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sixeyesonathiel · 17 days ago

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satoru gets personally victimized when you wear makeup.

not because he doesn't like it—god, you look gorgeous, stunning, ethereal, like some renaissance painting come to life—but because now he can't kiss you without “messing up your hard work” and this is basically torture. cruel and unusual punishment. a war crime against his very soul.

he hovers. actually hovers. floating around you while you're getting ready like the world's most pathetic, lovesick ghost. six-foot-three of pure desperation watching you dab concealer under your eyes with the focus of a surgeon. his hair catches the bathroom light—all mercury-pale strands falling into his face as he tilts his head like a confused bird, tracking every movement of your fingers.

“but what if i just...” his voice goes soft, almost wheedling, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, “one little kiss? just a tiny one? what if i'm really careful? what if i—” his hands flutter uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching like they're fighting invisible restraints.

“satoru.” your tone is flat, unbothered, but there's the tiniest twitch at the corner of your mouth as you catch his reflection in the mirror—those ridiculous lashes of his fluttering with manufactured innocence.

“okay but consider:” he drags out the word, shoulders rolling forward as he leans against the doorframe, “i might die if i don't kiss you.” his voice cracks a little on ‘die’ and he immediately winces at his own dramatics.

you don't even look at him. just keep blending your foundation while he dramatically wilts against the doorframe. actually deflates like a punctured balloon—spine curving inward, head dropping forward until that impossible mess of pale hair curtains his face. his breath fogs the mirror slightly when he sighs.

“you're being ridiculous.” your pinky finger smooths a patch near your temple with surgical precision.

“i'm being deprived.” he slides closer—sock feet silent on the tiles, moving like he's approaching a spooked animal. “what about just... the forehead? that's not makeup territory. that's free real estate.” his eyes go wide and hopeful, irises catching the vanity light like fractured glass.

“your forehead kisses turn into cheek kisses. your cheek kisses turn into—” you pause, meeting his gaze in the reflection, watching the way his pupils dilate slightly when you speak.

“slander. lies. i have excellent self-control.” the words tumble out too fast, his free hand coming up to rake through his hair—an old tell that makes the strands stick up at odd angles, defying gravity in ways that shouldn't be physically possible.

you pause. look at him through the mirror. raise one perfectly sculpted eyebrow that took you twenty minutes to perfect. your lips purse slightly—not enough to disturb your base, just enough to show you're thinking.

“last tuesday. the dinner party. i spent an hour on my lipstick.” your voice is deceptively mild, but your eyes narrow just a fraction.

he has the audacity to grin—slow and crooked, the left side of his mouth pulling higher than the right. his tongue darts out again, a nervous habit. “you looked so good i couldn't help myself.” his voice drops lower, rougher around the edges.

“satoru, you made out with me against the bathroom door. i had to redo everything.” you turn slightly in your chair, giving him your profile, and he tracks the movement like it's choreographed just for him.

“and you looked beautiful the second time too.” he's closer now, close enough that you can see the way his chest rises and falls a little too quickly, the way his fingers keep flexing and unflexing at his sides.

you want to be annoyed. you really do. but he's standing there in his crisp white button-down—sleeves rolled up to reveal those ridiculous forearms, collar slightly wrinkled where he's been tugging at it—looking at you like you hung the moon and personally crafted every star. stupid, beautiful man with his stupid, beautiful face and his complete inability to keep his hands—or mouth—to himself.

the thing is, you like taking care of him. spoiling him. letting him be clingy and needy and utterly devoted. you buy his favorite snacks without being asked. you make sure he eats actual meals instead of just dessert. you let him use your expensive skincare because your face is softer and we're sharing lives anyway, aren't we, baby?

but this? this is a problem.

“we're going to be late,” you mutter, reaching for your lipstick. your movements are sharp, efficient, but there's something almost protective in the way you handle the tube.

“we're always late. fashionably late. it's our brand.” he shifts his weight from foot to foot, a subtle bounce that makes his hair flutter.

you uncap the tube—a beautiful deep red that cost more than some people's rent—and he literally whimpers. whimpers. the sound catches in his throat like he tried to swallow it but failed, raw and needy in a way that makes heat pool low in your stomach despite yourself. his hands come up to press against his chest, fingers splaying wide over his heart like he's trying to keep it from bursting out of his ribcage.

the bathroom suddenly feels smaller. more intimate. the space between you charged with the kind of tension that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

“baby. sweetheart. light of my life. apple of my eye. butter to my—” the words spill out in a rush, getting faster and higher pitched with each endearment, desperation making his voice crack around the edges.

“if you say one more food metaphor i'm wearing the gloss too.” you don't turn around, but your shoulders shake just slightly—suppressed laughter, maybe, or the effort of staying stern when every instinct is telling you to give in to the way he's looking at you like you're something holy.

he clutches his chest. staggers backward with all the grace of a dying victorian maiden, but there's nothing performative about the way his breathing has gone shallow, the way his eyes track your every movement like he's cataloguing them for later. “you wouldn't. you're not that cruel.” but there's something desperate creeping into his voice now, real panic threading through the theatrics because he knows you absolutely would.

but you are. you absolutely are. because you love him stupid and helpless and you know exactly what that glossy, kissable mouth does to his brain. how it makes him forget his own name, let alone social etiquette. his breathing goes shallow when you lean closer to the mirror, and you can practically hear his thoughts short-circuiting, can see the way his hands flex at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

the air between you hums with tension. he's close enough now that you can smell his cologne—something expensive and clean that you picked out for him months ago—mixed with the underlying scent that's purely him. close enough that you can hear the way his breath catches when you part your lips slightly, preparing for the lipstick.

you apply it slowly. deliberately. watching him track every movement in the mirror—his gaze laser-focused on your mouth, pupils blown wide enough that the color around them looks almost silver instead of that impossible shade that has no name. you can see the exact moment his composure cracks, the way his throat works as he swallows hard.

“this is psychological warfare,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. his reflection looks pained, eyebrows drawn together, bottom lip caught between his teeth hard enough to leave marks. there's a flush creeping up his neck, staining the pale column of his throat pink.

“this is marriage, sweetheart.” you press your lips together once—a soft, satisfied smack that echoes obscenely in the small space—and his knees actually wobble. you watch him grip the doorframe for support, knuckles going white with the effort.

he laughs despite himself. soft and fond and so stupidly in love it makes your chest tight. his head falls back against the doorframe with a soft thunk, hair fanning out like spilled moonlight.

“at least let me suffer closer.” he steps behind you—movements careful, reverent, like he's approaching an altar. his hands hover over your waist like he's afraid you'll bolt, fingertips barely ghosting the fabric of your dress. “i promise i'll be good.” the words come out breathy, almost prayer-like.

you lean back against his chest. just a little. just enough to feel solid and warm and him. his heartbeat thunders against your shoulder blade, too fast, too desperate.

“your promises are worthless. you have no self-control.” but your voice has gone softer, fondness bleeding through the exasperation.

“i have some self-control.” his chin comes down to rest on top of your head, careful not to disturb your hair. you can feel him breathing you in, the subtle press of his nose against your scalp.

“name one time.” you challenge, but you're already melting into him, your reflection showing the way your expression softens around the edges.

he's quiet for exactly three seconds. his arms wrap around your waist—slow, tentative, giving you time to protest. then he's pressing his face into your neck, breathing you in like he's drowning, like you're the first clean air he's had in weeks.

“this is not self-control, satoru.” but your hand comes up to cover his where it rests against your stomach, fingers interlacing automatically. his palm is warm through the thin fabric of your dress, and you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his thumb keeps stroking absent patterns against your ribs like he can't help himself.

“this is compromise. neck kisses don't mess up makeup.” his voice is muffled against your skin, lips barely brushing the column of your throat. the contact is feather-light but it sends shivers racing down your spine anyway, makes you bite back the soft sound that wants to escape. you can feel the heat of his breath, the way his mouth hovers just millimeters from actually making contact, like he's testing his own resolve.

they don't. but they mess up your resolve. make you want to turn around and kiss him properly, lipstick be damned. let him smear it across both your mouths until you're matching shades of ridiculous. his breathing is uneven against your neck, and you can feel the way he's fighting not to part his lips, not to taste. the restraint is costing him—you can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his free hand grips the edge of the vanity like an anchor.

instead, you pat his cheek—a gentle tap that makes him hum contentedly. grab your purse. head for the door.

“coming?” you glance back over your shoulder, and the look he gives you is pure devastation.

he follows like a kicked puppy. grumbling about cruel wives and impossible standards and what's the point of having a mouth if i can't use it, sweetheart, this is torture, actual torture. his hair is still mussed from where he ran his hands through it, sticking up in gravity-defying tufts that somehow only make him look more unfairly attractive.

in the car, he holds your hand—thumb tracing patterns on your palm, circling your wedding ring, following the lines of your fingers like he's reading braille. steals glances at your mouth like it personally wronged him, like it owes him money. every red light is an exercise in restraint, his grip tightening incrementally each time he looks over.

at dinner, he's a perfect gentleman. pulls out your chair with a flourish, fingers lingering on your shoulders as he pushes it in. orders wine with the easy confidence of someone who's never had to check prices. makes conversation with the other couples, charm dialed up to eleven, but his free hand never leaves your knee under the table.

but his thumb keeps brushing your wrist—absent, automatic, like he needs the contact to remember you're real. his eyes keep dropping to your lips when he thinks you're not looking, gaze catching on the way they move around words, the shine of gloss catching candlelight. his knee keeps bumping yours under the table, little jolts of contact that make you bite back smiles.

“you're being obvious,” you murmur during dessert, leaning close enough that your breath fans across his ear. he shudders, nearly drops his fork.

“i'm being tortured,” he murmurs back, turning his head so his nose almost brushes your temple. his voice is rough, strained. “do you have any idea what you're doing to me?”

the moment—the exact moment—you're back in the car, he's on you. the seatbelt hasn't even clicked and his hands are already mapping your face like he's memorizing topography, thumbs tracing the delicate bones beneath your skin while his mouth crashes against yours with three hours of suppressed hunger. the kiss tastes like desperation and the wine he barely touched at dinner, warm and intoxicating and wholly him.

your lipstick doesn't stand a chance.

he kisses like he's drowning—messy, urgent, all teeth and tongue and the soft sounds he makes when you open for him. his hands slide down to cup your jaw, angling your face to deepen the kiss, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers, the way his pulse hammers against your throat when you press closer.

“satoru—” you try to protest, but he swallows the word whole, tongue sliding against yours with single-minded focus that makes your toes curl in your heels.

the center console digs into your hip as you lean into him, chasing the heat of his mouth. he tastes like want and barely leashed restraint, like all the kisses he's been storing up since you capped that damn lipstick. his breathing is ragged, coming in short puffs against your cheek when he breaks away just long enough to tilt his head and find a better angle.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your lips, the words vibrating through your chest where you're pressed together. his hands have migrated to your waist now, fingers splayed wide across your ribs like he's trying to span as much of you as possible. “missed this. you're so mean to me, baby, so fucking mean—” his voice breaks a little on the curse, breath hitching when you nip at his bottom lip.

you should push him away. should lecture him about ruining your makeup. should care that the windows are fogging up and anyone walking by could see the way he's got you half-draped across the gear shift. instead, you kiss him back—fierce and hungry, letting him lick into your mouth like he's starving, like you're air and he's been suffocating all evening. your fingers tangle in that impossible hair, tugging just hard enough to make him groan low in his throat, the sound sending liquid heat straight through you.

his hands are everywhere now—skimming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your ribs, one palm settling hot and heavy at the nape of your neck. he kisses like he's trying to consume you, all desperate tongue and the scrape of teeth against your bottom lip that makes you arch into him unconsciously.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, sharing the same pocket of heated air. both smeared with red. both ridiculous and hopeless and so stupidly happy it hurts. his hair is completely destroyed now, sticking up at angles that defy physics from your grabbing hands, and there's lipstick staining his mouth like evidence—smeared across his lips, a faint mark on his chin where you must have missed. he looks thoroughly debauched, pupils blown so wide his eyes look almost black in the dim interior of the car.

“worth it?” you ask, voice rough, lips tingling.

he grins—wild and satisfied and completely unrepentant, tongue darting out to taste the remnants of your lipstick on his bottom lip. “always.”

you sigh. dig through your purse for makeup wipes, movements sharp with fond exasperation.

“next time i'm wearing the twenty-four hour stuff.” the threat lacks bite when you're already reaching for him.

“baby, no.” his eyes go comically wide, hands coming up in surrender.

“the transfer-proof kind.” you pull out a wipe, and he actually whimpers.

“that's not fair. that's cheating.” but he sits still as you clean his mouth—gentle and thorough while he watches you work with those impossible eyes, pupils still blown wide, lashes fluttering with each careful swipe.

“there. presentable again.” you move to clean your own mouth, but he catches your wrist—grip loose enough that you could pull away, but you don't.

he brings your knuckles to his mouth instead. presses a soft kiss to each one, then to the sensitive skin of your wrist where your pulse hammers traitor-fast.

“i love you,” he says. simple. honest. devastating. his voice is softer now, gentler, but no less intense.

your heart does that stupid fluttery thing—the same one it's been doing since you met him, since he first looked at you like you were something precious.

“i love you too, you menace.” the words come out rougher than you intended, thick with feeling.

“enough to skip the lipstick tomorrow?” he tilts his head, hair falling into his eyes, hope written across every line of his face.

“absolutely not.” but you're smiling now, can't help it.

he grins. settles back in his seat with theatrical disappointment. starts the car, but not before pressing one more quick kiss to your temple—safe territory, no makeup to mess up.

“worth a shot.” his voice is cheerful now, almost bouncing with residual energy.

you roll your eyes. but your hand finds his on the gear shift without looking, fingers interlacing like they belong there. your thumb traces the ridge of his knuckles, the calluses from training, the thin line of a scar he got when you were still dating and he was still trying to impress you.

which they do.

stupid, beautiful man and his stupid, beautiful mouth.

you wouldn't have it any other way.

#౨ৎ — gojossip #gojo satoru #gojo fluff #gojo x female reader #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x reader fluff #jjk x reader

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codingflicks · 26 days ago

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Gradient Button Hover

#gradient button hover animation #css animation snippets #html css animation #html css buttons #html css #codingflicks #frontend #learn to code #css buttons #css3 #frontenddevelopment #code #webdesign

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mbrine · 1 year ago

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I have hacked the mainframe (Inspect Element) (UPDATED FOR HALLOWEEN BOOP WAR)

MAX - 1000

LOL - 1500

OMG - 2000

WOW - 4000

*-* - 5000

WHY - 6000

PLZ - 7000

AAA - 7500

;_; - 8000

0_0 - 8500

T_T - 9000

MAX - ~9200? (Hard to tell, I've overshot this twice already)

BOO - 9500

TUM - 10000 given

BLR - 10000 received

How to Super Boop

On desktop, hover your mouse over the Boop button for around 5 seconds, and it will do 2 spins.

Once the button is done spinning, click on it and you can send a Super Boop!

EVIL BOOPS can be accessed by allowing the animation to play 3 times before clicking

One way to get Super Boops on mobile is using a web browser to access tumblr. Use "Desktop Site"/"Desktop Mode", then click and hold the button to send the boop. That'll convert it to a Super Boop button. It seems pretty inconsistent though.

For all clicking enthusiasts, do click this too, trust me, it's just as satisfying

Omg thanks everyone for the boops, I've been butterfly clicking the boop button for so many different people for the past 6 hours and I'm exhausted

I'm pretty sure this is also my most engaged post on any platform I've ever used, thanks for all the RBs and likes <3 <3 <3

If anyone's crazy enough to try reaching 10k without an autoclicker, here's what I did

Ok, one more tutorial for the boops before I go to bed for real.

How do I check my exact given and received boop count?

NOTE: You'll need to refresh the page to update the counters, unless there's another method to check the live count

Chrome

Go to your dash ("home" tab).

Press f12, or right click and select "Inspect Element"

In the window that pops up, click on "Sources" then "dashboard" under "www.tumblr.com" (Pic below for reference)

In the window showing the code, press Ctrl+F and type in either "givenCount" or "receivedCount".

Ta da! (Pic below for reference)

Firefox

Go to your dash ("home" tab).

Press f12, or right click and select "Inspect Element (Q)"

In the window that pops up, click on "Debugger", then "Sources" and "dashboard" under "www.tumblr.com" (Pic below for reference)

In the window showing the code, press Ctrl+F and type in either "givenCount" or "receivedCount".

Enjoy formatting (Pic below for reference)

Gonna take a break from Tumblr for now, my fingers are in shambles and I'm pretty sure I can hear the mouse clicks echoing around inside my skull. Thanks to everyone for making this random Singaporean guy's day, mbrine signing out! ❤

Here's a link to A vetted Palestinian family fundraiser masterpost by @/el-shab-hussein and A masterpost on how you can help Palestine

Happy April Fool's Day!

October 31st changelog:

Removed "bait links", now the link actually says where it directs to

Updated some info regarding tiers

#boop #boop o meter #boop war #WOW OMG MAX #tutorial

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cherrysinner · 4 months ago

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─── YOU'VE GOT MAIL .ᐟ

...or how reader made a friend in the most unconventional way.

★ pairing.ᐟ frat!rafe x nerd!reader

★ summary.ᐟ rafe cameron is the golden boy of kildare university; certified frat boy, captain of the football team, relentless party animal with lines of girls to sleep with.

reader couldn't be more different; while she has the best grades in the whole school, she suffers from social anxiety disorder, and her social life is limited to her three best friends and the cat she secretly snuck into her dorm room.

both of them decide to join the anonymous chatroom for their campus, and start talking to one another,, a friendship starting to form between the two; but neither of them know how different the other is.

★ author's note.ᐟ NOW A SERIES! i hope you guys like this! i'm considering making this into a series; if i do, i think i'd do it the same way this fic is, aka some narration but mostly 'chatting' between rafe and reader. anyway, let me know if you want it to continue!! i've been feeling down for a few weeks now, so something simple and fun like this was a good way to get back into the flow of writing.

i thought about making this a smau, but doing the chats like this feels more authentic to the 2000s chatroom experience y’know

you were sitting on your bed, your laptop open on a website called KildareUChats, a website that was apparently meant for the students of your university to be able to anonymously chat with other students, your friend having told you to give it a try, knowing that it’d be difficult for you to do in person.

you didn't really see the point of it; although your social circle was in no way huge, you were happy enough with it, really. never having been great with new people, you'd made three friends on your freshman year of college and simply stuck to them. it didn't help that whenever you tried to talk to someone new, it felt like someone was choking you.

but this was online. the person on the other side would never know who you are, and you'd never have to actually be face-to-face with them. your cursor moved to hover over the 'REGISTER' button, and you filled the page out with your basic information, name, school email, birth date... but when the website asked for a username, you couldn't help but purse your lips as you looked around your dorm room, from the fairy lights you'd hung up on walls that now glowed in a yellowish hue, to the several books stacked on the floor, to the dead roses on your desk...

but when your eyes landed on your nightstand, you spotted a book of poems by edgar allan poe, and your lips quirked up into a small smile. after you typed the name 'AnnabelLee' into the username field, a green check mark appeared next to it to signify it was available.

after setting a password, you were redirected to a page that said 'WELCOME TO KILDAREUCHATS AnnabelLee! CLICK HERE IF YOU WISH TO CONNECT WITH A RANDOM STRANGER!'. you clicked the button, your cursor turning into a circle for a moment as it loaded, before you were redirected to a chatroom with a pop-up.

KILDAREUCHATS IS CONNECTING YOU TO A STRANGER...

KILDAREUCHATS HAS CONNECTED YOU! REMEMBER TO TREAT OTHERS THE WAY YOU WANT TO BE TREATED <3 SAY HI!

you stared at your computer screen, biting into your lower lip. you had no idea what you were supposed to say; outside of the people you already knew, you were helpless when talking to people, the words always getting stuck in your throat, or vanishing from your mind. angel's white fur blended in with your white sheets as your hand moved to absentmindedly stroke her, the little cat purring in her sleep. but before your hand could dart out to type something on your laptop, a message appeared on the screen.

STRANGER: heyy

taking in a deep breath, you shook your head, as if shaking all doubts and worries out of it. the site was anonymous; that was the whole point. and your therapist told you, that for your social anxiety to get better, you should try go socialize. mingle. you took the bottle of cheap white wine you'd snuck into your dorm, taking a large swig straight out of the bottle before setting it back down, your hands flying to your keyboard.

YOU: hi :)

STRANGER: wsp?

YOU: ...wasp?

STRANGER: lmao no... what's up?

YOU: sorry, i'm not good with that kind of lingo haha. YOU: nothing much. i'm hanging out with my cat.

STRANGER: damn, do you have an off-campus apartment or something?

YOU: nope :) YOU: don't tell my ra.

STRANGER: shit you have a CAT in your dorm?

YOU: if you tell on me, i'm gonna have to hunt you down and kill you.

STRANGER: lucky for you this is anonymous STRANGER: and i'm not a snitch lmao STRANGER: so, what are you doing on this thing at 12am on a friday night? no hot parties?

YOU: honestly, i think i'd rather put a noose around my neck than go to a party. YOU: i'm just in my room drinking wine. decided to try this site after my friend suggested it. YOU: what about you?

STRANGER: damn, kinky STRANGER: i do have a 'hot party' to go to but i also have an essay due in nine hours and the prof already hates my ass

YOU: so you decided to not write your essay and instead procrastinate by chatting with some random stranger?

STRANGER: exactly! you get it STRANGER: if i even have my laptop in front of me, i'm counting that as me writing my essay

YOU: what's it about?

STRANGER: what kind of a role religion has when it comes to politics and shit

YOU: and let me guess, that's not a topic you enjoy studying in your free time?

STRANGER: you know me so well already

YOU: if it helps, i'm also studying. or, procrastinating studying. YOU: i have a chemistry exam on monday :(

STRANGER: ...and you're studying for it on a friday already? STRANGER: i just read for exams a few minutes before they start STRANGER: compared to me you're like a genius

YOU: eyeroll. YOU: and that's why you have trouble writing an essay! YOU: you're probably missing out on a keg stand at your 'hot party'.

STRANGER: i can't believe you're making fun of the art of the stand

YOU: you'll live.

STRANGER: how do you know? maybe i'm the god of the kegstand and every time a human loses faith in me, i grow weaker

YOU: are you? YOU: oh sacred frat god? YOU: shall i make an offering for you at your altar? would that appease your distaste towards me?

STRANGER: you shall

YOU: okay, how about these for an offering: YOU: a white claw, a buzz ball, a red solo cup with a strange mixture of different kinds of alcohols, and a vape pen?

STRANGER: those appease me much, mere mortal STRANGER: also mango-flavored juul pods

YOU: you're so weird.

STRANGER: says the person who's hanging with her cat on a friday night

YOU: how do you figure i'm a her?

STRANGER: oh please STRANGER: no man would disrespect the fine art of the keg stand

YOU: got me there, frat boy.

STRANGER: that's very presumptuous STRANGER: i could just be a tomboy

YOU: please. YOU: if you're a girl then i'm sasquatch.

STRANGER: don't worry, i don't mind a little body hair

YOU: i hate you.

glancing at the clock on your wall, you'd realized that thirty minutes had already gone by. you let out a small sigh, rubbing your eyes.

YOU: i should get going. i can't keep procrastinating.

STRANGER: already?

YOU: what, are you gonna miss me or something?

STRANGER: hey, if i get a pic of bigfoot i'm gonna be making millions, i just have capitalistic tendencies

YOU: fair point.

STRANGER: you should add me as a friend

YOU: you can do that??? i thought this was an anonymous chat.

STRANGER: yeah you can lmao why else would you need to set a username STRANGER: i'll just do it

and soon enough, a pop-up appeared on your screen, with the text 'STRANGER HAS REQUESTED TO ADD YOU AS FRIEND.' along with the buttons 'ACCEPT' and 'DENY'.

you pursed your lips, your finger lingering over the touchpad, first dragging it over the button reading 'DENY', before you let out a sigh, taking a large swig from the bottle of wine, moving the cursor to 'ACCEPT' and pressing it before you could regret it.

the pop-up was now replaced with another one, reading 'CONGRATS AnnabelLee YOU ARE NOW FRIENDS WITH MalachiConstant' and when you read the stranger's name, you couldn't help but let out a small chuckle. you clicked the red 'x' that closed the pop-up, and the word STRANGER in your chat logs was now replaced by MalachiConstant.

YOU: really? vonnegut?

MalachiConstant: what? i don't seem like the type to read?

YOU: just surprising!

MalachiConstant: says the girl with the hard-on for poe MalachiConstant: which isn't surprising at all

YOU: har har. YOU: goodnight, weird vonnegut frat boy.

MalachiConstant: goodnight, weird poe girl

YOU HAVE LOGGED OUT OF KILDAREUCHATS.

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catchastarorten · 6 months ago

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—Pause the game.

Pairing: the salesman/recruiter x wife!fem!reader

Summary: your husband had some ‘work’ to take care of with the two people that had been trailing after him all day, but when your call came in, and when he found out that you felt sick, you became much more important than whatever he had going on.

Warnings: mainly fluff, mentions of Woo-seok and Jeong-rae following snd spying on him, some parts of the Russian roulette game, he’s soft for you, he misses you, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 1.4k

The day had been long, even by his standards. A hundred lottery scratchers, a hundred loaves of bread, the park, the homeless. He had been up to a little ‘social experiment’. Even then, he caught onto the two men who had been trailing behind him since the subway station.

He wasn’t stupid. Someone was after him, and these two lackeys were clearly here to track him down. His best guess? Seong Gi-hun.

Woo-seok and Jeong-rae had been following him like shadows—clumsy ones, attempting to blend in with the surroundings every time he stopped, as if they expected him to turn around and strike at any moment. And eventually, he did.

He had let them tail him, then to his surprise, they made the first move down an alleyway to avoid losing him. By the time they realized they had made a mistake, it was too late. He had taken them down quickly, efficiently, the way he always handled these things. No emotions, no hesitation.

Jeong-rae had gone down first, crumpled to the ground. Woo-seok tried to fight back with the poor attempt of using a small knife, but a sharp blow of the suitcase to his head had knocked him out.

Now, they were sitting across from each other, bound to chairs, tied up with ropes, their mouths gagged, their muffled groans filling the dimly lit room. They couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg—just incoherent muffled noises as they squirmed like trapped animals.

He slowly circled the two men, then stopped to place a hand on each of their shoulders, eyes filled with amusement at their looks of terror.

“We're going to play a game now... Rock, Paper, Scissors, Minus One. I trust you know the rules.” his gaze flickered from Jeong-rae to Woo-seok, a smile forming on his lips.

“You form a shape with each hand, then take one away. The game is decided by the remaining hands. Of course, there’s a penalty for the loser.” he picked up the nearby revolver and inspected it, then pressed the barrel to his temple. “Russian Roulette.”

Their muffled protests grew louder, their bodies twisting against the ropes in a futile attempt to escape. The two men were shaking, their breaths heavy as he leaned closer, his finger on the trigger.

Click.

Empty.

His smirk widened as he backed away slowly.

“Alright. Now, let’s play. On my count.”

But then, as he was getting ready to spin the cylinder of the revolver, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

His brows furrowed, the interruption pulling him out of the carefully constructed moment. He pulled the phone out, and the sight of your name on the screen made him pause.

He froze for a moment, staring at the screen as his heart softened. It wasn’t like you to call him in the middle of the day. You knew he was busy—always busy. The ‘work’ he pretended to do required him to keep odd hours, to vanish without explanation, and you never questioned it. You trusted him. And he loved you for that trust, even if he didn’t deserve it.

His thumb hovering over the answer button before taking a deep breath and sliding his mask of indifference back into place. But when he answered, his voice betrayed him. It was warm, gentle—a tone he reserved only for you.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, the edge it had carried a moment ago completely gone. He shot the two men a warning look, his eyes narrowing as if daring them to make a sound.

Turning away from them, his tone dropped into something almost tender. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

Your voice came through the line, quiet and tinged with vulnerability. “I… I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… I’m not feeling well.”

He could hear the catch in your throat, the faint rasp. “Are you sick?” he asked, straightening.

There was a pause on your end, then a soft sniffle that nearly broke his heart. “Yeah. Just a cold, I think. My head hurts, and I’m all stuffed up.”

He closed his eyes, letting out a slow, steadying breath as guilt twisted in his chest. You sounded miserable, and he hated that he wasn’t there to take care of you. Hated that he was here, in this cold room, when he should’ve been home with you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I know you’re busy. I just… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, his voice gentle but firm. “You can call me anytime, okay? I mean it. Anytime.”

There was a pause, and then he heard another sniffle on the other end. It made his chest clench. “Where are you?” you asked. “Are you coming home soon?”

He glanced down at Woo-seok and Jeong-rae, their wide, panicked eyes watching him like trapped prey. The revolver gleamed on the table beside him, a stark reminder of the life he led when he wasn’t with you.

For the first time all day, he felt a pang of guilt—not for them, but for you. For the life he kept hidden from you. You had no idea what he did, the darkness he waded through every day. And he wanted to keep it that way. You were his light, his one connection to something pure and good in a world full of shadows.

“Soon,” he promised, his voice softening even further. “I’ll be home soon."

You didn’t reply right away, but he could picture you nodding, your lips pressed into that small, tired smile you always gave him when you were sick. He could see you in his mind—wrapped in a blanket, your hair messy, your cheeks flushed from the fever.

“There’s soup in the fridge,” he added gently. “I made it this morning. Heat some up, okay? And the heating pad’s in the bottom drawer. You’ll feel better if you use it.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice tired.

“I love you,” he said, the word coming out more vulnerable than he intended.

“I love you too,” you replied, and he could hear the faint smile in your voice despite the cold.

His chest tightened at the sound of those words. He glanced away from the two men on the floor, his jaw clenching as he fought the sudden wave of emotion that threatened to rise. “Now go rest, my love. I’ll be home soon.” his voice was thick with sincerity.

When the call ended, the room was silent. He stared down at the phone in his hand, his mind still on you.

For a moment, he let himself imagine walking through the door of your shared apartment, dropping his keys on the counter, and finding you curled up on the couch. He’d press a kiss to your forehead, make sure you were warm, and hold you until you fell asleep. That was all he wanted.

But instead, he was stuck here.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned his attention to Woo-seok and Jeong-rae. His expression hardened once more. “Well,” he said. “Where were we?”

He reached for the revolver, spinning the cylinder with a practiced flick of his wrist. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final.

“Rock, paper, scissors,” he said, his tone almost mocking. “Loser gets to test their luck with this. Simple, right?”

He crouched down in front of them, his movements slow and deliberate, as if savoring their terror.

They shook their heads frantically, their breathing heavy, protests muffled by the gag. He sighed, standing up and running a hand through his hair. “You know,” he said, his voice almost casual. “I’d love to stay and play, but I’ve got someone waiting for me at home. So let’s not drag this out.”

Their muffled protests grew louder, but he didn’t care. This was his world. His game.

And when it was over, he’d go home to you. To the warmth of your love, the softness of your touch.

You didn’t know what he was. What he did. And he intended to keep it that way.

Because as long as you were safe, as long as you loved him, he could pretend—for just a little while—that he was someone worth loving.

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