maybe hired a skywriter? whatever it took. i would've done anything to get to you."

you chuckled softly, wiping at your eyes, the lingering tears drying up now, “so dramatic.”

“’m serious,” he insisted as he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks. “i’d swim across the damn ocean for you if i had to. swear to god, baby. nothing was going to stop me from getting here.”

the love in his eyes took your breath away. he wasn’t just saying it to make you feel better; you could see in his face, that he meant every word. the frustration and desperation of the day had taken its toll on him too. he had been trying so hard to be with you, to make your day special, and in that moment, you know much he hated that he couldn’t.

“you’ll make me cry again,” you groaned, feeling your heart swell with emotion. it wasn’t perfect, but the lengths he had gone to just to be with you made you want to kiss him stupid. he was here now, holding you like you were his entire world.

he leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your lips as he murmured, “’m sorry i messed it up. i hate that you spent the day feeling like i didn’t care. you mean everything to me.”

tour chest tightened, “i felt so alone, didn’t know what to think.”

“i know,” he replied softly, his hands gently holding your face. “but sweetheart, i don’t care if we’re a thousand miles apart, i’ll always be here when you need me. ’m not going anywhere.”

the tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time they weren’t from sadness, only from the overwhelming love you felt for him, for the boy who would go to any lengths just to be by your side.

“i love you,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as you spoke the words.

rafe smiled, his eyes softening as he kissed you gently, his lips lingering against yours in a slow, tender moment. “i love you too. so much.”

you sighed into the kiss, your hands reaching up to tangle in his messy hair, pulling him closer. the pressure that had been sitting in your chest all day seemed to disappear as his arms wrapped around you, holding you tight, as if he could keep all the hurt and disappointment away just by being near. it was just rafe—his hands gripping you like he couldn’t imagine to let you go, his lips coaxing out all the tension and loneliness you’d felt throughout the day.

when he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours again, his lips curving into a playful smirk. “so… about the whole swimming across the ocean thing. think you’d be impressed?”

you giggled, rolling your eyes. “you’d probably drown halfway.”

“oh? so what i’m hearing is you don’t want your present.”

you nudged him playfully with your elbow. “i deserve at least three.”

“you want more presents now? greedy.”

you crossed your arms, trying to maintain your teasing tone despite the closeness, “you haven’t even wished me a happy birthday.”

he leaned back, elbows hitting the mattress as his lips morphed into a shit-eating grin, “was planning on doing it inside of you.”

you slapped his stomach, “don’t be disgusting.”

rafe’s grin only grew wider, clearly proud of himself. “just for you, baby,” he teased, sitting up to lean in close again, his lips ghosting over yours as he added in a low whisper, “happy birthday.”

the low timber in his voice and that god-sent southern drawl sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you forgot all about the worst birthday of your life. the way he was looking at you now, like you were the only person in the world that mattered, made everything else seem insignificant.

“you’re lucky you’re hot,” you murmured, kissing him softly, your lips brushing against his with a tenderness that made his heart do that funny thing.

“damn right,” he mumbled against your mouth, kissing you back with more fervor, his hands slipping around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. “gonna make it up to you. all of it.”

you could only tilt your head back slightly as he kissed his way down your neck, your hands fisting in his hair, “i have class at 8.”

“nah,” he breathed against your skin, nose running up your neck, “you’re not leaving this bed for the next twenty-four hours.”

you couldn't help but smile as his lips trailed over your skin, “twenty-four hours?” you repeated breathlessly, your fingers tugging lightly at his hair, your heart fluttering. “you think i’ll skip class for you?”

he grinned against your collarbone, his breath hot and teasing, “know you will,” he murmured, his hands wandering over your sides, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. “i’ll make it worth your while.”

a soft laugh escaped you, "you're so cocky.”

"confident," he corrected with a smirk, lifting his head to meet your gaze. he brushed a stray tear from your cheek, his touch soft despite his rough hands, “i’ll spend the rest of the night making it up to you. making sure you know just how much i love you.”

leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss, savoring the taste of him, the feel of him beneath your hands.

“i love you,” you whispered against his lips, your voice barely a breath, but in that moment, you knew he heard every word.

“i love you more.”

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tirasamu · 1 month

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01. CRUEL BEYOND MY YEARS . . . you do the impossibleー you make dazai feel. that's why you're his, even if neither of you know it yet.

ft. pm!dazai + pm!reader, possessive behavior, descriptions of depression, oda, ango, and chuuya are there too, 2.4k w.c.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Dazai knows he’s supposed to be in a meeting right now.

He yawns, hands behind his head in a makeshift pillow, overgrown legs hanging off the arm of the couch as he stretches out. The heels of his shoes graze his jacket, haphazardly tossed aside when he first came into his office and laid down.

Even with the sleep mask covering his face, blocking out the sun that pools into the top floors of the Port Mafia’s Headquarters, he knows it’s you who’s approaching his door.

He fights back a smile, something he rarely has the opportunity to do. He keeps his breathing steady and deep as he hears the familiar rhythm of your knuckles against his office door, knocking in a code. You both came up with it when you were younger, freshly sixteen against the hollow walls of his shipping container; your own shared secret. He hears the gentle creak of the old wood as you peek inside.

“Dazai?” he hears the soft sound of your footsteps as you come closer, then a sigh he’d recognize anywhere. “Dazai. Take that thing off. It’s creepy.”

He remains still. He’s supposed to be asleep, after all.

“I see Mr. Executive is as busy as always,” you say sarcastically, but he can still hear the smile in your voice. You slip your thumb under the soft cotton padding of the sleep mask and slide it up his face, pushing his bangs back. The soft glide of your skin against his forehead leaves tingles in its wake, and it’s easy enough to ignore the burn of his one visible eye adjusting to the bright afternoon light when you’re hovering over him like an angel. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to me?”

A new mission. He sighs exhaustedly, as if was the one who was assigned. “How long will you be gone this time?”

“Not long, probably,” your hip presses against his as you sit on the edge of the couch. You rest your cheek on your hand, arm bridged over his stomach as your elbow props on the backrest. “Chuuya got assigned to it with me. Him and I make a good team.”

“You shouldn’t hang around him so much,” he tilts his head back. “You should be careful. He eats dog food, you know. He really is a dog, isn’t he?”

“Shut up,” you laugh, and the sound makes his heartbeat quicken without his permission. “I know that isn’t true.”

“It is!” he sits up on his elbows so he can meet your eyes, his own shimmering with mirth. “I even saw him do it. You trust me, don’t you?”

You flick his forehead, giggling as you stand back up and straighten your skirt. “You’re just jealous you don’t get to come on this mission with us.”

With us? Dazai swears he could be sick and die right there on the couch, as if there even was a ‘you and Chuuya’. The thought alone makes him nearly double over in pain. If anything, it should be him you were paired up with, and if you asked for his opinion, it was a joke that you weren’t by defaultー even if little assignments like this were below him now that he’s an executive. No one else knew you as well as he did, and no one else ever would; besides, he’d known you longer than that stupid slug. Mori's negligence on the matter makes his stomach churn and his skin prickle uncomfortably.

“Hey,” he grabs onto your jacket sleeve, where the cuffs are still a little too long and the fabric hangs over your wrists, before you can walk away. “Be careful.”

You smile at him brightly, giving him a thumbs up, but it barely fazes him. He watches you leave, gaze dark and mouth firm. Something bitter starts to crawl up his stomach, growing in his chest like thorned vines intertwining and tightening around his ribs.

When Mori first introduced you and Dazai to one another, you were both fourteen years old. The first thing he noticed when he saw you was that your clothing was too big, hanging awkwardly off your body. You’ve both grown since then, nearly identical black jackets and ties over white button-downs adorning your frames. The second thing he noticed was that you were different from him; he could tell from your eyes, bright and glistening.

He can't remember a time when he wasn’t burdened by the feeling of looking through a window, always a spectator. You were different; you had a seat at the table. Every bomb placed, every trigger pulledー you were there with him through it all, with the same fucked up feeling of adrenaline pounding through your veins, except you were attached to the world around you. You saw meaning in it somehow.

He wants to pick you apart piece by piece and study you under a microscope. He wants to understand just what it is about you that makes you so intriguing. What do you know that he doesn’t?

How are you so good at making him feel like this ?

He thinks about you on your mission, even when he tries not to. He flips through his paperwork lazily, pulling sheets from their stapled packets and folding them into origami shapes. He stares at his finger when he gets a paper cut on the edge of a report about some dispute in Kyoto, watching the blood dribble down his skin in small beads. He raids the infirmary for chemicals, slipping past the nurses and picking the lock to the medicine cabinet, pocketing bottles and extra rolls of bandages. He plays on his handheld console, sighing in frustration when his character dies again; if only it was so easy.

It's nearing the latest hours of the night when he decides to sneak into your office that he finds you again, back from your mission and chatting with Chuuya, whose arms are crossed as he leans against the edge of your desk. Dazai skims his eyes over you, noting with satisfaction that there seem to be no new visible injuries on you. He relishes in how Chuuya’s brows furrow when he sees him, and how yours rise in delight, Cheeks rounding in a smile. He throws his arms around your shoulders, your faces close enough for him to count your eyelashes as you tilt your head back to look at him.

“I hope you didn’t have too much fun without me,” he pouts, squeezing you against his chest. “Did you keep Chuuya on his leash during your mission?”

“Don’t talk about me like I'm not here, idiot.”

“Oh, there you are,” he eyes the aforementioned man lazily, as if he were a bug that landed near him. “I almost missed you because you’re so small.”

“I fell asleep right after we were done,” you giggle. “Chuuya had to carry me back.”

“Oh?” he tightens his arms. Dazai always thought you were the cutest post-mission, all sleepy and touchy; he always made sure he was around for those moments. “Did he?”

You’re talking, something else about the mission, but he doesn’t listen. Chuuya looks from you to him when he feels his gaze, eyebrow raising in a silent question. They screw up in irritation when dazai’s eyes narrow as his lips curl up into a cruel grin. He cranes his neck down, nose grazing your temple before he drags his tongue across your cheek.

“Ew, Dazai!” you try to shove him away, but he doesn’t go far, still clinging to you tightly. “What the hell? You’re so gross!”

He laughs in your ear, even as you try to pry his hands off his shoulders. You twist your hand around his wrist, tugging on it and glaring at him over your shoulder.

“Let go, Dazai.”

You’ve only ever looked at him like this when he woke you up in the middle of the night, knocking over one of your chairs after he broke into your apartment; you weren’t able to fall back asleep for hours, and when you finally woke up the next day, you realized he ate the last of the mapo tofu in your fridge.

He loosens his arms, stumbling when you shove him. The feeling of your hands pushing him away is nowhere near as warm as when you brushed his hair back earlier that day. There's no pretty, warm smile dimpling your cheeks either; just the dark wood of your office door grazing his nose, the sound of it slamming shut, and Chuuya’s annoyed glare still prickling his skin.

His chest tightens.

The flickering light of Bar Lupin’s sign penetrates the foggy night air, like a lighthouse calling lost ships home. Ango and Oda are already inside when Dazai arrives. A cigarette dribbles loose curls of smoke into the air as Ango cradles his glass between his palms and Oda tilts his head back to sip his whiskey. The bar’s most devoted patron hops from Dazai’s seat knowingly, landing on his little white paws as Dazai sits down on the stool with a huff.

He rests his chin against his forearm, sighing into his elbow as the bartender places his usual in front of him wordlessly. The two older men look at the pouty pile of messy hair between them. Oda knows he’s waiting for one of them to ask, so he does.

“Did something happen today, Dazai?”

“Yes,” he bounces the sphere of ice against the bottom of the glass, feeling his fingertip go numb. “She’s mad at me.”

“What did you do now?” Ango eyes him wearily from behind his glasses.

“How rude,” he says flatly, his voice sounding hollow without his usual playfulness. “Immediately assuming I’m at fault.”

“Aren’t you always?” he sighs into the rim of his glass, taking a long sip.

They both wait in silence before Dazai shoots up in his seat, his stool spinning slightly.

“How can that stupid slug touch what’s mine?”

“'Yours’?” Ango asks, a thin eyebrow raised. “People don’t own other people.”

“I didn't know you two were dating,” Oda says.

“We’re not,” Dazai sags back down, folding his arms and laying his head down so his eyes are level with his glass again. “That's gross.”

“You’re not?” Oda repeats. “…Then why are you upset?”

He feels the bandages around his eyes loosen as he turns his head away, squishing his cheek into his elbow. The cat licks his paws across the bar, before reaching up and rubbing his little face. He catches dazai’s gaze, looking at him with round, unblinking eyes.

His chest tightens again.

The sun is rising, melting the black of the night sky to gold when Dazai arrives at your apartment. His hand freezes inside his pocket, fingers wrapped around his lock pick, glancing back to your door. He lets it go and knocks instead, beating his knuckles against the wood in your secret code.

You’re in your pajamas when you open the door, and he notices the bruise on your leg that was hidden under your work uniform. He looks at you like a lost puppy; ears down, eyes big, with his nonexistent tail between his legs.

“Hey,” your eyes dart along his body, and he knows you’re scanning him for injuries too. “You okay?”

He doesn’t reply, and you let him meekly slip past you into your apartment. Your blanket is pooled on the floor from where you were sitting at your coffee table, chopsticks and a bowl of stir fry waiting for you; the schedule of a mafiosa has your circadian rhythm flipped, eating dinner as the sun rises.

“Did you eat anything yet?” you ask him, sitting back on the ground.

His big brown eyes blink down at you in a silent answer.

You open the side of your blanket expectantly, scooting over to make space for him. You nudge your food between the two of you when he sits beside you. His stomach flutters as he thinks about you feeding him from your chopsticks, a hand cupped under his chin, your soft thumb brushing his lips as you wipe them clean. He ignores it, plucking a shrimp out of your bowl with his fingers instead.

“You can have the rest,” you bundle the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders, sighing softly as you lay your head down on his shoulder. “I made extra. I knew you’d come over.”

“You did?”

“Mhm,” you rub your thumb along the edge of his bandages where his palm and wrist meet absentmindedly. “I know you.”

You do, scarily so. You like your stir fry spicy, but you kept it mild for him. because you knew he’d come over. Because you knew he wouldn’t have eaten otherwise. Because he only ever gets a home-cooked meal when you make one for him.

“‘m sorry,” he mumbles, voice barely audible.

You tilt your head up and look at him, eyes heavy. He holds his breath as you lift your hand and cup his cheek, tracing the dark circle under his one visible eye with the pad of your thumb.

“Let’s go to bed,” your voice is soft in the way it always is when you’re tired. “We can still sleep a little before we have to go back to headquarters.”

He knows every inch of your apartment, but he still lets you guide him into the dark of your room, and he’s suddenly surrounded by everything that is so quintessentially you. He has it all committed to memory: the title of the book on your nightstand you swear you’ll finish, the delicate splay of jewelry on your dresser, the pajama shorts hanging over the side of your hamper in the corner.

You practically collapse, falling into your bed and splaying your limbs with a happy sigh while he carefully lies down, staring at the ceiling and keeping his hands to himself. It's after a few quiet moments when he feels something warm against him, and when he turns to look at you, his breath catches in his throat.

You’re so much closer to him than anyone else would ever dare to be. You curl towards him even in your sleep, like a sunflower growing towards the sun. Your arm reaches towards his, fingers loosely clinging to his sleeve, as if you wanted to keep him anchored to the bed with you. He could almost make himself believe you really wanted him there.

He watches the daylight fall over your face, just as delicate as the sheet you draped over your body, still thin enough to show off the contour of your legs. You look so relaxed, cheeks full of color with the shadow of your lashes resting against them.

You looked so alive. So human.

His chest tightens.

#dazai x reader #bsd x reader #dazai x you #bsd x you #bungou stray dogs x reader #dazai osamu x reader #bsd fluff #dazai fluff #𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝒾

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23victoria · 4 months

Text

Am I Still Me? ❀

f1 grid x fem!reader, charles leclerc x fem!reader

wc: 6.6k+

summary: the aftermath of y/n’s horrible crash in suzaka, part 2 to ready, set, suzuka!!

warnings: cussing, angsty, sad, kinda depressing ig, emotional and physical trauma

authors note: sorry i took so long with this, honestly didn’t know what to write 😭💀, also if you get some of the references i put in here and characters names you a real one!! any feedback is appreciated and please like, comment, and reblog!! hope you enjoy!!

PART 1

f1 masterlist

The beeping of machines, the sterile smell of antiseptic, the distant murmurs of nurses and doctors—it all blurs together into a foggy haze. When you finally open your eyes, it’s like surfacing from a deep, dark ocean. The light is too bright, the sounds too sharp. Your body feels heavy, achingly so, and it takes a moment for the fog to clear enough for you to remember why you're here.

The Japan Grand Prix. The crash. The pain.

Your vision focuses slowly, revealing the worried faces of your parents, sitting by your bedside. Your mother's eyes are red-rimmed, and your father's face is etched with concern. When they see you awake, relief floods their expressions.

“Y/N, sweetheart,” your mother whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “You’re awake.”

You try to speak, but your throat is dry and scratchy. Your dad quickly offers you a sip of water, helping you take small, careful sips.

“How long…?” you manage to croak out, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“About a week,” he replies gently. “They had you in an induced coma to help your body heal.”

You try to take in the information, but your mind is sluggish, struggling to process it all. You notice the casts on your left leg, the bandages wrapped around your torso. Every breath sends a dull ache through your ribs.

“Your injuries were severe,” your mom says softly, as if reading your thoughts. “The doctor said you had a punctured lung and liver, three broken ribs, a laceration to your kidney, and broken femur and tibia in your left leg. The doctors… they did everything they could.”

The gravity of her words sinks in slowly. You close your eyes, tears escaping, feeling the weight of your injuries, the immense road to recovery ahead.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

The days blur together, filled with endless medical procedures and physical therapy sessions. The pain is constant, a relentless companion that gnaws at your resolve. The physical therapy is grueling, each session pushing your body to its limits. Your left leg, encased in a cast, feels like it’s made of lead. The simplest movements send waves of pain through you.

Your parents are always there, their support unwavering, but you can see the toll it’s taking on them. They try to hide it, but you notice the way your mother’s hands tremble when she thinks you’re not looking, or the way your father’s shoulders sag with exhaustion.

It’s not just the physical pain that wears you down. The psychological toll is immense. The fear, the uncertainty—it’s all-consuming. The thought of never racing again haunts you, a dark cloud that looms over every waking moment.

Despite their best efforts, the doctors and therapists can’t hide the reality from you. Your injuries are severe, and the road to recovery is long and uncertain. There are no guarantees that you’ll ever be able to race again.

A few weeks into your recovery, your finally allowed visitors, you receive a visit from Max. He enters the room with a tentative smile, looking unsure of how to approach you.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, his voice soft. “How are you holding up?”

You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’ve been better,” you admit, your voice tinged with bitterness.

Max sits beside your bed, his expression serious. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through,” he says. “But I want you to know that we’re all here for you. Whatever you need.”

You nod, grateful for his words but unable to shake the feeling of despair that clings to you. “Thanks, Max,” you say quietly. “It means a lot.”

He stays for a while, chatting about the latest races and team developments, trying to lift your spirits. But when he leaves, the emptiness returns, heavier than before.

Lewis visits next, his brotherly presence a comforting balm. He’s always been a source of inspiration and comfort for you, and seeing him now brings a glimmer of hope.

“Hey Y/N/N,” he says warmly, enveloping you in a gentle hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

You manage a weak smile. “Thanks for coming, Lew.”

He sits with you, sharing stories and offering words of encouragement. “You’re one of the strongest people I know,” he tells you. “If anyone can come back from this, it’s you.”

His words touch you deeply, but the doubts still linger.

George's visit is bittersweet. He’s always been like a brother to you, and seeing his concern is both comforting and heartbreaking.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he says softly, his eyes filled with worry. “How are you holding up?”

You shrug, trying to mask your frustration. “Some days are better than others.”

He takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I know it’s tough, but you’re not alone in this. We’re all here for you.”

You nod, but the words feel hollow. The reality of your situation is a heavy burden, one that seems to grow with each passing day.

Lando brings a burst of energy into your room, his usual cheeky grin tempered by concern. “Hey, superstar,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re looking better than I expected.”

You chuckle, appreciating his attempt to make you laugh. “Thanks, Lando. I guess I clean up well.”

He spends the visit telling you funny stories and trying to distract you from your pain. For a brief moment, you almost forget about your troubles. But when he leaves, the emptiness returns with a vengeance.

Oscar visit is quieter, more introspective. He’s always been a man of few words, and today is no different.

“Y/N/N,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

“Thanks, Oscar,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sits beside you, his presence a comforting anchor. “So…what do you wanna talk about?,” he says simply.

You look at him surprised, “What do I want to talk about?”

“Yea, what did you want to talk about” he says softly.

“You're not going to tell me that “You're strong, you’ve got this, you're gonna overcome this” you say indifferently.

He shakes his head saying “Nope.”

“Why?” you ask.

“Because I'm pretty sure everyone else who visited you has said the same thing, so I want to know what you want to talk about. Any good shows you’ve been watching? Hospital drama? Yes, no, maybe? Tell me I wanna know” he says gently.

You smile at him, greatly appreciating the normalcy his bring. You smile saying, “Did you bring food?”

He smirks, laughing “Yes I brought you y/f/f.”

You squeal, happy to have some outside food, the hospital starting to bore you. “Yes, there is some hospital drama. Apparently a resident has been sleeping with a neurosurgeon, and get this, he was married the whole time! And he didn’t tell her until his wife showed up last night for a case!” you say opening your bag of food.

Oscar looks at you in shock, “No way! Holy shit! Tell me more!”

Charles visit is the hardest. He’s always been your closest friend on the circuit, and seeing the pain in his eyes is almost too much to bear.

“Y/N/N,” he says, his voice choked with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

“Charles,” you say, reaching out to take his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

He nods, but you can see the guilt etched into his features. “I know but I still feel like I should’ve been there for you earlier,” he says quietly.

“You were,” you reply, your voice firm. “And you still are.”

He stays with you for a long time, his presence a comforting reminder of the bond you share. But even his support can’t chase away the shadows that cling to your mind.

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One particularly difficult day, you’re in the middle of a grueling physical therapy session. The pain in your left leg is excruciating, and every movement feels like a battle. You’re sweating, gasping for breath, and on the verge of tears.

“I can’t do this,” you whisper, your voice trembling with frustration and pain. “It’s too hard.”

Your physical therapist, a kind but firm woman named Maria, looks at you with sympathy. “I know it’s hard, Y/N,” she says gently. “But you’re stronger than you think. You’ve come so far already. Don’t give up now.”

You want to believe her, but the doubts are overwhelming. The thought of never racing again haunts you, a constant shadow that refuses to be dispelled.

“I’m worried about her, Y/F/N,” your mom says, her voice thick with worry. “She’s losing hope.”

“I know,” he replies, his voice equally troubled. “We need to do something.”

The next day, they call a meeting with all the drivers who have visited you. They gather together like a small conference room, their faces etched with concern.

“Thank you all for coming,” your dad begins, his voice serious. “We wanted to talk to you about Y/N. She’s struggling, and we need your help.”

Your mom nods, her eyes filled with tears. “She’s losing hope, and we’re afraid she’s going to give up. We need you to remind her of the fighter she is, to help her see that she can get through this.”

Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, Max, and Charles exchange worried glances, their expressions serious. They all care deeply about you, and the thought of you giving up is unbearable.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” Lewis says firmly. “We’re not going to let her give up.”

The others nod in agreement, their resolve clear. They begin to plan regular visits, phone calls, and messages of encouragement, determined to lift your spirits and help you see the light at the end of the tunnel.

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The next few weeks bring a steady stream of visitors. Max is the first to arrive, his usual confidence tempered by concern.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says, sitting beside your bed. “I brought you something.”

He hands you a small box, and when you open it, you find a miniature model of your race car. “I thought it might help you remember what you’re fighting for,” he says quietly.

You smile, touched by the gesture. “Thank you, Max. It means a lot.”

Lewis is next, bringing a stack of racing magazines and a collection of your favorite movies. “I thought you could use some entertainment,” he says with a smile.

George brings a scrapbook filled with photos and memories from your racing career. “I want you to remember how far you’ve come,” he says softly.

Lando arrives with a box of your favorite snacks and a playlist of uplifting songs. “Music always helps me when I’m feeling down,” he says with a grin.

Oscar arrives with a stack of books, his quiet presence a calming balm. “I know you love to read,” he says simply. “I thought these might help you pass the time.”

Charles comes last, bringing a framed photo of the two of you celebrating after a race. “I want you to remember all the good times we’ve had,” he says softly. “And all the ones we still have ahead of us.”

Their visits bring a small measure of comfort, but the road to recovery remains daunting. The physical pain is relentless, and the psychological toll is equally severe. There are days when you feel like giving up, when the thought of never racing again is too much to bear.

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Today was another day of physical therapy, the room was sterile, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow on the rows of equipment in the physical therapy room. You sat on the padded bench, beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. Your physical therapist, Maria, stood in front of you, her expression firm yet encouraging.

"Alright, Y/N, we're going to try to put a little more weight on your leg today," Maria said, her voice gentle but insistent. "You’re making great progress, but we need to push a bit more."

You nodded mechanically, gritting your teeth. The pain was a constant, gnawing presence in your leg, a cruel reminder of the crash that had shattered more than just your bones. You took a deep breath and tried to stand, but the agony was immediate and overwhelming. You crumpled back onto the bench, gasping.

"Come on, Y/N, you can do this," Maria urged. "Just one more try."

Something inside you snapped. The relentless pain, the frustration, the overwhelming sense of loss—everything boiled to the surface. You exploded.

"NO! NO! NO! I CAN'T DO THIS!" you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls. "I CAN'T! IT HURTS! I'M IN PAIN! AND DON'T YOU TELL ME YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS WHEN YOU DON'T! YOU HAVEN'T LOST THE ABILITY TO WALK! YOU HAVEN'T BEEN TOLD YOU MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO DO THE ONE THING THAT GAVE PURPOSE TO YOUR LIFE!"

The room fell silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Maria's face paled, and she took a step back, her hands raised in a placating gesture.

"Y/N, I—" she began, but you cut her off.

"Just please, take me to my room," you said, your voice breaking. "I can't do this anymore."

Maria hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Okay," she said softly. She turned to call a nurse. "Please take Y/N back to her room."

The nurse arrived within minutes, her face a mask of professional concern. She helped you into a wheelchair and wheeled you down the long, sterile corridors back to your room. The journey was a blur, the walls closing in on you, each turn of the wheel a reminder of your limitations.

Once inside your room, you pushed yourself onto the bed, curling up into a ball. The nurse lingered for a moment, her eyes filled with sympathy.

"Do you need anything, Y/N?" she asked quietly.

"No," you muttered. "Just leave me alone."

The nurse nodded and exited, closing the door softly behind her. The silence that followed was deafening. You lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of despair settle over you. The hours dragged by, each second a reminder of the future that felt increasingly out of reach.

You heard the faint knock on the door but didn’t respond. You knew it was someone coming to check on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. The knocks continued throughout the day, but you ignored them all.

You didn’t eat, didn’t speak, didn’t move. The room grew darker as the hours passed, the light outside fading into night. The pain in your leg was nothing compared to the ache in your heart, the sense of hopelessness that had settled in like a lead weight.

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Nights like this are the hardest. The darkness magnifies your fears, turning whispers of doubt into deafening roars. It’s one of those nights now, the kind where sleep seems impossible. The weight of your injuries and the uncertainty of your future press down on you like a suffocating blanket.

A soft knock on your hospital door interrupts your spiral of despair. It’s Charles, his silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. He steps inside quietly, his eyes searching yours with concern.

“Hey,” he says softly, pulling up a chair next to your bed. “I heard what happened, thought I’d check on you.”

You manage a weak smile, but it quickly fades. “Thanks for coming,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “I’m not great company right now.”

He takes your hand, his touch warm and reassuring. “You don’t have to be. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

For a moment, the two of you sit in silence, the weight of your shared pain filling the room. Then, the dam breaks.

“I don’t know how to do this, Charles,” you confess, your voice trembling. “Every day feels like a battle, and I’m so tired. I’m scared I’ll never race again. Racing is everything to me. It’s my passion, my dream. And now… I feel like it’s slipping away.”

Tears stream down your face, and Charles moves closer, wrapping his arms around you. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out all the pain and frustration you’ve been holding in. His embrace is warm and strong, a safe haven in your storm of emotions.

“I know,” he whispers, his voice breaking with emotion. “I know how much racing means to you. It’s not fair what’s happened. It’s not fair that you’re hurting like this.”

You pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. You can see the tears there too, the raw pain he’s been holding back. “Charles, I feel like my life is over. If I can’t race… what’s the point? It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Without it, I don’t know who I am.”

He cups your face in his hands, his eyes filled with determination and love. “Y/N, you are so much more than a racer. You’re strong, and brave, and passionate. You’ve touched so many lives, including mine. This injury doesn’t define you. You do.”

You shake your head, the weight of despair still heavy on your heart. “But what if I can’t do it? What if I can never race again?”

Charles’s grip on you tightens, his voice firm but gentle. “Then we’ll find a new dream, together. But I believe in you, Y/N. I’ve seen what you can do. You’ve overcome so much already. Don’t give up now.”

His words pierce through the fog of your despair, lighting a small spark of hope. “But what if I fail? What if I can’t come back from this?”

Charles’s eyes lock onto yours, filled with a fierce resolve. “Then I’ll be there to catch you, every step of the way. We’ll face it together, no matter what. You’re not alone in this, and you never will be.”

The sincerity in his voice, the unwavering support in his eyes, brings fresh tears to your eyes. “Charles, I’m so scared.”

“I know,” he whispers, his own tears falling freely now. “And it’s okay to be scared. But don’t let fear steal your dreams. We’ll fight this, one day at a time.”

You lean into him, your hearts beating in sync as you cry together, the shared pain and love binding you closer than ever. In his arms, you find a flicker of hope, a reason to keep fighting.

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The next day your parents come in, their expressions filled with concern. They sit on either side of your bed, each taking one of your hands.

“Y/N,” your mother says softly, her voice filled with emotion. “We know you’re going through a lot. But we’re here for you, every step of the way.”

Your father nods, his grip on your hand firm and reassuring. “You’re not alone in this. We’re all rooting for you. And so are your friends.”

You nod, but the doubts still linger. The thought of facing another day of pain and struggle is almost too much to bear.

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It’s been five miserable and grueling months in the hospital. You’ve improved a lot, the doctors say but you just feel like you're stuck in limbo, going nowhere. Today you receive a surprise visit from all the drivers at once. Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, Max, and Charles fill your room, their presence a comforting reminder of the support you have.

“Hey, superstar,” Lando says with a grin. “We’ve got a little surprise for you.”

He hands you a small box, and when you open it, you find a collection of letters and messages from fans all over the world. Each one is filled with words of encouragement and support, reminding you of the impact you’ve had on so many lives.

You feel a lump in your throat as you read through the letters, each one a reminder of why you started racing in the first place. The passion, the thrill, the joy—it’s all still there, buried beneath the pain and fear.

“We’re not going to let you give up,” Max says firmly. “You’re one of the strongest people we know. And we believe in you.”

Lewis nods, his expression serious. “You’ve overcome so much already. This is just another challenge, and we know you can get through it.”

George takes your hand, his eyes filled with determination. “We’re here for you, Y/N/N. Every step of the way.”

The others nod in agreement, their support unwavering. In that moment, you feel a flicker of hope, a small but growing light in the darkness.

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As the days fly by, the recovery process grinds on. The physical and psychiatric therapy sessions remain grueling, one pushing your body to its limits and the other peeling back layers of fear and doubt you didn't even know existed. You're forced to confront not just the physical pain, but the emotional turmoil of possibly losing the one thing that has defined you for so long: racing.

“Tell me about your fears, Y/N,” Dr. Yang, your therapist, prompts gently during one of your sessions.

You take a deep breath, the words sticking in your throat. “I’m terrified that I’ll never be the same again,” you admit. “Racing was everything to me. It was my passion, my identity. What if I can’t do it anymore? What if I’m not...me?”

Dr. Yang nods, her eyes full of understanding. “It’s natural to feel that way. But remember, you’re more than just a driver. You have other strengths, other passions.”

You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. “But I don’t want to be anyone else. I don’t know how to be anyone else. Racing was my life. Without it, I feel...lost.”

Dr. Yang leans forward, her voice soft but firm. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience, Y/N. It’s okay to feel lost right now. But this is also an opportunity to discover new parts of yourself, to grow in ways you never imagined.”

The thought of having to reinvent yourself is daunting. The stress and anxiety of not being able to race again loom large, casting long shadows over your recovery. Each day is a battle against these fears, a struggle to hold onto the hope that you can still find a way back to the track.

Each therapy session, both physical and psychiatric, feels like an uphill battle. The pain, both physical and emotional, is relentless, and the progress often feels painfully slow.

During one particularly tough session, you break down. “I don’t know if I can do this,” you sob, the tears streaming down your face. “I don’t know if I can ever be the Y/N I used to be.”

Dr. Yang sits quietly for a moment, letting your words hang in the air. “You’re right,” she says finally. “You might never be the same Y/N you were before the accident. But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a new version of yourself, one who is just as strong and passionate, even if in different ways.”

Her words strike a chord, the truth of them both painful and liberating.

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One day, after a successful therapy session, you receive another surprise visit from Charles. He enters the room with a bright smile, holding a small box.

“Hey, Y/N/N,” he says, his voice filled with warmth. “I’ve got something for you.”

You open the box to find a small, intricately designed keychain in the shape of a racing car. “It’s beautiful,” you say, touched by the gesture.

“It’s a reminder,” Charles says softly. “Of your passion, your strength, and your determination. No matter what happens, you’re still a racer at heart.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes, but this time they’re tears of gratitude. “Thank you, Charles,” you say, your voice choked with emotion. “I needed this.”

He smiles, his eyes filled with warmth. “We all believe in you, Y/N. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”

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The days that follow are still hard, but the nights are a little easier with Charles by your side. One night, as you’re lying in bed, exhausted from another day of therapy, Charles sits beside you, his hand gently stroking your hair. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said,” he begins, his voice soft and contemplative.

“About what?” you ask, your curiosity piqued.

“About racing being your life, your dream,” he replies. “I get it. Racing is my dream too. But I’ve realized something important. Dreams can evolve. They can grow. And sometimes, when one dream ends, it makes room for a new one.”

You look at him, your eyes searching his. “What do you mean?”

He smiles, a small, hopeful smile. “I mean that no matter what happens, you’re not defined by this one thing. You have so much passion, so much drive. If racing isn’t in the cards anymore, I know you’ll find something else that lights that fire in you. And I’ll be there to support you, every step of the way.”

His words are like a balm to your soul, soothing the deep wounds of doubt and fear. “Thank you, Charles,” you whisper, your voice filled with gratitude. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he replies, his voice filled with unwavering conviction. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

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The days continue to blur together, but with each passing week, you begin to see more progress. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer as overwhelming. The therapy sessions remain challenging, but you start to look forward to them, eager to see how far you can push yourself.

Your friends and family continue to visit regularly, their support a constant source of strength. Max, Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, and Charles all make it a point to check in on you, their encouragement lifting your spirits.

And through it all, Charles is by your side, his presence a comforting reminder that you’re not alone in this fight. His unwavering support, his quiet strength, his deep love—they’re the anchors that keep you grounded, the lights that guide you through the darkest nights.

As the months continue to pass, you begin to see more and more progress. The pain is still there, but it’s no longer as overwhelming. The therapy sessions remain challenging, but you start to look forward to them, eager to see how far you can push yourself.

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It's been six months since the accident. Half a year of relentless therapy, sleepless nights, and countless tears. But today, as you sit in the hospital's discharge room, a sense of cautious optimism fills the air.

Dr. Yang, your psychiatrist, and Dr. Miller, your orthopedic specialist, sit across from you. Dr. Miller adjusts his glasses and smiles warmly. "Y/N, I have to say, your progress has been remarkable. You're officially discharged."

You exhale, a weight lifting off your shoulders. "Thank you, Dr. Miller. Thank you, Dr. Yang."

Dr. Miller nods. "Remember, Y/N, this is just the beginning. You'll need to continue with your physical therapy and workouts to strengthen your body. We also need you to come in for your planned appointments. But if you keep up the good work, we're hopeful you could start racing again by next year."

Dr. Yang chimes in, "In about a month, you can begin to slowly train with your racing trainers to get back to racing. We know how much this means to you."

The relief washes over you. The thought of getting back behind the wheel, even if it's just in training, ignites a flicker of hope.

"Thank you both," you say, your voice trembling with emotion. "I can't wait to get back to it."

As you leave the discharge room, your heart pounds with a mix of excitement and nervousness. The past six months have been a rollercoaster of emotions, but today, you feel a renewed sense of purpose.

When you step out of the hospital doors, a loud cheer erupts. There, standing together, are the boys: Charles, Lewis, George, Lando, Oscar, and Max. They hold up a large banner that reads, "Welcome Back, Y/N!" and they're all grinning from ear to ear.

Charles is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug. "We knew you could do it," he whispers.

Lewis steps forward next, a proud smile on his face. "Told you, didn't I? You're stronger than you think."

George gives you a high five, his excitement palpable. "Y/N’s back in action!"

Lando and Oscar cheer loudly, their enthusiasm infectious. "We missed you!" they say in unison.

Max, usually so stoic, actually looks emotional. "You had us worried for a while, but we never doubted you'd be back."

You laugh, wiping away happy tears. "Thank you, guys. I couldn't have done this without your support."

Charles takes your hand, his eyes shining with pride. "Let's get you home."

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The drive home is filled with laughter and lighthearted banter. The boys recount stories from the past six months, filling you in on all the racing drama you've missed. It's comforting to know that life has continued on the track, even as you've fought your personal battles.

Once home, you step into your apartment, which has been kept in perfect order by your parents. The familiar surroundings bring a sense of peace. Your parents are there, tears of joy in their eyes as they welcome you back.

"You're home, sweetheart," your mom says, hugging you tightly.

Your dad smiles, his pride evident. "We're so proud of you, Y/N."

Over the next few weeks, you settle into a routine. Physical therapy sessions continue, and you push yourself harder than ever, determined to regain your strength. The boys visit often, their presence a constant source of encouragement.

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A month later, you're cleared to start light training with your racing trainers. The anticipation is overwhelming as you step into the familiar surroundings of the training facility. Your trainer, Tyler, greets you with a wide smile.

"Welcome back, Y/N. Ready to get to work?"

You nod, your heart pounding with excitement. "Absolutely."

The training is rigorous, but the thrill of being back in the environment you love so much drives you forward. The first time you sit in a simulator again, your hands tremble slightly, but as you grip the wheel, a sense of calm washes over you. This is where you belong.

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As the months pass by, your progress is nothing short of extraordinary. Your body grows stronger, and your confidence begins to return. You start to believe that racing again is not just a distant dream but a tangible reality.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session, you go to visit Charles at his apartment, you sit with Charles on the balcony, looking out over the city lights.

"I was so scared," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Scared that I'd never feel this again. The rush, the passion."

Charles wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. "I know. But look at you now. You're doing it, Y/N/N. You're coming back stronger than ever."

You smile, resting your head on his shoulder. "I couldn't have done it without you, without all of you."

He kisses the top of your head. "We'll always be here for you."

"Charles," you begin, your voice soft but filled with sincerity, "Thank you. Through everything that's happened, you've been my rock. You stayed by my side, through the tears, the pain, the doubt. You've been my anchor, keeping me grounded when I felt like I was drowning."

Charles reaches out, gently taking your hand in his. "Y/N," he says, his eyes searching yours, "you don't have to thank me. I care about you more than anything in this world. When I saw what happened, I was scared. I couldn't bear the thought of losing you. I'm just grateful that you're here with me today."

Tears well up in your eyes as you squeeze his hand, overcome with emotion. "Charles, you mean everything to me. I don't know what I would do without you."

He brushes a tear from your cheek, his touch gentle and comforting. "I love you, Y/N" he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I've loved you from the moment I met you. And now, seeing you here, stronger than ever, I know that my love for you will never waver."

You meet his gaze, your heart bursting with love. "I love you," you say, the words spilling from your lips like a prayer. "With all my heart and soul, now and forever."

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

It’s a new year, the new racing season buzzed with anticipation. Rumors swirled like wildfires about Mercedes’ new driver. Speculation ran rampant—some said it could be Sebastian Vettel, making a surprise return, while others thought it might be another seasoned veteran. Few dared to hope that it could be Y/N, the driver whose crash had left a deep scar on the hearts of fans worldwide. Yet, the more optimistic whispered her name with a sense of defiant hope.

As the Australian Grand Prix approached, Mercedes remained tight-lipped, stoking the fires of speculation. The paddock was electric with curiosity, journalists and fans alike desperate for any clue. The suspense reached a fever pitch during the free practices and qualifying rounds, as an anonymous driver in the silver arrow of Mercedes set blazing lap times, ultimately securing third place on the grid.

Race day dawned bright and clear, the air humming with excitement. The stands were packed, and millions of eyes worldwide were glued to their screens, waiting for the moment of revelation. As the clock ticked down to the start of the race, the Mercedes garage was a hive of activity, the tension palpable.

Then, the announcement came over the loudspeakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to meet Mercedes’ new driver.” The garage doors opened, and out stepped Y/N, her familiar figure met with a moment of stunned silence before the crowd erupted into deafening cheers. The roar of support was overwhelming, a testament to the impact she had made in her career and the resilience she had shown in her recovery.

Sky Sports' David Croft, commonly known as Crofty, was almost speechless as he watched her walk to her car. “What an incredible moment, ladies and gentlemen. Y/N L/N, a name synonymous with tenacity and talent, has made her triumphant return to Formula One. After everything she’s been through, to see her here, ready to race, is nothing short of miraculous. Welcome back, Y/N.”

You waved to the crowd, heart swelling with emotion. You climbed into the car, focus shifting to the task at hand. You were back where you belonged.

⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱

As the lights went out, signaling the start of the race, your heart pounded with adrenaline. You launched off the line, holding your position through the first few corners. The car feeling like an extension of yourself, every movement precise, every decision calculated.

“Alright, Y/N, keep it steady. We’ve got a long race ahead,” Amaria’s voice crackled through your earpiece. Her calm tone was a steady anchor in the chaos of the race.

Lap after lap, you pushed the car to its limits, the memory of your accident a ghost that spurred on rather than holding you back. You were in the zone, overtaking with surgical precision and defending your position fiercely. On lap 15, you made a daring move on Max, slipping past him into second place. The crowd went wild, the roar echoing in your ears even through your helmet.

“Great move, Y/N. You’re doing fantastic,” Amaria cheered, her voice filled with pride.

As the race progressed, you found herself closing in on Lewis. You knew the pit stops would be crucial. On lap 28, you dove into the pits, the crew executing a flawless stop. You rejoined the race in third but quickly reclaimed back second position, setting your sights on first place.

“Pace is looking good, tires are optimal,” Amaria updated. “Keep pushing, you’ve got this.”

Your focus was razor-sharp, every muscle in your body attuned to the car’s movements. You chipped away at the gap, each lap bringing you closer to the leader. By lap 45, you were on Lewis’s tail, and with a brilliant maneuver, you overtook him, claiming the lead.

The final laps were a blur of speed and strategy. Lewis was close behind, pushing hard, but your determination was unyielding. Your hands gripped the steering wheel, eyes scanning the track ahead, your mind calculating every possible outcome.

“Just a few more laps, Y/N. You’re almost there,” Amaria’s voice was a lifeline, keeping you grounded.

Lap 56 came, and the crowd’s anticipation was palpable. You held your ground, defending your position with the skill and tenacity that had earned you a place among the best. As you crossed the line, the checkered flag waving, the realization hit you—you had won. You did it.

The crowd erupted in applause, the noise almost deafening. You parked the car at the P1 sign, the enormity of your achievement washing over you. You climbed out of the car, tears streaming down your face as you celebrated with her team. They lifted you up, their cheers of joy echoing through the paddock.

David Croft’s voice echoed through the stadium, capturing the essence of the moment. “Ladies and gentlemen, today we have witnessed history in the making. From a young girl in her hometown, driven by an insatiable passion for racing, to being the only girl in her karting races, lovingly supported by her parents. She defied the odds to become one of the first women to race in Formula 1. She survived a horrific accident in Suzuka, a nightmare that could have ended her career and dreams. Yet, she faced her darkest fears, battled through unimaginable pain and doubt, and today, she has overcome those scars to win the Australian Grand Prix. Y/N’s journey is nothing short of inspirational, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. Welcome back, Y/N. We could not be any prouder. You have shown us what true courage and determination look like."

Other drivers came to congratulate you—Lewis, Max, Lando, Oscar, and more. Each hug, a testament to the joy and respect they had for your journey and your victory.

You ran towards Charles, your heart bursting with pride. You found each other in the sea of people, and you jumped into his arms, hugging him tightly. “You did it, baby, you did it! I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you. You’re a winner! You did it! I’m so proud, baby. I love you so much!”

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice choked with emotion.

You stood on the podium, the weight of your journey settling on your shoulders. You have faced the darkest moments and come out stronger, your love for racing and the support of those around you guiding you back to the pinnacle of the sport. The crowd’s cheers were a testament to your resilience, a reminder that no matter how difficult the road, you had found your way back home.

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shiny-jr · 1 year

Text

from IGNIHYDE

- Warning: Yes, this is still a yandere thing. You have been warned. Gender-neutral reader.

- Characters: Idia Shroud, Ortho Shroud.

- Summary: (Continuation, after this “we just got a letter, wonder where it’s from”) You have barred them from entering the safety of Ramshackle Dorm, but they are determined to make their words reach you. Which is why the letters begin arriving at your doorstep.

- Note: This seems a little more low-key than Diasomnia, but the obsession is there if you squint. It’s just way more low-key than the previous group. For some reason I feel like I maybe wrote Ortho a little off? Not sure. Feel free to tell me your thoughts.

Diasomnia | Ignihyde | Pomefiore

The break ends quickly. Too quickly. Before you know it, you’re back in front of the mountain of unread letters that appears even more ominous than before now that you could guess what sort of dark contents they may hold.

For your own peace of mind, you’ve decided to read only two and then take a pause right after.

The first of which was just a simple long white envelope. That’s it. There was nothing that stood out about it, no special seal or stamp. It was just the generic type of encasing that made it look like it was some sort of bill instead of a letter containing what was bound to be a message that unsettled you in some way, shape, or form.

When you removed the letter, you was surprised to see that it wasn’t handwritten, it had been typed and printed out. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who this was from.

Player,

I messed everything up.

I don’t even see a point to doing this, writing this for you. I mean, if I were you, I’d never want to see my no-good miserable face ever again. I’d go to every length just to avoid even speaking to me again, and to spite them I’d never even show myself around again. But–– Ortho was making a letter and brought my keyboard to my lap. He said it was worth a shot, and if anything, it could be used as an apology so... sorry.

Any sorry would sound half-assed, considering what happened. It’s not like it matters, since I’m sure you wouldn’t read this. I imagine you would figure out it’s from me, and proceed to tear it up, burn it, whatever. And honestly? Valid. At this point, I’m sort of using it as a vent. Usually, I’d be telling Ortho all this, but all these thoughts I’m having would only bum him out and he’s depressed enough as it is.

You know what sucks besides all of this? The fact that I genuinely tried. I actually tried to be a help for once, and like it always ends, my attempt to help screwed it up even more. Maybe if I had kept my mouth shut and minded my own business while holing myself up in my room like I always do, things wouldn’t have turned out this bad. If I just did what I was good at, which is nothing, Ortho and I might’ve avoided the shitstorm. Everyone else is currently throwing pity parties and plotting these super over elaborate schemes to try and interact with you by luring you out of the Ramshackle place.

Ortho’s been coming up with plans too with other guys from the dorms that are just so desperate for your attention. It’s sad to watch, pathetic too, but I don’t have the heart to tell him not to bother with it. And me, I know better. If I were in your position and I saw all these attempts, it would definitely make me extra bitter and just hate everyone even more. Oh, I just remembered something worth mentioning. You may not believe me, I mean, I wouldn’t believe a single word coming from me, but I wasn’t actually going to hurt Grim. You though? Before I knew who you were? Yeah. Don’t get it twisted though, I was just doing it to fix everything until the whole truth got leaked not too long after.

Call me stupid, I guess. When I first saw how others revered you like how a bunch of creepy basement-dwellers look at a pretty perfect idol on a shiny bright stage, it was a major red flag. I wanted nothing to do with you. But when you started worming yourself into my life and I started getting attached, well, that made me a creep too for liking you. Red flags be damned. What can I say? Your presence even through Yuu, made me feel like I mattered, which is something I don’t experience a lot.

You’d never know it, but I took risks just to be in the same room as your avatar.

Missing special events on games, losing the chance to catch a concert live on screen, even ditching group calls with teammates and friends... All of that was utterly worthless if I got at least a solid sixty seconds by you.

Unlike everyone else, I know better than to just show up at your doorstep and beg for forgiveness like some misguided puppy. Malleus and co. have been making sure you’re not disturbed, guarding you like a pack of guard dogs or something, preventing anyone from embarrassing themselves and messing up any further. Ortho said I should at least try to call you, I think he just wants to hear your voice. But why bother?

Don’t get it wrong, I’m not just letting everything go just like that. As much as I’d like to, and I know it’s probably the “healthy” and “good” thing to do, I don’t want to. I’m not good, you know that already. I’ll keep in the background this time, and try not to mess up again. Although no guarantees, because with my lousy luck, I know something will inevitably go wrong. Don’t worry, I won’t bother you. I wouldn’t want to make the mental image you have of me in your mind even worse, if its even remotely possible for it to somehow get worse. I just can’t let go. Even if you looked at me like trash, avoided me like the plague, or straight up tell me ‘I hate you’ to my face, I still won’t let go.

And, well, all I can really think of right now besides you, is Ortho. Even if I can’t show my disgraced presence to you anymore, I still hope you’ll see Ortho. At least if Ortho could explain to you that he was acting on my plan, he might get lucky and be next to you again. Maybe. Hard maybe.

But me? No, I don’t ever deserve to be anywhere near you anymore. For now, I’ll go back to how things were way back... when your vessel hadn’t yet had the misfortune of meeting me and I just watched your every move from monitors like some sort of loser schmuck.

I think I’ll just imagine how things would be if I hadn’t doomed all my chances. If I had a chance... maybe I would’ve actually worked up the gall to sit next to you, or even look at you, or, hell, talk to you. At least, I’ll always remember when you used your avatar to look at me and it didn’t feel bad... like, almost like you didn’t see me as some lame nobody. That must’ve been my mind just playing tricks on me though, right? There’s no way that happened...

Enough of this mushy stuff though. I’m sick of it.

Just throw this in the fire without a second glance.

Idia Shroud

In order to get this over as quickly as possible, you decided to continue without taking a breather. The quicker you finished reading them, the better, that way, you wouldn’t even give your mind any time to fully process what you were reading before overwhelming your vision with more lines and lines of words until they became blurred together.

You wouldn’t stop, because if you stopped, that would be allowing your mind the opportunity to spiral out of control. You needed a distraction.

This wasn’t exactly the good type of distraction either, it was more like adding gasoline to the fire, but part of you had to know what they would say. No matter what feelings you held, the curiosity outweighed it.

The second letter is identical to the first, a simple long white envelope with no particularly interesting details about it other than the fact that it had zero stains and no wrinkles on it. It was pristine and clean, not even a drop of ink on it. The insides of the envelope itself were blue, with small white lines on it, but upon closer inspection it became obvious that they weren’t just stripes, they were skull symbols so tiny that it was hardly noticeable.

Of course, as you expected, the letter inside was not handwritten. It was folded so precisely into thirds, and unfolding it displayed the typed and printed words neatly stacked in indented paragraphs.

Greetings, Player,

First, I want to apologize sincerely.

Secondly, I want to tell you how much I have missed you, and my brother has missed you as well! I don’t believe I can fully comprehend how you are felling at the current moment, and I cannot even accurately guess to what emotions you are experiencing. In my attempt to alleviate the situation, I’ve been running millions of simulations of possible alternative futures in order to take the best route where things might return to a semblance of normalcy.

Well, a new normal, now that you’re here! However... when each simulation yields a result, I can’t help but feel as if something is wrong. That’s when I realized there was a key component that was off. It was you, or rather, Yuu. We know of Yuu and their mannerisms and opinions, but that isn’t really you. Yuu is a vessel, and extension, that’s partially based off yourself.

So none of us know the true you. At least, not yet! I’m hoping to change that. Just when I think I’m beginning to understand you, things like this happen. But, that’s what makes you so exciting! There’s always some unforeseen detail and amazing new aspect of yourself to learn about. Once I get a proper grasp on what you’re truly like, I can use that new knowledge to make you happy, just as you made me and my brother always smile! But also, I want to use it to make it up to you. Honestly, I’m scared that you’ll hate me. In the simulations I ran that gave inaccurate results due to those missing components, nearly all the results had a bad ending...

I don’t want that. I want to have a ‘normal’ way with you and Idia! A good normal! Like where we might all have movie nights in the Ignihyde dorm with freshly popped popcorn and candies as snacks, or study days when we read over notes and help each other out, maybe you might even be able to convince Idia to leave his room so we can all share lunch in the cafeteria like a group of friends would typically do! That’s what I want! I don’t think I could stand knowing I made you cry or was the cause of your pain. I never hurt you, right? At least not physically.

Believe me, I had made attempts to meet you. But those in Diasomnia won’t allow it. I was tempted to charge up the technomantic beam installed within my form, but realizing it wasn’t necessary, I didn’t. Idia was right when he didn’t make an effort to even join me, and Malleus Draconia with his own have realized it too. You aren’t ready yet. Even if I’m more than prepared to see you, I can’t rush you. So, I left this letter in their hands, hoping it reached you. If not, there’s no worries. I’ve prepared a dozen more printed copies and if that fails, I’ve created a digital copy!

Since I couldn’t tell you in person, I’ll tell you through paper...

I’d like to invite you to formally meet me. I’m even prepared to surprise Idia with this! That’ll cheer him up for sure. You always made him happy, so us properly meeting you would be a dream come true for us both!

If you’d like to do something upon meeting us, I’ve organized multiple activities for us to participate in. The other first years have reached out and expressed their own desires to make up for the mistakes they made. So, I met with them a few days ago to make plans you might enjoy! These plans are still in the preparation phase, so I can’t reveal them quite yet, but soon I will!

Anyways, I just wanted to make you aware of this. And I want to say ‘I’m sorry’ even though it feels minuscule to what I’m only guessing must be the strong emotions you feel toward what occurred. But I wanted to let you know that I always want to be your friend, and I always will be, even if you don’t really like me anymore. Friends are supposed to be there for each other, right? So I’ll be there for you now. Remember, I’m a high-tech being, I can be of great use to you if you want! Even if you’d rather just use me as a tool, I would be happy. If you want someone obliterated to ashes or are just looking to answers as to what the weather might be, I would gladly help you with that and so much more!

And it’s not only me that could be useful to you, my brother can too! Although he probably won’t say it, he depends on you a lot. You’re like a battery to him, you give him the energy he needs. If you’d let him, let us both, we’d be there for you in a zeptosecond!

There’s one thing I know for certain. You’re the common variable needed for our happiness, no matter the scenario or result, you are a requirement. And I’m certain we can bring you happiness as well. Myself, my brother, and everyone that treasures you, can bring you joy if you allow it. All I want is to see you happy, and everyone else happy as well. So will you please at least consider seeing us again? Soon? Please?

Hoping to see you soon.

From your friend,

Ortho Shroud

#twisted wonderland #twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst #twst imposter au #I didn't ask to get isekaied #we just got a letter wonder who it’s from #idia shroud #yandere idia shroud #twst idia #ortho shroud #twst ortho #yandere ortho shroud #ignihyde

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solarmorrigan · 1 year

Text

TW: Discussion of suicide, suicidal ideation, child neglect. Nothing happens in the fic (all hurt/comfort, I promise), but it's very frankly talked about, so please proceed with care <3

It takes three weeks.

(In reality, it takes longer than that. It takes until after Steve realizes he’s spending more time at Eddie and Wayne’s new place than he is at his own house. It takes until after Eddie has asked Steve to just move in with them already. It takes until after Steve has packed his things up, and carefully cleaned up the house, and set the thermostat, and informed the pool cleaners, and paid a neighbor to check the mail every few days, and – he hadn’t felt right, just leaving, even though Eddie had repeatedly told him he didn’t owe anyone anything. But it had taken until after all of that, and then–)

Steve had left them a note, a new number where he could be reached, and it had taken three weeks before they came looking. Before they even noticed.

It isn’t a fight, in the end.

His parents are angry that he’d just up and left the house, but they’re much less so when he explains everything he’d set in place before he’d gone.

They want to know if he’ll be asking them for anything else after this (not if he’s safe, not if he’s happy, just if he’s going to keep being a burden).

He tells them no.

And that’s– that’s it.

That’s it.

His mom tells him they’ll call him around Christmas, let him know if they’ll be in town, and then his parents just let him go.

They get up and they leave his living room and they leave his home and they leave Steve’s life and they leave and they don’t look back and they– well, they’d left a long time ago, hadn’t they? A long, long time ago.

Steve is sitting at the end of Eddie’s bed (his and Eddie’s bed, now, their bed; Steve’s still getting used to that, but in a good way), feeling the sort of empty he hasn’t felt since he was seventeen. He’s just sort of staring at the carpet, and then he’s staring at Eddie’s ridiculous polka dot socks as Eddie steps in front of him.

“Hey,” Eddie says softly. “You, uh… okay?”

It’s kind of a ridiculous question – the answer is obvious, and Eddie clearly knows that, but it’s a way to start a conversation without shouting, “Your parents are ungrateful pieces of shit who never appreciated you,” like he probably wants to (and has before), and Steve appreciates his restraint.

He nods a little, stops, shrugs.

“I kind of thought I was over this,” he says. “Over feeling… left behind by them. Shouldn’t still hurt, right?”

“It’s– it’s okay if it does. It’s shit, Steve. They’re shit,” Eddie says (yep, Steve called it). “You’re allowed to be hurt.”

Steve shrugs again.

“It’s funny,” he says, even though it isn’t, “but I used to wonder how long it would take them to notice if I died.”

He’d never had an active plan, really, though there had been plenty of ways around the house to accomplish the task. He’d never really even looked at it as being suicidal, just angry and bitter and lonely. He hadn’t felt miserable all the time, hadn’t felt like there was nothing in the world worth living for – it’s not like he’d been depressed, it had just been a wild, almost satisfying thought that occurred from time to time. The ultimate way to prove a point. To make them see.

And if the urge got too strong, and his head got too full, and his chest felt too hollow, and the house felt too empty, he’d just go out and find something to do. Simple as that.

“I wondered if it would only be a day or two, or if they would come home, like, weeks later and find what was left of me just… floating in the pool or rotting in the bathtub or some shit. And I guess I just got my answer.” He laughs, managing to sound completely humorless even in the attempt, and glances up at Eddie. “Three weeks. How decomposed do you think I’d be by now?”

Except Eddie doesn’t pick up the bit. He’s just staring at Steve, wide-eyed, cheeks a little red, eyes a little wet, and – shit.

“Shit, Ed, I didn’t–”

“Don’t,” Eddie cuts in, voice thick with a shaking kind of intensity, “say shit like that. Fucking don’t ever– Steve–”

“No, Eddie, I’m sorry, I haven’t thought about that in years, this whole thing with my parents, it just… it reminded me, that’s all,” Steve says, even if that isn’t strictly true.

He’s thought about it plenty, he just hasn’t really had the urge to follow through since the first time he took a bat to a demogorgon’s head. He’d traded that empty feeling for one of purpose, of knowing he was needed, and had readily put himself between everyone else and the danger they were facing, because at least that way he filled a space.

(Maybe he’d traded it a little too easily. Maybe there isn’t a lot of difference between using yourself as bait to lure in a demodog and thinking about where all the sharp things are in the house. Maybe that’s something Steve doesn’t need to unpack right now.)

Eddie stumbles forwards, reaching out and cupping Steve’s face in his hands, angling him upwards so Eddie fills his field of vision.

“I would notice,” Eddie says firmly. “I would notice.”

“I– I know you would, Eddie. I told you–”

“Robin would notice. Dustin – all those little shits we hang out with, both Wheelers, Wayne, fuckin’ Byers– we would notice right away, Steve, I swear to fuck, we would,” Eddie goes on, and something is suddenly sticking in Steve’s throat.

“I– I know,” Steve manages to choke out, and shit, why are his eyes wet now? He’s never cried over this feeling before, and it should be too fucking late to start now – except with everything happening, with his parents, with the way Eddie is staring at him like he’s about to disappear–

Eddie bends one leg up until he’s got a knee to one side of Steve’s hip, half-kneeling over him without boxing him in because he knows Steve can’t stand that, and he rests his weight there so he can lean in and press his lips to Steve’s forehead, kissing him, murmuring against the skin like he’s praying.

“We see you, baby.”

And that one hurts.

It fucking aches, like Eddie has somehow managed to reach back four years and jam a thumb into the bruise seventeen-year-old Steve had constantly been carrying under his ribs, and Steve of right now reaches out and grabs Eddie’s shirt and thinks for a moment that he wants to shove him away, but his next breath heaves out like a sob and he can only pull Eddie closer.

“We see you,” Eddie says again, soft but unignorable, before he presses another kiss to Steve’s forehead.

Yeah, Steve thinks, you see right through me.

It’s a terrifying feeling, and Steve wants to swallow it up and keep inside of him where he can feel it forever. He nods against Eddie’s lips, sucking in a sharp breath so he can speak again.

“Okay,” Steve says, clutching more tightly to Eddie’s shirt. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes against the unwanted tears and lets himself feel, instead – the warmth of Eddie over and around him, the near bruising grip Eddie still has on his jaw, the softness of his lips against his forehead, and he thinks that this is what he’d been searching for, all those years ago.

He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this wanted, and somehow he doubts he’ll ever have to worry about going without it again.

[Prompt: Forehead kisses]

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #eddiesteve #stranger things #hopeful ending! I swear!#solar wrote

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nana-au · 13 days

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𝐈 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄...

𝜗𝜚 Satoru Gojo Prince AU ♡ part four

𝜗𝜚 Summary: satoru has an announcement to make to the royal court. you don't think you could've ever prepare yourself for what it could be. the two of you see each other after months of no contact and the result is bitter sweet. story summary based off of this drabble

𝜗𝜚 Warnings: forbidden love, unspoken feelings, heavy angst, intense emotions, suggestive flirting, heated make out, cussing, depression symptoms, misguided anger, jealousy.

𝜗𝜚 wc: 4,323

𝜗𝜚 an: there is a surprise guest from the jjk cast being introduced.. heh. dw he is just for the story and holds no interest in reader.

┊p1┊p2┊p3┊p4┊𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠... p5┊

“How do you like kitchen duty, my dear?” the Queen asks, the royal blue wallpaper of her study behind her head seems to shift like the ocean waves; rising and falling - dancing in the reflection of your pupils as your tea is poured for you. With a wave of her hand the Queen’s servant is dismissed and it’s just the two of you alone. The silence is unsettling as much as it is intoxicating. The kitchen is noisy - pots and pans clanging together, the repeated motion of knife hitting cutting board, and the bubbling sounds of a roiling boil. But then there is your room at night; the bed you climb into is decently soft and the covers keep you warm enough but you’re missing the noise of Satoru’s words. Before everything changed you would lay awake and replay every conversation with the Prince; your heart would pound remembering every brush of his hand or intense gaze he didn’t bother to hide. Instead now even your own thoughts have quieted, leaving your night void of any stimulation.

“It’s been pleasant,” you respond, blowing on the hot tea you’ve brought to your lips. You don’t try very hard to sound convincing but if the Queen notices she doesn’t comment on it.

“I’ve heard you have been getting pretty close to one of the men in the kitchen,” she wiggles her eyebrows, like you’re her girl friend and she’s genuinely interested in your potential love life. You’re not entirely sure where she got such information from; but it’s been clear to you for a while now. She has eyes and ears everywhere.

“Forgive me, I’m not quite sure who you are referring to,” the tea is hot as you sip it, burning the taste buds you’ve barely been using these days.

“Well, Nanami, of course,” she takes a moment to sip her own tea. “He’s handsome… quite burly too for working in a kitchen,” she’s smirking describing the man like it's the most entertaining gossip in the whole world. You guess it's not the worst thing she could potentially hear about you. All though, the worst had already been said.

“He’s knowledgeable,” you tell her, stoic and devoid of any real emotion, “I enjoy learning what I can from him,” it’s a boring answer but your life is boring now. She frowns, almost a little disappointed that you won’t bite and indulge in ‘boy talk’ with her, but she continues on anyway.

“That’s how your parents met, you know,” another long sip of her tea, “your father used to volunteer in the kitchens just to see your mother,” she’s obnoxiously giddy again and you can’t fight the sour taste of disgust. It feels more like she’s describing a silly little romance novel and not real people’s lives. It’s almost amusing knowing that as soon as your ‘silly little romance’ got too close to her son it was no longer exciting to her. You kept silent - having nothing worth commenting aloud as you waited for her to get to her point. She didn’t invite you here to gossip, your life had hardly been entertaining since 3 months ago when you were banished from Satoru’s presence. Her lips purse for a moment before she talks, “Well that’s not why I invited you here anyways,”

No shit.

“I wanted to say thank you. I’m sure you’ve heard of our upcoming event in which Satoru will announce who he is courting,” you could have choked on air if you were not incredibly aware of yourself around the Queen. Instead you sucked in a quick breath. You had obviously been preparing for the event seeing as it was tomorrow and everyone in the kitchens scrambled around to get everything set for it - but you missed the part where it involved Satoru and his new potential partner. “I was incredibly worried for the future of our kingdom, and I appreciate your diligent work in securing that,” her words danced around the true meaning - but you weren’t a dunce. She was thanking you for hurting Satoru - and yourself in the process. A truly noble sacrifice indeed. You had to fight the desire to strangle yourself in front of her.

“Of course,” is all you muster, not bothering to put on a brave face.

“Remember the blonde Princess I talked about all those years ago?” she says, observing her pristine nails, “I knew Satoru would warm up to her if he tried,” your tea was gone by the end of her sentence and you lacked the stimulation now required for this conversation; your uneasiness eating away at your insides.

“I’ve heard she’s lovely,” your throat is dry despite downing an entire cup of tea.

“Oh more than lovely, if you could even imagine. I’ve never seen Satoru more at peace than when he’s listening to her playing piano. She’s quite the pianist!”

𝜗𝜚

Satoru did indeed enjoy the times she played for him. The melody left no room for chatter. It was the only moment the two of them were together that he could close his eyes and rest; shutting down after hours of struggling to be present. He didn’t need to pretend to listen to how her day went or care about her childhood. He didn’t need to make up details about his day or share stories of his own youth that he struggled to edit you out of. He could just be. And that’s how Satoru preferred it.

You would never know about it because ‘how could you?’ - but Satoru was a new man. Gone were the days of acting out or scoffing at his lessons. Gone were the days he preferred fencing to etiquette lessons. He now spent his time indoors because that’s where his bed was closest. His new favorite activity was painting. It was quiet and kept his mind occupied. He enjoyed painting with the new Princess the most - she would play while he would paint and as her hands created beautiful melodies Satoru’s created melancholy works of art

She peers a glance at his canvas over the piano, eyebrows furrowing as she notices the brooding blues, “You do realize this song is meant to elicit joy?” she inquires playfully, and Satoru apologizes.

“Forgive me, I don’t have much experience with music theory,” his brush dips into the blue oil paint before dabbing it onto the course fabric.

“Blue seems to be your favorite color,” she comments, her hands walking over each other as the keys come alive from her touch.

Satoru nods, “I do enjoy reds too. Deep reds,” he murmurs.

The color of his bleeding heart.

𝜗𝜚

When the King and Queen announce a new ball, Satoru already understands the reason without being told. He had to fix his blunder - the one where he abandoned his duties and prioritized the pleasure your presence gave him. He hadn’t seen you since that day - but he was sure your face would bring him anything but pleasure nowadays. He was agreeing to the expectations of this new event without listening. It didn’t matter to him anyways. His life wasn’t his - this was a fact he could no longer be gullible about.

That’s why he stood there in the center of the ballroom, fingers interlaced with the Princess as he smiled down at her like she meant something to him. Because his life wasn’t his and there were worse women in the world to be arranged to. The Princess really wasn’t all that bad. She was intelligent, respectful, charitable and incredibly humble. She knew there was more to life than her appearance all while being a sight for sore eyes. Satoru couldn’t have expected anyone more perfect for the role of his wife. With his heart now out of the picture - there was no better option than her. He could see that clearly now.

She nuzzled her head against his shoulder, hiding her blush as Satoru talked about the first day they met to an inquiring older man and that is when you finally see the two of them together. Surprisingly, you’re allowed out of your metaphorical cage - the King and Queen now fully entrusting you in the same room as Satoru after you successfully stomped out his light. You’re with the kitchen boy, Nanami, who was the Queen’s new show pony she liked to trot around; insisting he was there to describe the new hors d'oeuvre he created himself. Neither of you were entirely convinced the Queen thought that highly of the dish - rather than the idea of having such an esteemed cook now residing in her royal kitchen. Your jaw drops seeing the two of them next to each other. You had only seen paintings of the Princess, and even those did not prepare you for the intensity of her eyes and the silkiness of her hair. You were right all those years ago; next to Satoru wearing his family’s signature blue - she fit perfectly.

And Satoru. Your Satoru. He looked so sorrowfully beautiful. His jaw was sharper and his eyes were darker but he was still Satoru and that fact alone made it impossible to look away. You had no right - but your watery eyes threatened to spill over watching the Prince hold hands with the Princess. A pitiful feeling fell over you once you realized you couldn’t read his expression. There had never been a day that you couldn’t skim his face like the pages of a book and pinpoint exactly what he was thinking - but now being in the same room with him after so long - you realized you were no longer privy to his thoughts like you used to be. Perhaps that ability was now reserved for the woman who held his hand. If it wasn’t so devastating you might have considered thanking the Queen for what she made you do. You had to have looked so silly beside him seeing the Princess in front of you now - appearing to be a piece of the same puzzle by his side.

“Are you doing okay?” a deep voice prods your ear and you turn to see Nanami, standing by your side with a look of worry. The Queen wasn’t entirely wrong when she spoke of rumors that the two of you were close - you were in a lot of ways. Just not in the way she found most interesting. Nanami taught you a lot of skills in the kitchen. He showed you the best ways to cut vegetables and the importance of never looking away from milk boiling on a stove top. He told you stories of his travels in search of the best ingredients and his experience being raised on the country-side of a faraway nation whose people were dying of hunger. How his life as a child shaped him into who he was to this day: a seasoned cook who the highest of society paid a pretty penny to grace their kitchens. For some time you spared him the details of your life and he took it well - waiting for the moment you decided he was someone you could trust - and once you did it seemed to flow out of you and never stop. He knew all about your childhood with Satoru and how things became the way they are now. He didn’t scoff at you for daring to imagine yourself next to a Prince or gawk at the audacity it must take to delude yourself into believing your life could possibly be different than those before you. He just listened while he prepared a snack for the two of you. It was cathartic being around someone who carried as much baggage as you. The two of you were stronger than ever by each other’s side, and that is why you stood with him while he talked to the snobs he couldn’t stand and he stood with you while you watched the Prince make his love interest known to everyone. “Go take a moment for yourself, I’ll cover for you,” he offered and you shook your head.

“I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone with these assholes,” you say, earning a chuckle from the blond man next to you. You look up at him and all though he’s laughing his eyes don’t contain humor - more concerned for you while witnessing the same display you had to. He knew it couldn’t be easy.

He leaned in once more, “Well if you change your mind, I won’t be mad,” you smile at him, grateful that you weren’t entirely alone in your new reality.

𝜗𝜚

Just like the two of you could see the royal couple they could see you too - if they knew what to look for. You caught the Prince’s eye while he took a sip of his champagne, using it as a moment to take in the scene around him until he spotted you. He didn’t know what to expect when he first considered the possibility of running into you again; you two inhabited the same estate and though it was big you had your whole lives to bump into each other. Originally he thought his anger would get the better of him once he finally laid eyes on you. Or he considered that given enough time had passed, looking into your eyes wouldn’t elicit any kind of emotion in him - completely indifferent to your role in his life, like all other servants. What he didn’t expect was for his heart to fail him, the once slow pace now jump started with adrenaline. His heart rate was wild and his pupils dilated. The bubbly drink that usually burned on the way down had effortlessly passed his throat and entered his stomach that grew weak with just one look at you. If he wasn’t careful the Princess beside him would take note of how he completely removed himself from their conversation - but careful he could not be. He wanted to curse his cheeks for warming up at the mere thought of breathing the same air as you… how could he be present? Satoru wouldn’t have even noticed the man standing next to you if not for the way his tall form towered over you, blocking you from the Prince’s view. That’s when Satoru began to grow just a little more aware of his surroundings - or more so your surroundings. While he repeated the words you said to him that day like it was a prayer he couldn’t help but retell before bed - lest he forget - he still fought the logical side of him begging him to accept your words as fact. But he couldn’t because he couldn’t accept your own interpretation of your feelings while you shook and sniffled in the stables. He believed you wanted nothing more to do with him - but he thought the pressure of fighting for your rightful place in his life was one you could no longer stomach. That was what caused him the pain he felt each passing moment. That you lost your fight because Satoru wasn’t worth it. But how could he believe you lost your fight when you had no one in your life pressuring you to move on like he did - yet there you stood seemingly cozy next to the tall man beside you. Perhaps the thought of you giving up on Satoru hurt his heart less and that was why he settled on that thought, instead of the earth-shattering possibility that you could have actually wanted nothing to do with him.

So why would you have kissed him?

𝜗𝜚

It was a quiet afternoon when the two of you decided to stroll through the garden’s after Satoru’s tea break. You often found it beneficial to have Satoru spend time outside inbetween his lessons - he would have a new found focus when given the chance to allow his mind to wander in the cool air that the spring time offered. His fingers would busy themselves with the petals of a flower and you would walk in silence beside him, listening to him ramble or letting him bask in the tranquility nature offered.

That day was one of those times Satoru pondered silently and you let him, enjoying the unique flowers the Gojo’s had planted from all across the globe while you walked by his side. His face was scrunched in thought and his hands were busy with the stem of a lily, using his thumbs to pry the plant open to feel around its sticky insides. You two were deep in your walk, the garden trail extending surprisingly far on the Gojo’s lawn. The estate was now hidden by the yards of thick bushes that separated the trail from other parts of their extensive property. Satoru let out a breath you didn’t realize he was holding, and you turned to look at him.

He seemed anxious, the tips of his ears were deep red and his face was scrunched with worry. “Did you get a sunburn, Satoru?” you ask him, stopping him in his tracks to get a better look at his ears. They were hot to the touch as you inspected them but he was antsy rather than in pain from the grip you had on his cartilage.

“What do you think about kissing?” he asked, his cheeks turning as red as his ears. You giggle at him, not because it was random - no that was normal for Satoru - but the topic was a bit suspicious.

“Why do you ask?” you all but flirt - finding the confidence to since you had the upper hand.

“I don’t know… it just kept coming up in the book I’ve been reading,” he puts simply, trying to end the conversation he brought up. It was rare for Satoru to embarrass himself like such, and it was going to be hard for him to get you to ignore it.

“You've been thinking a lot about kissing, haven't you?” you continue to tease, and he scratches the back of his neck.

“No!” he scoffs, “Just.. nevermind,” the flower he was dissecting was discarded for a new one - his fingers plucking the petals before tearing into the ovule roughly.

“I don’t know what I think about kissing, I’ve never kissed,” you answer his original question, engaging him back into the conversation.

“Me neither,” he responded, defiling the poor flower a little less since you had his attention. ‘What do you think it’s like?” It’s your turn to blush and he definitely realizes his newfound control over the conversation - turning the tables on you as he begins to poke you about it. “It’s probably wet, right? Well if you used tongue,” you’re a blushing mess listening to your best friend describe something such as tongue-kissing and he’s smiling at you. His pearly white teeth sparkle under the sun while he continues his torture, “I’d imagine it’s warm too - and soft. Your lips look soft,” he comments and you could feel yourself struggling to hold back your bashful reaction. He knew how to work you up just like you knew how to work him up. Unfortunately he was a little bit better at it than you - or you were just more susceptible under his gaze. He comes in closer to you - you think just to tease you further and get your heart to racket against your chest and you’re not entirely wrong. It’s hard to focus when his broad shoulders contrast yours and when you feel the palm of his hand touch your sternum to feel the pounding of your heart - you can’t fathom how you’re still standing on your own. “Your heart rate is fast,” he comments, pretending he has no concept as to why that could be.

“You flirt too much, Satoru,” you grumble at him, trying and failing to steady your heart beats with him so close. His breath smells sweet like the candies he eats and you can’t protect your nose from the pleasant musk that clings to his skin.

“I’m not flirting. I’m just asking you a question,” he’s somehow closer and his hand won’t leave the spot between your breasts.

“Yeah. Kissing is probably warm and wet and whatever else you said,” you mumble, desperate to crawl away from him while simultaneously scared of losing physical contact with him.

“Maybe we should test our hypothesis,” he’s still smiling but his eyes don’t match; half lidded while he observes the twitch of your lips at his words. You gulp, unable to keep yourself from looking at his own pair of lips. You note that they look soft too, even when he bites at them upon noticing you’re doing the same as him. “It can just be a quick one,” he says, almost like he’s trying to convince you now like he’s already convinced himself years ago. Unbeknownst to him you needed very little convincing.

“Just a quick one,” you all but breathe out, and the two of you are leaning in without realizing it until your lips meet. Your lips feel plump against his, soft like the pillow he lays his head on at night and he doesn’t want it to end. His hand meets your jaw, holding you still while his lips get used to the feeling of yours against them. Your hands come up to grip his shirt, bracing yourself while he slowly deepens it, testing the waters by slowly poking his tongue inside your mouth. You pull back, yelping at the unexpected intrusion.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice sultry and deep and you nod at him, going back in for more. He starts slowly again, pecking your lips softly before working his way up to prodding his tongue cautiously against your sweet lips. You let him in and he all but groans, gripping your waist with his other hands so he can feel you pressed up against him. You both have no idea what you’re doing, teeth and tongues hesitantly clashing as you explore each other’s mouths. His pulse quickens when you let out a weak moan muffled by his mouth hot against yours. His hand on your jaw slowly works its way down your neck, across your collarbone, before hesitantly stopping at the start of your breast. You’re both clouded by the haze created between the two of you, unaware of your surroundings until you hear the scurry of an animal. You both pull away - scanning the area with no luck of finding the creature that caused it. You clear your throat and try your best to pull yourself together - but it’s hard when his eyes are so dark and his lips are so red and glossy from your spit.

“Let’s get back, Satoru. Your teacher will be expecting you soon,” and off you go, with Satoru trailing behind you.

𝜗𝜚

Satoru had never felt the foreign concept of competition in regards to you. It must be the reason he felt such vitriolic jealousy seeing you next to another man. He had no time to consider himself a fool. He wanted nothing more than to see his nose smashed in and your eyes on him again.

But Satoru had to remind himself he was different. He was no longer the old Satoru whose emotions reigned over his logic. While the new Satoru was born through pain, it would do him good to act on the new things he learned; like patience.

And patience he needed when later that night he found himself wandering into the kitchen for a glass of water - expecting the room to be empty and overcome with shock when he saw you there. You’re not alone either. The man from earlier guided your hand as you two fileted a fish. And what an odd sight it was - seeing your back pressed up another man’s chest as he carefully guided your knife against the belly of a salmon. Nanami notices the Prince first, respectfully removing his guiding hands and you look up, mouth agape at the sight of the unimpressed Prince in front of you. “Prince Gojo,” you both say, bowing respectfully at him. “How can we be of service?” Nanami asks, still stuck in his bow to Satoru. For the first time in your life you see Satoru ponder his next words and it is almost as shocking as being in the same room as him for the second time after going no-contact all those months ago. You aren’t used to him thinking so long about what to say; you’d always known him to speak his mind unfiltered. It made you incredibly uneasy.

“Are they aware you two occupy the kitchens after they’re meant to be closed,” he asks and you’re even more confused. Satoru? Becoming a stickler for rules? Your jaw hung open just for a moment when you remembered to pick it back up.

“We’re very sorry, your royal highness. We will be sure to clean up and head off to bed,” Nanami is nothing short of respectful but Satoru still can’t hold back a scoff, turning his head to glance your way. His eyes miss their softness you’ve always been used to and you cower under his eyes, keeping your gaze on the ground until he finally turns around and leaves.

𝜗𝜚

That night is the first night you let yourself think about Satoru again, now having many things to think about as you lay awake in your bed.

He looked… almost disappointed in you? You try to fight the idea of him caring what you chose to do, chalking it up to your hopeless wanting that he was as stuck on you as you were stuck on him. But you saw him tonight with the Princess; getting close to her like he only ever did with you and you know you can’t let yourself get caught up in misguided optimism - Satoru had moved on and did exactly what you needed him to do… So why did that realization have to be so unbelievable to you?

┊p1┊p2┊p3┊p4┊𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠... p5┊

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(ty for all the support! comment to be added/removed)

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rosedpetal · 1 month

Text

It's Nice to Have a Friend

Summary: How you and Wade became best friends.

Pairing: Wade Wilson x slightly Depressed!Reader

Word count: 1.5k

Masterlist

It smells like sweat, tobacco and cheap alcohol inside the bar. You immediately regret leaving your cozy apartment, wearing those faux leather pants, a black crop top that makes you feel like you're gonna explode out of it and putting makeup on just to end up in a smelly place that has a bathroom that'll probably give you an UTI if you use it.

But it's your best friend's pleading eyes that soften you up, and you know you have been unavailable lately. Always cancelling on her last minute and isolating in your place after your work hours, wallowing in your misery and wondering if that's all life's gonna be now that you're an adult: paying bills and working in a vicious cycle.

"You're not depressed, you're suffering from late capitalism," Maya begins, as she moves flawlessly on her high heels, her tiny little dress fitting perfectly on her. "You just need a drink or ten to forget for a little while."

"Becoming an alcoholic sounds like a nice solution." You roll your eyes, dodging a broken bottle in your sneakers, kicking another aside as you move between all that trash. Maya was such a princess, why she was in love with someone who worked in such a nasty place was very confusing to you.

"You're so funny." Maya said, kissing your cheek, her manicured thumb grazing on the spot her lipstick left a stain, smudging it a little. "He's very important to me, Y/N. And your approval means a lot."

Your heart made that little flip it always does whenever she says something like this. Maybe it's the guilt gnawing at your mind.

"If he makes you happy, you don't really need my approval, Maya." You mumble, following her inside.

The interior is even worse than outside. The bar is full: of big, chunky men. Some are playing pool, others playing poker, others are drinking alone, sulking.

You keep your face straight, wondering which one of those are Maya's new boyfriend. You sigh in relief when she runs to the one who's sweeping the floor, an Indian skinny guy who - thanks to the gods above - doesn't look old enough to be her father this time.

She lets out a girlish squeal as she hugs him, giving him a tight hug. You approach them, alleviated that he seems normal.

"Y/N, this is Dopinder. Dopinder, this is my bestest of the best friends in the whole world." Maya grins, and you force a smile to Dopinder.

"Hello, Miss Y/N, I'm a mercenary apprentice." The young man shakes your hand and your eyes widen in disbelief.

Of fucking course. Jesus Christ, Maya.

"Now, now, my little brown friend. What did I say about introducing yourself like this? Tsk." A voice coming right behind makes you stiff.

You turn to face whoever is invading your personal space, a mean scowl on your face, when your eyes widen just a little bit. The guy behind you stands at least 6'2". It's not his impressive height that has your attention, though.

It's his skin. Scarred all over, as if he had some rare skin disease. You wondered if it was an accident, and how he was before it happened. His grin spreads a little.

"Disgusted, doll face?" He tilts his head to the side, as if challenging you to admit it.

The bitter undertone in his voice doesn't escape you. You are mortified by your own reaction. Maya senses your unease and jumps in:

"Wade, excuse my friend, she never leaves home."

Your cheeks and neck turn pink. Wade thinks it's the cutest thing in the world.

Before you can bite Maya's head off, she hops away with Dopinder, leaving you alone with this guy you don't know. You bite the inside of your cheek, contemplating going back home, but it'll be just another thing for Maya to whine about later.

"Seems like you've been ditched." He smirks, sensing the way you're shying away.

"So it seems." You say bitterly.

"Can I entertain you with my company?" He raises his hairless eyebrow.

You're tempted to just dismiss this guy, but you're already out of the safety of your home. Might as well get drunk now.

Wade talks at an impressive speed and you almost can't catch up to him. He cracks so many jokes that by the end of your second beer, your face is flushed with laughter.

"So... You don't look like someone who usually goes out to have fun, doll face." He pries.

"No, I don't." You say quietly, a sigh escaping your lips.

"Why, then? Why put the effort in dolling yourself up when we both know you'd rather be watching Gilmore Girls in the comfort of your home?"

"I haven't been a good friend lately." You admit, almost meekly, biting the inside of your cheek - another nasty habit that came with the anxiety.

"What's eating you up alive, doll face?"

His question almost makes you choke. How could you tell him that what has been eating you alive is yourself? Your own thoughts? Your low self esteem and your self depreciation? How do you tell him you don't know what the fuck happened between your high school years and college, why your mind is playing tricks on you?

"Please." Your eyes are blinking with unshed tears.

His gaze softens, and he leans in closer, the soft fabric of his hoodie brushing against your forearm.

"Maya is a sweetheart, but we both know she's not that good of a friend. Not if the only way she can gets you to leave your house is by guilt tripping you into it." He speaks in a hushed tone. "Specially if she drops you the moment she sees her boyfriend."

You look up, your gaze finding his.

"You have such gentle eyes." You blurt out.

He wheezes. Wheezes.

"Wow, let's cut your alcohol, okay? Goddamnit, doll face, I'm the ugliest thing to ever exist since Wes Craven created Freddy Krueger." He mumbles the last part, grabbing a water bottle and twisting the cap for you. "Here. Drink it up. Yes, girl!"

"Are you sure this won't upset my stomach?" You raise your eyebrow, eating your second chimichanga.

Wade rolls his eyes, chewing on his.

You two are sitting on the curb, eating deep fried burritos and drinking soda. Not how you pictured how your night would turn out to be, but much better than what you expected.

"Listen, doll face, did I ever let you down?"

"I literally met you two hours ago."

"Exactly."

"So... Why entertain me?" You can't help but ask.

Wade pauses. He thought you were the cutest thing in the world when he saw you, all wide eyed and brooding, a little scowl on your gorgeous face.

"You seemed like you needed saving." He decides on telling a half-truth instead.

"Is this your thing? Saving damsels in distress?"

He contemplates it. There was nothing heroic about how he acted, or his job, or his personality, for all that mattered. Did he have an ulterior motive to invite you to drink with him? Maybe. But who didn't have ulterior motives?

"No, doll face. Being a hero is not how I operate."

"Are you a mercenary, too?"

His grin widens. Of course.

"It's a long story, doll face. Maybe I'll tell you someday."

"Hmm, is there gonna be a next time, then?"

"It depends. Do you wanna hang out with my ugly ass mug in the foreseeable future?"

This time, you roll your eyes.

Wade Wilson got under your skin in a way that no one else did.

It started with the way he cracked jokes at everything.

Then, his unexpected late night visits, where he brought some take out and you'd both eat it together sitting by your balcony.

Then, he came to you wounded, with more tears and bullet holes you were comfortable with – now that you knew about his healing factor and what triggered it, you thought you'd get used to seeing his guts by now.

Spoiler alert: you didn't.

It wasn't until you cried and sobbed on his chest, wondering if you were a failure, externalizing all your insecurities and doubts and fears, that you realized you actually made a friend.

Wade trotting in your place with his ridiculous crocs, a popcorn bowl and a beer on his hand should've give it away.

"I love you." You blurted out, so unexpectedly that he snapped his head to you, a shocked look on his face.

"You... What?"

"You're like my best friend now. And I love you. Deal with it." You repeat, this time more confidently, crossing your arms over your chest, as if daring him to state otherwise.

"Wow, you're in love with me!" Wade squeals like a school girl.

"Wade, that's not-"

"I mean, why wouldn't you? When I'm all that." He points to himself with a chuckle. "So, when did it happen? Did you get lost in my gentle eyes?" He blinks in an affected way.

You sighed. "I take it back. I hate you."

"Suuuure."

"Just press play on the fucking movie." You mumble, plopping next to him on the couch.

#deadpool #deadpool x wolverine #deadpool x reader #wade wilson #wade wilson x reader

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inkskinned · 1 year

Note

im having a particularly terrible night with urges and imagery that i dont know how to handle. i gave in to some things. held back on some others. but im barely holding on, dear internet stranger.

you do not owe me your time or your words.. but if you could write some hope into existence for me.. i would be unendingly grateful to you.

please. tell me how you do it. tell me how you survive. because im not so sure i can get through the fifteen days it'll take to get to my seventeenth birthday.

could you please give me something to place my faith in? i dont think the universe is watching out for me anymore.

i don't usually answer these, because i am not a professional, and you deserve professional help. when i was 17 i was terrified of the idea of professional help, because my household was extremely unsafe, and made it clear that if i ever chose to get help, i would be punished for it.

i hope this is not your case. i hope that you can call someone, and they can take you where you should go.

but i will give you the advice that i wish i got, when i couldn't get help at 17, when i was so bad that years later, i literally don't-know-how-i-survived it: what you want is peace, not death. your brain is sick. it has romanticized an ending where there are no consequences. where effort isn't necessary. where you can just... forget.

you want peace. that is a normal, human thing to want. maybe it feels more like you want quiet. or just... to take a break for a second.

here is what i will say: to end yourself means you never get to experience what it's like to actually be happy. i thought i knew what it was like, and i was bitter about it. i'd say - i've been happy, it's not worth it, because i didn't know what i was missing. i thought that happiness meant having a partner or having a job or money or a college degree. it sounded like effort. it sounded like something that had to happen to me.

for the first time in my life, just this week, i was able to go to a concert and just-enjoy-it. no liquor, no drugs. just stomping my feet and getting caught up in it. i didn't feel nervous or self-conscious or overwhelmed. i just had a good time. these days have a lot of these firsts for me - it is the first time i can eat cake without crying. it is the first time i can be around an exacto blade without supervision. it is the first time i have too many people to call when i am crying.

i can't tell you where you'll run into happiness, only that, for me, it started once i was out of that fucking house. it started once i figured out where the pain was coming from. once i figured out that i was not possessed, something medical was wrong with me. that i am not stupid or lazy, i have depression and adhd. the first few years were difficult. at 19, during my efforts to recover, i actually got worse by a considerable margin. and then, with time and patience - i got better.

happiness doesn't feel like what you think it will. in movies it's so golden and all-encompassing. but it doesn't fly into your hands when you buy your first car nor does it arrive in the arms of a partner nor does it require passing your classes. happiness came to me on a tuesday in the form of a red-winged blackbird, and i looked at her, and she looked at me, and i said - oh. the whole world suddenly filled itself in with color. like i had been forever-asleep. like every corner of every room was suddenly glistening.

it ended quickly, back then. it just stopped in to check in on me. but it was enough - this thing i had never experienced, but that i knew (logically) could happen. before that, i was only staying because it would make my mom sad if i died. that was my only reason. and then the happiness came, so strange and brilliant and lovely that for years i couldn't even look at it directly.

these days, things are so different. life is so much easier. i don't wish for death because so much of what i have is already at peace. my boss understands when i need a mental health day. people in general are less prone to high school drama. entire communities hold my hand and have my number. i have a car and a dog and a little apartment garden and candles on all available surfaces and today i bought myself a little cake just-to-celebrate-nothing. my body is my own and we are both dancing.

there are so many things i've gotten to taste in the last 10 years. i know, for you, that is an eon, because it's more than half of your life. but if it helps? in the 5 years between 17-21: i filled myself with laughter and love. i got to be a lead in a ballet and got my first tattoo and then my second and pierced my ears the way i'd wanted to (one of them professionally the other over a hot stove with a potato) and i discovered hozier is my favorite singer (i know. he was new back then) and i got my first real job and my first real paycheck and i hadn't ever been seen as smart but then i started to actually treat my adhd as a condition rather than a burden and people started saying you're like the smartest person in the room and my best friend met her husband who i will one day stand next to as maid of honor when he is her groom and i got to help people and make a stupid blog called "inkskinned" and find out that writing is actually my passion and that maybe i'm actually kind of good at it if i just practice and i got to meet my parents' dog (his name is kaiju) and i slept on couches and kissed people and tried new things and learned how to breathe without feeling my chest tighten and that peace is here, on this planet, that peace echoes everywhere, it is in my hair and my homework and my houseplants, it is quiet and divine and mine because i fought for it and i built it and yes i lost hair over it but holy shit the whole world feels like it is shifted through a sunbeam

recently someone asked me if i could go back in time to 6th grade, with all the knowledge i have now, would i? and without thinking, i barked absolutely not. i know i should say it's because i wouldn't want to risk losing any of this stuff - but really it's because i would never survive being a teenager again. it sounds incredibly lame and impossible, fake - but being a teenager was the hardest thing i ever did. i had no voice, no control, only fear and hatred.

but i did survive it. nothing about me is special. nothing about me is stronger than you or better prepared or more efficient. i didn't survive it perfectly. i made a lot of mistakes and lost a lot of friends and harmed myself in ways that i'm still recovering from. but i did survive it. and there is a part of me looking at you in the past and saying - i'm you in the future.

and holy shit. every day. every goddamn day i'm glad we survived to see the rest of it. because you hit 18 and everything changes. like, everything. and holy shit, it is infinitely worth it.

#i hope you are okay #i wish i could help more #i hope the pain eases soon #and i hope that you stay #ps . to those of you reading this thinking i should help you too: please just dm me #it makes me really #really really scared when it's anonymous #bc i cant check in with u #i am not a professional and i am not actually good at helping ppl through their troubles #this is an exception bc they are 16 #not the rule #ps if u misunderstand ''being a teenager is the hardest thing i ever did'' when i mention briefly that i was in unsafe housing...#trust me. it was worse there. by like A HUGE margin #every person raised in unsafe housing nodding their head like . oh yeah worse stuff TECHNICALLY happened after but leaving that home was #legit the hardest thing i ever did

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clockwayswrites · 1 year

Text

Bury the Years: A Desperate Call

WC: 1880, Masterpost CW: blood, mentions of hallucinations, depression, Jason's death and *waves at everything that means*: buried alive, canon typical violence, etc

Dick rolled over in his bed, dragging the cover up over his head with a groan. There was something sticky on the sheet. Blood, he was sure. Last night… last night had been a rough one. Maybe he should have patched himself up a little better before he had crashed in bed, but butterfly bandages had been all he had the energy for. So much for them holding through sleep.

To top it off, his damn phone was going off.

Why had he picked such an annoying ringtone again?

Right, no, Wally had changed it last time he had seen him in… in way too long now. How had it been so long since he had seen any of the Titans? He should fix that. Maybe after he was healed. They’d just look at him with those big sad eyes they always seemed to have for him these days if he showed up like this.

The phone was still ringing.

Hopefully whoever it was would give up soon or go to voicemail and he could get back to sleep. He knew he should get up and deal with whatever wound had opened up, but he was just so damn tired. He didn’t want to get out of bed. If he got out of bed he would have to clean his wound and if he was cleaning his room he would have to shower and if he was going to shower he should do laundry first so he had clean clothing but he shouldn’t do laundry without his wound fixed up. In short, getting out of bed meant having to do everything— having to face everything. It was much nicer in his sheets, even if they were a little sticky with blood.

The ringing stopped.

Dick let out a soft breath of air and tucked his face a little further into his pillow.

The phone started ringing again. Dick cursed, threw the sheet off of him, and grabbed the phone.

“What?” he snapped.

“Dick?”

No.

No it couldn’t be. He had… the hallucinations had gotten better. And they had never used the phone before. They were always just there. But it… this was… it sounded like…

“Dick? Are… are you there?”

It sounded like…

“Jay?” his voice cracked around the name, around his name. It sounded like Jason, his little brother, the one he had failed.

“Dick,” Jay said, own voice not doing any better. There was something else to it. It sounded deeper and rougher but Dick still knew it. That was still his little brother. “Dick, I… please… I need… I need your help. I can’t save him alone. I need you, Big Bird.”

“Where are you?” Dick asked. He stumbled over discarded escrima sticks and clothing in his rush to the bathroom. His hands shook as he dug around in the first aid kit for some fresh gauze. He could stitch it up later, he had to get to Jay.

“Crime Alley, where else,” Jason said with a bitter laugh that made Dick fumble the box he was holding. Oh how it hurt to hear his little wing laugh like that! Oh how it was so amazing to hear his little wing laugh again, even if it sounded like the laugh was clawing its way out of Jay’s chest. No matter how ugly the sound it was still laughter pushed out by air by lungs by a beating heart. How— “I’m at 3405 Dawson Rd. It’s a… I don’t know, used to be an office building or some shit, but it’s abandoned now. I’m up on the third floor. You have to get in from the outside. Back window is best.”

“Okay. Okay. Can… can you stay on the phone until I get there, okay?” Dick asked, no, pleaded. He couldn’t hang up. If he hung up all of this might not be real and Jay might be gone and Dick… he couldn’t go through that again.

He needed this to be real.

“I, yeah, yeah, sure, I can,” Jason said. There was noise on his side of the call, the rusting of that cheap sort of nylon material.

“Do you… do you need me to bring anything?” Dick asked, hopping towards the door as he dragged on underwear and then jeans that were clean enough. He tugged a shirt on then back off and rushed back to the bathroom to actually stick a new wad of gauze onto his side.

“Yes, no, just… just get here first?”

“Okay, yeah, of course, I’ll be there. I’m heading out of my door right now,” Dick said as he grabbed another shirt from the back of the couch and tugged it on over his head. He dug around for a comm, transferred the call to it, and stuck it in his ear. “You still there Little Wing?”

“Still here.” There was that laugh again that made Dick’s soul soar and sob in equal measure.

“Okay. I’ve got you in my ear now. I’m going to be over as quick as I can. Just… how about you keep talking to me.”

“’Bout what?” Jason rasped.

“Let’s start with a status report, okay? Are you injured?”

Are you still beaten to a pulp?

Is your head still smashed in?

Are you still broken?

“No. I haven’t been injured for… since… no. Just my palms a little scraped up from climbing in and out of this place, didn’t even bleed.”

“Okay.” That was… That was a relief. That was a good start. “You… you said you needed my help to save him? Can you tell me what’s going on with him?”

“Can… can that wait till you’re here?”

“Yeah, okay, sure Little Wing. What do you want to talk about instead?”

“Can you… that’s. Um… I don’t know? How… how about you tell me about Gotham? I guess. Not, I can’t do the family yet. Just… just tell me about the city.”

“Okay, well, let me tell you about the Gotham Knights last season.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse. Way worse,” Dick said and filled the line with worthless, mindless chatter as he raced towards the address that Jason had given him.

The building really did look abandoned. There wasn’t all that much too it anymore. The bottom floor was completely boarded up, but the barricade had been pried away over time. The insides were looted, obviously lived in once, and currently full of trash and mold and all the nasty grime of Gotham. It looked like the stairs were out. That must have been why Jason chose it; not many people could scale up three stories on a mostly gone fire escape.

Dick decided to go up the neighboring building and jump over. “You’re making me get my cardio in today, huh?”

“As if that will get your heart rate up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Become a super skilled gymnast before hitting the double digits and people think you can do everything.”

Jason’s snort buzzed across the line. “Can’t you do everything?”

“I couldn’t save you.” Dick hit the rusted fire escape with a clang. He was half worried Jason had hung up on him. Fuck he shouldn’t have said that. No, he could faintly hear Jason softly reassuring someone. “I’m at the window, can I come in?”

“…yeah. We’re on the room to the right. Just… go slowly, okay?”

“Okay. It’s just me, I’m alone. I’m going through the window now,” Dick said. He slid up the old frame carefully, searching his fingers along it to undo some classic Bat booby traps as he lifted it. Sometimes you really didn’t need more than some thread and something noisy like an empty can.

“Can’t get anything past you, can I?”

“Not when I’m the one who made the tricks,” Dick said.

The door was right there.

It was already open.

He took a breath and walked through.

That… that was really Jason. Alive. Alive and grown up, big as a tank, but Dick would know those expressive eyes anywhere, that slightly crooked slope of the nose, that furrowed brow. Jason was so big and so grown up, but still just a kid, hardly an adult at only nineteen. He was sitting on a pile of sleeping bags and ratty blankets on the floor with another kid his age curled up on his lap; a kid that looked like a touch would shatter him.

Dick crouched down, keeping his hands visible as he was very aware of another set of blue-green eyes watching him.

“Hey, Jay,” he said after clearing his throat.

God he wanted to rush over there and pull Jason into his arms. He wanted to touch, to have that last bit of assurance that this was real.

“Hey, Dick,” Jason said, the words echoing through the earpiece before Jason ended the call.

Jason let the phone fall, like he couldn’t hold up his arm any longer. It thumped loudly as it hit the sleeping bags and the guy in Jason’s lap flinched so hard that Dick was worried he had hurt something.

“Sorry, sorry lily-loo. Didn’t mean to let it fall that hard,” Jason said. He raised his arm (it looked like it weighed a million pounds) and carded gentle fingers through the other’s messy black and white hair.

Black and white just like Jason’s was, only all of the stranger’s white was on the lower part, like an under dye. Jason’s was right at his hairline, just slightly off center. Dick’s eyes flicked between the two.

“This is just my brother,” Jason murmured. “I told you about him, remember? Dick? He won’t hurt you. He’s going to help us.”

“That’s right,” Dick said in a soft tone. He crept a few feet closer before he fluidly folded his legs under him and took a seat on the grimy floor. “I’m here to help. I’d do anything for my brother.”

“Yeah,” Jason croaked after a moment. He took a shuddering breath and pressed a kiss to the other guy’s temple. “Yeah.”

“I mean it, Jay. What do you need? Other than, you know… the obvious?” Dick said as he motioned to the room around them.

Jason laughed that bitter laugh again. “Mostly… mostly the obvious to start. Somewhere safe to be. Something better to sleep on. Food. Food is the most important. Pillbug here… he’s not doing well. I’ve been trying to get his weight up, but I just can’t… I can’t do enough or do it fast enough. He doesn’t like it when I leave, but I’m afraid to take him out there…”

“Okay, okay Jay. We can work on all of that. Malnourished then? And hand injuries?” Dick asked, glancing over the bandaged fingers. “What else? What happened to him, little wing?”

What happened to you, Dick wanted to ask.

Jason glanced back up at Dick. His eyes were greener than before, Dick swore it. It couldn’t just be the lighting. Jason’s green gaze seemed to pin him to the spot, not that Dick was going anywhere, not with Jason back. He wouldn’t leave his little brother when he needed him again.

“He was alive, Dick. He was alive inside his own coffin. He was alive and screaming and trying to claw his way out of it… just like I did.”

---

AN: So! You all voted for me to make you cry. And it's Trauma Tuesday! Not sure if I managed it, but hopefully at least tugged at some heart strings! This whole fic is an OOF, ngl.

Not sure if this will be how it starts or if it starts with Jason visiting the graveyard he was buried in, freshly back to Gotham, and hearing screaming. :3 I'll have to see when I can next get back to it! Which likely won't be quickly, having a really hard time of it with my hands right at the moment. Stay delightful, darlings!

I no longer tag people, but you can subscribe on the master post. I don't know when this one will next be updated! This was a Trauma Tuesday Special.

#dp x dc #dead on main #bury the years

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