#abit

wiwi knives out radiohead animatic..... what who said that

The Wrong Choice 

Rafe Cameron

Tags: ex Rafe Cameron • current boyfriend Topper • emotional angst • fractured memories • toxic Topper moments • past trauma • body image struggles • quiet insecurities • subtle mentions of disordered eating • heartbreak in hindsight

This was inspired by that one scene in Made of Honour. Please let me know you got the cake reference. I just had to. 

“Oh my God, look at this one,” I said, smiling as I reached for the hanger, my fingers brushing over the soft fabric of the dress.

We had already walked past so many racks that the numbers didn’t feel real anymore. Ten, twelve, twenty. I’d lost count somewhere between the sequins and the silk. The store smelled like new clothes and cheap perfume, the kind that clung to the back of your throat. Soft pop music played overhead, too low to really hear the words, just a steady beat that filled the empty spaces.

Midsummers was coming up fast, and each time I checked the date on my phone, it felt closer than it should. I wanted to feel beautiful. Just once. Just for him.

I held the dress out in front of me, letting the fabric fall and sway. It was the kind of dress I’d never usually pick for myself, a little out of my comfort zone, but that was the point. I’d imagined the moment in my head: me holding it up, him looking over, his eyes lighting up, that crooked smile starting at the corner of his mouth. Maybe he’d tease me a little, say something like, “You’re really going to make everyone stare,” and then pull me in and tell me I’d look perfect.

I turned, already half-smiling, expecting a reaction. A glance. Something.

But Topper’s voice cut through the moment, distant and distracted. “Kelce, that’s crazy, man.”

I blinked.

He was on the phone.

Of course he was.

The dress drooped slightly in my hands as I watched him. He was leaning against the end of the rack, one hand shoved into the pocket of his shorts, the other holding his phone up to his ear. His head was tilted, eyes unfocused, like he wasn’t really here in the store with me at all. His thumb moved lazily along the edge of his phone case, tracing the same spot over and over.

“Top?” I tried again, my voice softer this time, like maybe if I didn’t sound too needy, he wouldn’t snap. I hated that I even had to think like that, measuring the volume of my voice, the shape of my words.

He huffed, pulling the phone away from his ear like I’d interrupted something important. His eyes flicked to me, annoyed, the way someone might look at a buzzing fly.

“What?” he said, sharp and impatient, like I was a chore he’d forgotten to do.

I swallowed, fingers tightening around the hanger until the thin plastic dug into my skin. I forced my lips into a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

“The dress,” I said, trying to keep my tone light, trying to sound like this was fun and easy and not like my chest felt tight. “Do you like it?”

He barely glanced up. His eyes skimmed over me and the dress in one careless sweep.

“Uh, yeah,” he muttered, already looking back down at his screen. “Go pay for it,” he added, like it was an afterthought, then lifted the phone back to his ear.

His attention snapped away from me as easily as it always did, like changing the channel.

I stood there for a second, dress still in hand, the noise of the store fading into a dull hum around me. My heart sank in that quiet, familiar way. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a sharp, sudden pain. It was more like something inside me folding in on itself, like I’d reached out and touched something that wasn’t there.

“Okay…” I breathed, the word trailing off as I exhaled.

My chest felt tight. Not the kind of tight that makes you cry in the middle of a store or start a fight, but the kind that just sits there, heavy and invisible. The kind that makes you feel stupid for expecting anything different.

I turned back toward the register, the dress suddenly heavier in my hands. The fabric that had felt soft and exciting a few minutes ago now felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone he might actually look at.

It really was beautiful. The color was going to look good against my skin, and when I held it up in the mirror, I could almost see it. I could almost see us. I’d imagined him smiling when he saw it, maybe teasing me, maybe pulling me close and saying I’d look perfect in it.

But he hadn’t even looked.

The cashier gave me a small, polite smile as I stepped up to the counter, placing the dress down carefully like it was fragile. I pulled out my card, hands moving on their own, the routine so automatic it felt separate from me.

I didn’t say anything else to him.

Because I knew how this went. I’d wear the dress. I’d smile. I’d pretend. He would stand next to me, but his attention would be somewhere else, on Kelce or whoever else was more interesting than me. I’d laugh at the right moments, hold his hand when he wanted me to, and pretend that was enough.

And I’d keep hoping that one day, he’d notice.

Flashback

The boutique smelled like expensive perfume and new fabric, the kind of place I usually just walked past and stared at through the windows. Soft music floated through the air, and every rack was lined with dresses that looked like they belonged on mannequins, not on someone like me.

I was trailing my fingers along the hangers, barely letting the different textures brush my skin, when something made me stop. My hand froze on one dress tucked between a dozen others.

“Oh my God, Rafe,” I said, smiling a little as I reached for the hanger. “This dress.” My fingers brushed the silky fabric and a shiver ran through me. It felt smooth and expensive, like it would slip right through my hands if I wasn’t careful.

Rafe stepped closer, his warmth suddenly at my back, his hand resting gently on the small of it. For once, he wasn’t on his phone. He wasn’t looking around, bored or distracted. He was just there, with me, like I was the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.

“You like it?” he asked, his voice low and warm near my ear. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze move over the dress, slow and thoughtful, like he was already picturing it on me.

I nodded, feeling a wave of shyness crawl up my neck under the way he was looking at me. “I think so. I mean… I don’t know. Maybe it’s too much,” I said, laughing nervously as I held the hanger up a little, trying to imagine myself actually wearing it.

He tilted his head, studying me, that soft smile forming on his lips. The one that always made my chest flutter in this stupid, uncontrollable way. “It’s not too much. It’s perfect,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’d look beautiful in it.”

My cheeks burned, and I had to look away for a second, staring at the dress instead of him. My fingers tightened around the hanger, knuckles going white. “You really think so?” I asked, even though I could already hear the certainty in his voice.

“I know so,” he said, and before I could say anything else, he slipped the hanger out of my hands. I blinked, caught off guard as he turned and started walking toward the counter with the dress.

“Rafe, wait, I can…” I started, reaching out like I could pull the moment back.

He didn’t give me the chance. He was already at the register, handing over his card like it was nothing. “I’ve got it,” he said simply, glancing back at me with that steady look that always made me feel like I could breathe easier. “You deserve to feel good in something that makes you smile.”

I stood there for a moment, just watching him, my heart swelling in that quiet, aching way that always caught me off guard. It wasn’t about the dress. It wasn’t about the money or the store or the stupid little bag they were folding it into.

It was him.

Because he saw me. He noticed the way my fingers lingered on the fabric. He listened when I doubted myself. He cared enough to do something about it without making a scene, without making me feel small.

When he came back, dress bag in hand, the plastic rustling softly between us, he leaned in and pressed a light kiss to my temple. His lips were warm against my skin, and I closed my eyes for half a second, just soaking it in.

“Now we just need shoes,” he teased, voice amused as he pulled back.

I laughed softly, the sound slipping out before I could stop it, and slid my hand into his. His fingers curled around mine like they belonged there. “You’re dangerous,” I said, shaking my head even though I was still smiling.

He grinned, that familiar spark in his eyes. “Only for you.”

—

Midsummers always smelled like salt and money and sugar, but the cake was the only part that ever felt soft.

They’d been setting up all day. I’d watched from the balcony earlier as staff in crisp white shirts moved like pieces on a game board, laying linen, polishing glassware, arranging centerpieces that probably cost more than my car. The ocean breeze kept sneaking in and tugging at the napkins, carrying that familiar mix of brine and boat fuel, perfume and money. By the time the sun went down, everything glittered. The chandeliers above us threw light across gold-rimmed plates and crystal like someone had scattered stars indoors.

But for me, it always came down to the cake.

When the server set the slice between us, I forgot myself for a second. The piece they gave Topper and me looked like something out of a magazine. Dark as velvet, mirror glaze catching the chandelier light so perfectly it looked like a tiny black lake, so glossy I could almost see my reflection in it. I felt my eyes widen before I could stop them.

I leaned in just a little and breathed in the smell. Cocoa, rich and deep, with that sharp sweetness of raspberry curling through it. For a heartbeat, I felt like a kid sneaking dessert before dinner, like I was getting away with something.

“Mm, I love chocolate,” I said, half to myself, half to the cake.

Tradition said couples were supposed to share Ward Cameron’s favorite cake at Midsummers. Two tiers of dark chocolate, raspberry coulis tucked between the layers like a secret, the glossy finish so perfectly smooth it held reflections. People clapped when it was wheeled out. Phones came up to take pictures. It was all very dramatic.

It was silly, I knew that. Performative. Just another way to show off. But it was also the best part of the night as far as I was concerned.

I picked up my fork, my attention narrowing to that edge where the glaze thinned and the raspberry bled brighter at the seam. I wanted that bite, right where everything met. I was already tilting my wrist when Topper’s hand shot out.

His fingers closed over my wrist, light but final.

“No, no. Don’t do that.”

I blinked and froze, the fork hovering just over the plate. “What? Why?”

He shook his head, that little dismissive motion he did when he was already half annoyed with me. Like I’d done something wrong and he didn’t feel like explaining why.

“Just don’t. Here.” He took the knife from the tray, lined it up too carefully, and carved off a sliver so small it barely caught any of the filling. He slid it onto the tiny side plate in front of me like he was doing something kind. “That’s enough. You don’t want to overdo it.”

It was only cake.

But my heart still dropped.

It wasn’t about the sugar. It was about being allowed to want something without having to defend it first. About reaching for softness and not having someone’s hand land on your wrist.

“I can handle a bigger piece,” I said, trying to keep my voice softer than the ache building in my chest. I didn’t want to start a scene. “It’s just this once. It’s Midsummers.”

He didn’t look at me when he answered.

“Babe, relax. I’m just helping. You’ll thank me later.” He nudged the tiny plate toward me, his lips flattening into that annoyed half-smile that always meant the conversation was already over. “Don’t make a thing out of it.”

The fork felt heavier in my hand.

I took the bite he’d decided was mine. The cake tasted beautiful and small. The tart raspberry sparked against the bitter chocolate, the kind of perfect balance that usually made my eyes close for a second. This time, it was gone too fast. I felt like a guest at my own life, like I’d been invited to the table but only allowed one bite.

I let my gaze drift away because if I kept looking at him, at his easy certainty, I might say something I couldn’t take back.

A few rows down, I spotted Rafe.

He sat opposite me, Wheezie tucked close at his side like she always was when the room felt too big. He’d already taken his jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, posture loose in a way that told me he wasn’t pretending to enjoy himself for anyone’s benefit. Their slice of cake was already cut into two generous halves, the fork passing back and forth between them in a quiet, easy rhythm that didn’t need permission.

Of course he’d asked the server for two forks. Ward never let Wheezie have “his special cake.” It was this unspoken rule everyone had just absorbed over the years, one of those things you stopped questioning out loud. But Rafe had always found a way to make those rules softer for her.

He looked up and found me like he’d felt my eyes.

For a second there was a question in his expression, a quick flicker across his features as he took me in. Then his gaze slid to the tiny plate by my hand, to the practically invisible sliver of cake I was making last. Something in his face shifted. Understanding, maybe. Or sadness. Or just that quiet recognition you feel when you watch someone swallow down a feeling instead of speaking it.

I tried to smile so he wouldn’t worry, so he wouldn’t think he had to do anything.

It came out thin but real.

His mouth curled up at one corner in answer, a small, steadying thing that anchored me for a second. Then he turned back to Wheezie and cut her another bite like it was the most natural thing in the world to make sure she got enough.

“See?” Topper murmured beside me, mistaking my silence for agreement instead of exhaustion. He lifted his own fork and took a mouthful of cake that was at least three, maybe four times the size of mine. “Perfect. You don’t need more.”

Need.

The word lodged in my mouth like a pebble I couldn’t spit out.

I didn’t argue. Not because I agreed, but because I was tired. Tired of being told what I did and didn’t need. Tired of wanting softness and getting rules. Tired of feeling like wanting anything too much made me difficult.

“Do you” I tried again, forcing my voice to sound light. “Do you at least like it?”

“It’s cake,” he said, already glancing past me toward Kelce at the next table, attention leaving me like I’d flipped a switch. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

Something in me folded quietly.

Not a dramatic shatter. Just a small crease, like someone had taken a corner of me and pressed it down. The kind of crease you only notice later, when you try to smooth it out and it stays.

Around us, the room sparkled. Light pooled on polished wood, caught in sequins and jewelry, turned every laugh into something sharper than it needed to be. Laughter bit at the edges of the room, too bright, too brittle. The band slipped from one song into another like a silk ribbon pulled through someone’s fingers, seamless and practiced.

I stared past Topper at the main cake a few tables over. It sat on its pedestal like a centerpiece to the whole night, the glossy surface reflecting the chandelier above in a scatter of tiny starbursts.

I thought about how mirrors don’t care what they hold. They just show you what’s there, what you’re willing to look at.

I took another small bite from the sliver on my plate and let it melt slowly on my tongue, making it last. If there was one thing I could control, it was that. The way I let sweetness live in my mouth a moment longer than it was allowed to live on my plate.

Across the room, Rafe laughed at something Wheezie said. His face softened in a way most people never saw. He slid the plate closer to her and nudged her hand with the fork, his eyes warm with quiet encouragement.

Like a secret message: it’s okay to want more.

I looked back at my own plate, almost empty now, and felt that familiar quiet ache press against my ribs. I told myself it was only cake. Just sugar and flour and fruit and tradition.

It should’ve been only cake.

But sometimes it’s not about the thing you can’t have.

It’s about the part of you that keeps asking anyway.

Flashback

Chocolate’s my favorite.

I could already smell it before the server even set the plate down, that rich mix of cocoa and sugar and something warm that always reminded me of winters in Figure Eight. My breath caught when he eased the slice of Ward Cameron’s signature cake between us, the soft clink of china on the table somehow making the moment feel official.

My eyes lit up before I could stop myself. The cake looked ridiculous in the best way. Thick, glossy mirror glaze wrapped around impossibly dark layers of sponge, and a bright streak of raspberry coulis shone against it like a little red river. My mouth actually watered.

Across from me, Rafe’s grin spread slow and smug as he straightened his cufflinks, like this was just another Tuesday and not the most extravagant dessert I’d ever seen. “You know my dad practically gagged when he heard this baby runs seven-fifty?” he said, his tone warm and teasing.

My chest tightened with happiness. I loved this side of him, the one that laughed at the price tags and the name on the menu, like it was all some big inside joke we were in on together.

“Seven-fifty? Are you serious?” I asked, eyes wide, staring at the decadent slice resting between our plates. For seven hundred fifty dollars, the cake should’ve sung to us or something, but honestly, just looking at it felt close enough.

He leaned in like he was about to share state secrets. “Deadly serious.” His breath brushed my cheek, and I could smell his cologne over the sugar and chocolate.

I giggled, unable to help it. “Of course I’m dating the Cameron heir. Of course it costs more than my tuition.” The words slipped out lightly, but there was a truth underneath them that made my heart squeeze. I didn’t belong to his world of private chefs and signature desserts, but sitting there with him, I almost believed I did.

He laughed softly, the sound low and familiar. “Hey, quality counts. And you’re worth every decadent bite.”

Heat rushed to my face, and I ducked my head for a second, watching his hands instead. His fingers were steady as he cut me a generous piece, the fork sliding through the layers like they were nothing. He lifted the fork to my lips, eyes on me the whole time.

The first taste was everything I remembered and more. The tart raspberry coulis sparked bright against the rich dark chocolate, and the texture was so smooth it almost melted as soon as it hit my tongue. I closed my eyes in pure bliss, the kind of happiness that made everything else go quiet.

He didn’t say anything at first. I could feel him watching me, waiting.

When I opened my eyes, he was smirking, fond amusement softening the sharp lines of his face. “Is it as good as you remember?”

“As good as ever, Rafey,” I replied, the pet name slipping out easily. I giggled and reached for the fork, eager for another bite.

I’d just taken the handle when it happened. His fork wobbled in his grip, the slice sliding forward like it was in slow motion, and before either of us could react, a glossy dollop of mirror glaze plopped right onto his crisp suit pants.

His eyes widened in mock horror as he stared down at the mess. For a second he just froze, and then his mouth twitched.

“Oh no,” he murmured, his voice soft with amusement as he dabbed at the stain with a folded white napkin. The black fabric only smeared the chocolate more, turning the perfect pants into something a little human.

I should’ve apologized. I should’ve grabbed another napkin and fussed over him. Instead, a little burst of mischief took over. I dipped my fingertip in the frosting clinging to the edge of the plate and leaned across the table.

“Hold still,” I said, even though he barely had time to react.

I pressed a tiny smear of frosting onto his cheek.

He blinked, then shook his head as laughter bubbled up from his chest. The sound loosened something in me, made the restaurant around us blur for a second. The dim lights, the quiet clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversations at other tables. None of it really mattered.

Rafe swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand and then reached for his fork again, eyes glinting. We fed each other the rest of the slice, passing the fork back and forth across the table. Every time a stray drip escaped and threatened his shirt or the tablecloth, another round of giggles erupted from me.

By the time we scraped the last smear of chocolate from the plate, nothing remained but the sweetness lingering on our smiles.

—

Rafes Pov

I laughed too loud and drained the last of my bourbon. The amber liquid burned going down, like a warning I had ignored a dozen times before. The ice knocked against my teeth and I winced, but I still tipped the glass higher, chasing that familiar sting.

Kelce lounged beside me at the polished mahogany bar, leaning back like he owned the place. He had that permanent half-smirk on his face, the one that always made it seem like he was in on some joke the rest of us had missed. Even so, his eyes were fixed on the glass in front of him, watching the way the light caught the brown swirl of his drink.

“She’s a bitch, man,” he muttered, swirling his bourbon like it held all the answers neither of us really wanted.

I pretended not to hear him. My jaw worked, like I was grinding the words up and swallowing them whole. The bartender moved in front of us, wiping the counter with a clean white rag, pretending not to listen. Everyone in this town pretended not to listen.

The noise from the party bled in through the open French doors behind us. Laughter, clinking glasses, the bass from some song I could not even place anymore. It all blended together into this dull roar, the kind that usually comforted me. Tonight it just felt loud and far away.

Then Toppers’s voice cut through the chatter beyond the doors, crystal clear and sharp enough to slice straight through my spine.

“I just don’t want you dressed like a slut.”

My chest seized. The air in my lungs stalled. I froze with my empty glass halfway off the bar. For a second, I hoped I had misheard. I knew I had not.

Y/N’s scoff followed a second later. I could picture it without even turning around. The way her lip curled, the way her eyes narrowed.

“That’s not fair, Topper.” Her voice cracked on fair, like the word itself hurt to say. Like she was apologizing for existing in her own skin.

My jaw clamped shut so hard I bit the inside of my cheek. Copper flooded my mouth. My hand shook on the glass, the last drop of bourbon sloshing against the rim. She sounded small. Vulnerable. Not like the girl who rolled her eyes at us, who snapped back when Kelce or Topper or even I said something stupid. Not like the girl who laughed like she did not care who heard.

That should have been my cue. I should have stepped outside, walked straight through those French doors, pulled her into my arms and told her she was enough. More than enough. That every idiot in this house could stare for the rest of their lives and still never understand how lucky they were just to look at her.

But my feet stayed glued to the scuffed floorboards.

Kelce’s laughter rasped in my ear, rough and humorless. “You okay, Rafe?” He studied me out of the corner of his eye, one eyebrow raised like he already knew the answer.

“Yeah.” My voice came out tight. I shook my head, forced out a breathy sigh and turned back to the bar like none of this mattered. I set the glass down a little too hard. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

I was not fine. Not even close.

The truth sat heavy in my chest, thick and sour, worse than any shot I had ever downed. I hated that she was with him. Topper, with his perfect hair and his country club manners and his fake concern. This guy who could not see her worth, who cut her down for the way her dress hugged her curves like it was something shameful.

I had seen her when she walked in. The way the room went quiet for half a second. The way the string lights caught the shimmer of her dress. She looked like the kind of girl you only got close to if you were very lucky or very stupid. Topper was both. He should have been the one hyping her up, spinning her around, bragging that she was his. Instead, the night she deserved to shine, he tried to dim her light with one ugly, lazy word.

The bourbon I had already swallowed turned sour in my throat. I ran my tongue along my teeth and tasted blood and smoke.

I slid off the stool, my knees a little looser than I wanted to admit. I tugged at the cuff of my sport coat, smoothing the fabric like I could button up the ache in my chest, like I could hide it under pressed linen and a Rolex.

The air shifted when I moved closer to the doors. The warm buzz of the bar faded under the cooler breeze drifting in from outside. I paused just inside the threshold, the faint smell of salt and cut grass mixing with perfume and cheap beer.

Outside, Y/N stood alone under the glimmer of string lights. They were strung haphazardly along the patio, drooping in places, but from where I stood it looked like someone had hung them just for her. The soft glow lit up the curve of her shoulders, the line of her neck. Her shoulders trembled. She hugged herself, fingers digging into her bare arms like she was trying to hold herself together.

Topper was already gone, swallowed by the crowd, probably off to flirt with someone else and pretend it did not count. That was his favorite trick. Walk away, then act like he never did anything wrong when she finally broke.

I should have walked over to her right then. Should have crossed the space between us in three long strides. Should have stepped into her orbit, let her see every honest thought on my face for once. Should have told her she was nothing like the word he had thrown at her. Told her that if anything, the dress did not do her justice. That there was nothing she needed to fix or hide.

But the distance between the bar and the patio might as well have been a mile. Every step I did not take felt like proof of what I already knew about myself. I was a coward when it counted.

I stayed there long enough to feel it, that moment when the chance started to slip. Her hand came up to swipe at her cheek. She tilted her head back, blinking fast, trying to keep her mascara from smudging. A couple brushed past her, laughing, not even noticing the way she flinched when someone bumped her shoulder.

I was already too late. And I hated that more than anything.

Kelce clapped me on the back hard enough to jolt me forward a step. “Come on, let’s grab another round. Bartender’s finally paying attention again.”

I nodded without looking at him. My gaze stayed locked on the patio doors, on the small figure standing just outside them. My reflection ghosted in the glass. I looked like every version of myself I could not stand. Expensive jacket, bored eyes, the kind of guy who let everyone assume he did not care.

Eventually, I turned away and downed another shot. The burn clawed its way down my throat, chasing the last of my courage away. I set the glass down and listened to it clink against the wood, like a period at the end of a sentence I hated.

I knew that if I didn’t move now, I would spend the rest of the night watching her disappear from my life in slow motion. One sarcastic bounce of her laughter at Topper’s jokes. One reluctant smile at his smug grin. One more time she leaned into his side instead of mine.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and stared through the doors again. She shifted her weight from one heel to the other and wrapped her arms tighter around herself.

-I got news that 517 is out by my fyp (lol i got spoilers too) and

Crystal Choi crying:

-When I reread I felt bad for crystal ☹️,I mean her bodyguards fighting each other (gun was with her from the old chap) and Gun is in prison and most of all crystal still love her dad (Charles choi)

Samuel Seo driving With his hair slicked back:

-*coughs* BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK

Gitae Kim appearing:

-*breathes in* WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF

I MEAN LOOK AT HIM

HE'S SO FINEEEEEEE

anyways...

Lookism Theory:

I kept thinking "Why does he prioritize the leather jacket?" It mayb because that jacket might be Gabryong's (mayb he'll leave it at Charles choi funeral 🤷‍♀️) Gabryong might give him the jacket OR he just stole it from him after he killed him 😂

Everybody should go follow @abit-omori their skrinklies are the most sillies that have ever sillied and they deserve love and attention

Answers Buried in Time

Chapter 22: Epilogue

A timeline continues...

Armed with answers that were buried in time, the group can move forward. Into a bright future...

I hope you know

That I'm always coming home

Gonna do Upper Sephirahs + Gebura then

Reader is injured in various ways. If you dont want to read about it - please dont.

Its still somewhat spoilery. Please scroll past it if you dont want spoilers. I warned you all

Greatest forgiveness (post-meltdown!Sephirahs + injured!(S/O) headcanons)

Malkuth

•she wasnt really sure if you could forgive her for messing up everything completely..

•but she will try to apologize! Malkuth thinks that you should know that she is sorry! Honest!

•its still hurt to see you in scars... But... She will say it. And even if you dont forgive her, Malkuth wont be mad. Its fair. She deserves it

•however, your honest voice that said "i forgive you" will not get out of her head

•its incredible. And Malkuth is happier then she had ever being

Yesod

•packing back and forth. Back and forth. How can he face you? How can he look at you, knowing he is the cause of your pain?

•no, Yesod. Breath (even tho he cant really but you get it). You can do it

•just... Go to (S/O)... And... Apologize... Why is it so difficult to speak now?

•its alright. You forgive him. Its not his fault. He feels better after this whole ordeal and thats what matters

•Yesod will visit you daily. Just to see you. Like he always did during work

Netzach

•first of all: he needs to drink. He cant face you with clear "head"

•now that... That Netzach is pretty drunk, he can face you and talk to you

•you are pretty injured. But it will get better, he promises... You'll get better

•Netzach still doesnt belive you forgive him. Feels like a dream come true, you know?

Hod

•she feels like the worst person ever for making you so weak and almost killed by Sweepers. She really feels terrible...

•.... But to be a better person, you need to face your fears...

•and so Hod does... It never feels good to see someone injured, much less someone who would had died without help

•but she did it. And finally, hears your forgiveness. And just like that, Hod will make sure she will make you healthy again. Its worthy to face your fears to help someone you love

Gebura

• ... She isnt a coward... She is not one... Why is she so damn scared to see you now?

•Gebura... Is not... A coward... But she is one when it comes to facing you. Person she loved and injured greatly... How you risked your life to save other employees and fought with her, knowing Gebura could slice you in half without a second thought

•but only cowards wont face their consequences until its too late to do anything about them...

•Gebura had to prove to herself that she is not one. She will go to you... And ask for forgiveness. Even if you hate her right now and want her to be the last person to visit you