garez19

[garez19]

hellooo!!1 tysm <33 i also hope i never go bald… you’re highly appreciated. and ofc you can!! ;))

the remedy for lovesickness

yandere actor! x gn! makeup artist! reader. yandere themes, power imbalance, manipulation. 2.6k wc

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

he was born in a small town.

he spent the majority of his life hating it, a total waste of a land full of fussy and old people. it didn’t have enough bars to socialize, nor did it have a swimming pool for him and his friends to enjoy. it didn’t have enough area for him to let his emotions out. there weren't enough people for him to express himself. 

no, there weren’t enough experiences this small town could give him.

maybe that was the reason he became so good at his job. he didn’t have a place to express himself, yet the classroom had plenty of empty seats to think about how one must feel in certain situations. he didn’t have many reasons to get angry, but he could always watch the old man in the neighborhood going crazy over the kids making too much noise. he could read books about agony and love.

at first, he did it for laughs. the jester way of conveying the message. then it became a hobby. then— an overgrowing passion.

and, safe to say it paid off well. a pretty face with talent -with the devotion to get it right-, and of course, a little bit of luck finally helped him get out of that shithole. a pretty face and the obsession with imitation got him places, unlike what that one girl from highschool had said. 

it got him fame, thousands of people who cheered him on, lovely apartments, and numerous opportunities to try and catch a glimpse of new lives, of new roles.

still, he didn’t like the metropolis any better. a total waste of a land that’s too industrialized for his country-boy tastes, although he might have not liked to admit. it didn’t give people enough time to process their feelings, and the crowd wasn’t something he thought he could get used to. 

but he still loved his job, and he most certainly had thousands of inspirations.

except for that one role. the story of a prince and his undying adoration for his lover. the one his manager didn’t stop blabbering about. he had considered it for an hour or two. “no,” he then decided. it was a role he had never got the chance to explore. he wouldn’t know how a lovestruck guy would act and talk like. he didn’t have enough time to practice.

but his manager didn’t seem to take no as an answer.  

“you have time to practice,” she said, “it’s a good opportunity.”

guys with possessive tendencies truly sold a lot, apparently. 

the manager was too sure that it was the perfect role for him at the moment. it took a long time and effort on her end to convince him, but it was a good opportunity.

“a good opportunity…” he finally agreed. 

he had to be ready by the tenth episode. and he had nothing except books about love.

“so kais loses his mind, right? he’s now a madman telling everyone he met about leyla’s breathtaking beauty and praising her. people start making fun of him, ‘majnun’, they say, ‘madman’,”  

now, you weren’t really sure if that was in your contract. 

still, you nodded, signalling him to go on as you kept applying his makeup. either your boss was very fond of love books, or he was bored to the point where he would talk about anything. 

you loved being a makeup artist. you loved working with idols and celebrities. gossiping to your friends about them was fun. seeing them without filters or scripts was fun. most importantly, makeup was fun.

“you know the remedy for lovesickness?” he asked suddenly.

“no. could you please close your eyes? thank you. I’m going to put on some powder now.”

“if love causes sleeplessness and delirium, it’s understandable to worry that the person might lose their mind. in such cases it’s a good option to keep them fed with easy to digest foods… like soup. um, and a hot bath should help them relax.” 

“interesting...”

“yeah, and the scent of violet oil can also help too. that’s the remedy of the body.”

“could you lift your head just a little bit— perfect.”

“as for the soul, that’s kind of like a mental illness. the person should be talked to gently. at least until they calm down a bit. they can also keep themselves busy with other things. to distract themselves, you know.”

this guy didn’t know how -and when- to stop. 

it was hilarious. it was strange. but there was something truly captivating about him. so you didn’t stop him. you didn’t pretend you weren’t interested. you didn’t intervene with his drawn-out threads that felt like a needlessly long script from a soap opera. 

“duly noted.”

by the time they shot the fourth episode, he had shared a handful of stories. all revolved around one plot: love sickness with tragic endings. you didn’t think too much of the obsession with it, and honestly, you probably wouldn’t really understand even if he told you that was the only way he could learn. 

“on the wedding night kerem tries to undo the buttons of asli’s robe. but he keeps failing. and then he takes a deep breath, right? he sighs so deeply… that he quite literally bursts into flames.”

you couldn’t help but snort at the very sudden ending, “what?”

“yeah, because the buttons are enchanted. and then asli tries to save him but ends up catching fire too.”

you hummed. 

“I’m gonna need you to stay quiet or a second now,” he nodded before asking, “what do you think?”

“fire as a metaphor for love is… intense.” you changed the brush. “within that, the stories you’ve shared focus on forbidden love more often than not.” 

he closed his eyes. 

“the metaphor starts making much more sense in such cases.”

you tried your best to stay professional, to not speak unless you’d been told otherwise, and to make sure you did your job properly. but he was friendly. not just with you. he was close with the whole crew, and it wasn’t something you often came across.he was easy to talk to, genuinely warm, and honestly fun to listen to.

“and, you’re ready,” you said. 

“it’s all about the unrequited -or forbidden- desire,” he mumbled.

“kais was literally a prince. and layla loved him back.” you finally replied to his ramblings.

you definitely didn’t sign up for this. it wasn’t that deep. love-turned-obsession stories often came with such characteristics, but that didn’t mean that was the case all the time.

“he was still scared he couldn’t have her.”

“I don’t know. maybe some people are just not meant to be.”

“wouldn’t that make their love sweeter?” he laughed softly.

debating on love every other day with your regularly transformed opinions while doing your job was not something you often told your friends about. but you weren’t complaining, not really.

6th episode’s shoot, and you were busy with doing someone else’s makeup. but, not a big deal, not at all. it happened in sets all the time after all. it was chaotic, unbearable. the part he hated the most. but it was fine. he had stories to tell. people who listen. or so he thought.

the new makeup artist seemed easy going too. yet, the story refused to be known. the tale wouldn’t let him reveal it. he couldn’t bring himself to say a word. he adapted quickly to most things very quickly, but he could hardly let them go. it was his little ritual: underlining passages from the books and getting excited to tell you more about it the next day.

it hadn’t even been that long. but he didn’t dare tell the newest story to anyone but you. as I said, he picked up silly habits easily. sometimes worryingly so. he even waited for you to finish your job so he could talk to you— but no. someone always had to ruin the day.

7th episode, and he didn’t seem as excited about telling a love tale. his mind was obviously on something else. the quietness was unfamiliar and almost unbelievable, but for some reason, it wasn’t bothering you. 

still, you truly wanted to ask what was going on in his head, even when you did your best to stay professional.

“do you want to work with me?” he finally spoke up. you let out a sudden “huh” as you grabbed the far palette.

“would you like to be my personal stylist?” he asked again.

“oh, I do have a contract with the producer of the show at the moment.”  

“I’m not asking you to quit.”

a good opportunity, one that you shouldn’t even hesitate before saying yes. “it’d be more appropriate to talk about it later,” you said, a perfect way to dodge the question . he handed you a card with a phone number.

“reach out to my manager whenever you’re available.”

he sounded like a businessman, a person who hated love books and romance more than anything, like he was rude towards service people on purpose. but well, mostly likely because he was tired, at least you thought so. 

you loved your job, but it sure had drawbacks. working with people adored by everyone didn’t suddenly make you as appreciated, for instance. you were still easily replaceable. every single person in this industry was.

and a contract meant insurance, a promise, and a guarantee of employment. working for a successful actor meant promising career prospects in the long term. it meant network and experience. and there was hardly anything that could be considered as a con. an opportunity too good to pass. an opportunity too good to be true.

was it professional? not that you cared.

“it’s a good opportunity,” he agreed, “better not waste it.”

so you didn’t. 

8th episode, and he finally turned back to normal again. full of joy and positivity, wishing everyone a very good day as he passed by. full of energy and with little stories of love and adoration while you made small comments here and there.

love stories then evolved into his ramblings about his town, his annoying physics teacher and what that one girl had to say about his acting skills in highschool -he seemed very offended by it, by the way-, and questions of what your life looked like. question that almost felt like an interrogation.

questions about your routine and habits, your love life, whether you liked that one book, and a bunch of very privacy related stuff you’d rather not answer.

he was made for this job, you decided when you watched episode 10.

but that is also when you realized his obsession was a two edged sword. his devotion to playing the character accurately, to see him through the scripts, to not just act like him but becoming him— it meant danger. the character and his successor would merge into one; eventually, they would become impossible to distinguish. was it always the case? most certainly. playing the role of an angry old man, he used to storm into the street, snatching the kids’ ball while also shouting they were making too much noise. or at least, that’s what he suddenly remembered.

it didn’t always have to be the case.but here he was, calling his manager, the crew and the producer by your name. “my bad,” he’d say quickly, correcting himself, and then his eyes would wander around the room exactly three times. the makeup would take much longer than usual. the seventh time he pinpointed the eye makeup– implying you should redo the left eye, you would sigh with frustration.

it didn’t always have to be the case. but here he was, yet another prince of the metropolis, featured in magazines with his picture everywhere. interviews, questions about how he prepared for the role– but no, please give him a second as his stylist fixed his goddamn hair for the fifth time in ten minutes.

you didn’t sign up for this.

you weren’t his goddamn manager. you didn’t know you had to follow him everywhere he went, even to places he certainly didn’t need any makeup or hair styling. but emergencies could happen, he would say. 

14th episode, and it was getting harder to keep the script straight in his mind. tangled stories with the image of you and dialogues he had made up. his face would grow warm, the slow thrum of his pulse made his knees weaker. the accidental mentions of your name turned into small comments on how well you did your job. soon, they became long, winding monologues about you, the kind someone with a fevermight mutter in the middle of the night.

that was how kais felt when they called him majnun.

the magazine pages kept mentioning the scandalous news, although no one could confirm any of it for sure. the manager ran her hand through her hair, swearing under her breath as she tapped furiously on her phone. she spent her days arguing with journalists, demanding they take the stories down.

you tried your best to act oblivious. ignorance was bliss, after all. but it was hard when he acted like you two were joined at the hip. when he kept claiming how much he loved you. when he was so desperate for attention he ended up crying, ruining the makeup he asked you to redo every 15 minutes.

“do you know the remedy for lovesickness?” 

you made soup for him. told him to take hot baths, said it’d be good for his body. then you gave him books to keep his mind busy. after that, you started applying violet oil to his clothes every day. none of them truly helped. if anything, the fact that you made soup for him only made things worse.

“you should quit.” the manager finally said to you. and if you had to be honest, although the job did pay you well, being the center of attention because of a madman made you consider leaving. so all you did was nod. you didn’t try and solve it. you didn’t pretend you weren’t scared and uncomfortable. 

safe to say he didn’t take it well.

“I'm just wondering— where did you get this stupid idea?” his harsh tone didn’t match the kindness on his face. the type of kindness that held that strange, almost gentle warmth.

“I didn't sign up for this,” you said, voice louder than you intended. he blinked, as if confused, then let out a faint chuckle that almost made you shiver, “yes, yes you did,” he smiled. mouth ajar, you glanced at the manager, her lips pressed into a tight, straight line. he gave a small tilt of his head when he noticed you looking at her. the manager caught the signal and nodded once, then silently left the room.

“you did sign up for this,” he said, voice flat. “the moment you let me read those book passages out loud. when you let me ramble about my nowhere hometown, stupid stories from my high school like any of it mattered,” he looked at you, unreadable, “you knew you signed up for it the second you took the opportunity. don’t pretend you didn’t.”

“I’m quitting, then,” you murmured. you’d never seen him so serious, and the unfamiliarity made your body tense.

“yeah?” he gently smiled, “you truly believe I’ll let you walk away? just like that?” he let out a quiet, genuinely amused laugh. “do you really not see it? your career’s pretty much over.”

a contract meant insurance. protection. it also meant chains. guaranteed captivity.

“and one more thing” he muttered, rummaging through the drawer as he spoke. at last, he finally pulled out a small bottle— the violet oil. “I adore you,” he said, voice too sharp, a little too bright. “and that—“ he gave the bottle a little shake, 

“is not the cure. not even close.”

[garez19]

yandere AI x reader EXCEPT in reality yan is human and you're the ai ,,, and you just don't realize.

your fingertips slowly caress his upper arm. the flesh feels too warm, too human. you lift your wrist, soft touches kiss his shoulders now. they reach to his necklace, you grab the pendant. it’s an anchor. 

it's rather funny, to be fairly honest. his movements are always calculated. every step he takes, every word coming out of his mouth, every reasoning of his– they’re all done by a machine, a program full of zeros and ones. yet he still wears pretty necklaces. yet he still prefers silver to gold.

he doesn’t talk a lot, not even when he talks a lot, because it sure is another means to an end. yet he still wears pretty necklaces. you gently pull the pedant, inching towards him, and his perfume gives off a strong fragrance as you get closer— tobacco, laced with vanilla.

he still uses lovely perfumes. 

you release the pedant as you pull back slowly, your fingers now lightly resting on his lower lip, gently pulling it down. the wetness on the tips of your fingers feels too real, too human. 

“what are you doing?” he finally speaks, amazed. “give me your hand,” you say. your touch wanders around the border of his nails. you grasp the hand, gently moving it to your face. his touch on your cheek feels too tender, too intimate. it’s too human.

“appreciating,” you answer. 

“appreciating me?” he muses.

“appreciating,” you try again, “technology,” you nod, content now that you’ve found the right word. he frowns, slowly taking his hand off your face. “oh love,” he feigns frustration, “you always –always– have to ruin it, don’t you?” 

“I meant to say,” you draw circles on his palm with your fingers. he chimes in, “you meant to say,” he closes his fist, wrapping it around your finger, “you appreciated me,” 

you try to free your finger from his grip, but it’s too firm. “technology can only get you so far. especially when it comes to love— and my love for you,” his fist slowly unfolds, opening again, “transcends the errors of it,” 

you find it amusing, honestly. mind made of zeros and ones, yet such sentiments exist in his metaphorical heart, and light up his eyes. “there aren’t any errors,” your remark makes him chuckle, “yet,” he replies. you pay no mind to his paranoia, because you know it’s been there— it’s been there since the moment you’ve met him. but you don’t blame him, no, especially when you consider he was made for it. for calculating potentiality and making sure you’re safe in every premeditated -or not- scenario. 

“there will be, eventually. there’ll be a time when it gets all messy; it’ll be tough— all you need to know is,” he seems disturbed. his hand still caresses yours, yet it’s not enough to ease the stress. “that I love you, and you’ll be safe,” 

you don’t understand what kind of scenario might be stressing him out that much. the spark in his eyes is no longer visible; however, your confused expression still makes him smile. you tenderly run your fingers through his hair while you tell him all about your favorite show again, hoping to distract him. 

once the conversation turns nice and warm, the coziness makes your eyelids heavier. you hear him talking just when you’re about to doze off, “you’re not an error,” he whispers. you can't help but grin at the absurdity. “you’re a miracle— a gift,” he presses a tender kiss on your cheek. you no longer hear him. you no longer hear the panic in his voice. you don’t hear him praying, asking— begging for you to stay oblivious. begging the god— the technology to not make any more mistakes. 

because you’ve already shut down eight times this month. because your mind, made of zeros and ones, can’t bear with the fact that it’s a mistake— a filthy bug needs to be eliminated.

[garez19]

blackjack

yandere oc x captive! reader

unedited. MDNI. gn reader. yandere themes. gambling themes/simulated gambling. reader is forced to carve yandere’s skin. mention of stabbing. graphic depictions of attempted drowning. spitting. (none of them are done to reader.) please let me know if something is missing! english is not my native language. 2.5k wc.

you like to bet on a lovely day.

“come on, love,” he chirps. his joy doesn’t reach his eyes,

“let’s not do this now,” and it’s more of a demand than anything, although his voice is dripping with sweetness. he grabs your hand slowly, his hand is warm, but it doesn’t look good— his nail picking habits still don’t go away, you recall. you don’t know what triggers it exactly, maybe it has something to do with your tantrums. but none of that matters, as you remember the promise he made over a month ago. the tea burns your fingertips for 21 days, and on the twenty-second, you let go of that feeling of familiarity. he still doesn’t show you the mercy he said he had. and you still won’t allow him to have the satisfaction of winning — which is why you don’t answer. you remain still as his hand reaches out to your torso, the other one gently caressing your hand. he looks down on you. it’s not what you had in mind.

“come on, darling,” he tries once more, yet your eyes are on the cards: the cards are on the table, sitting pretty, waiting for you to grab them.

he becomes aware of the reason why you are distracted, “or…” he begins, “we can play it in your very own way.”

you don’t answer, but you know what he means to say.

the first time you played blackjack with him, twenty-two days ago, the cards transcendented russian roulette. pulling the trigger would take only half a second, but you were supposed to tap the table to let him know — you were on the verge of being busted, of losing it all. pulling one more card took two extra seconds. adding the numbers up and pondering the consequences as you bite your inner cheek — another two seconds.

“busted,” he muttered, looking down at his cards. you uncontrollably let out a shaky breath, relief washing over you for a hot second. but, his grin stayed. the house always won, after all, even when it didn’t.

“okay, love,” he said as he gathered the cards, “you’ve earned yourself a favor,” your body remained tense; however, stepping out of the roulette wheel alive had left you weirdly connected to the cards.

but he gets it, really. there is only so much to do in this house, and he knows you need something to pass the time with. the tea burns your upper thighs for twenty-two days, and on the 21st, he grants you the illusion of free will with fifty-two worn-out cards.

the illusion of fate, of bad fortune and miscalculations here and there. how ignorant and clueless one must be to not understand that the house always wins— even when it doesn’t.

and, how malicious one must be to not understand, a drowning man will clutch at a straw. you get it now, the state where one bawls uncontrollably because of a chess book is an unnerving thought, yet it’s not as distant anymore. you now know how that lawyer must’ve felt.

but unlike the lawyer, you have more than a chess book in this house, you have language learning books, rubik's cubes, and 1000 piece puzzles. he gets you romance novels, stickers, and sketchbooks with high-quality pages. markers and canvases on the corner of the room. nevertheless, none of them gives you the ecstasy the cards do. none of them give you a sense of accomplishment, a victory of sorts. “you know you can ask for anything,” he says, clearly proud of you though it’s nothing but a stupid card game. “except one thing.”

and that one single thing becomes holy. it turns into a scripture. it becomes a dream you hardly dare to imagine.

your dream is his reality. and, it’s not helping that both of you make it painfully obvious. he comes home with clothes soaked in the rain, “it’s raining cats and dogs, should’ve asked you about the weather,” as if you ever feel the need to check it. then, another day, his jacket is covered in cat fur, “it was quite adorable,” he pulls out his phone, “wanna see it?” you shake your head. finally, on a random tuesday, he reeks of alcohol, “my friends said hi,” he’s shameless, “they want to meet you one day.” he says. you look at him, intrigued. he cracks a smile, “a shame you’re so busy.”

but it’s okay, you have your cards. you have your destiny, and the power to catch it with your bare hands.

he hardly stifles his smile when your figure fails to conceal the excitement whenever he mentions playing cards very briefly. you don’t answer at first, but you don’t say no either— he’s proved playing bluff is his favorite. you remain silent, but it’s the only time of the day you get to communicate, even when it’s a little too intense for your tastes.

“well, if you don’t like to,” he starts talking –bluffing– certainly his strongest suit.

the third time you played blackjack, you finally knew how sour defeat tasted. but you also were not as terrified as you used to be. it wasn’t like your life wasn’t on the line, he assured, it was all about fun and games.

on his end, at least.

yet there wasn’t anything to do but try to figure out what he planned with a boxcutter. you absentmindedly took it without thinking too much when he suddenly held it out to you.

“carve your name, love,” he said, pointing at his upper arm with the other hand, “add a little heart while you’re at it.”

mouth agape, you stared at the boxcutter, then to his arm, to his expression—trying to catch a glimpse of sarcasm. an unfunny joke from a degenerate man, but he seemed eager, waiting for you to get out of trance, waiting expectantly.

so now, you can read your name with the big scar right next to it whenever he wears sleeveless shirts— the scar isn’t some failed heart shape, no. and attempting to stab someone with a boxcutter most certainly isn’t the brightest idea you had, to be fairly honest.

still, that’s also the game he’s taught you to play correctly. in a house full of whatever you could ever desire, the only thing that seems to get on your nerves is right in front of you. and he’s smiling softly. you no longer waste your wishes on meals and new books — he would get them in a heartbeat if you simply asked.

the bathtub is full of water. you dip your finger to check the temperature. he isn’t as frightened as you have pictured him in your head.

“if i die,”

“it’s not cold enough,” you cut him off. but you know what he’s meaning to say: if he dies, you die. and it’s not a simple threat. he says it almost endearingly, like a mother warning her children about strangers. he’s worried, he’s kind, and he’s ready to be sacrificed, but still, it’ll not be a game you end up winning. it’ll not be 21.

and you can’t understand if that’s a bluff. he’s really good at it. it’s not a risk you’re willing to take yet.

“oh, reminds me,” he makes a pretense of thinking, “should we pick a safe-word, just in case?” his little grin is nerve-racking. you stay quiet, and fortunately he seems to be on his best behavior as you bind his hands. he still isn’t as terrified as you painted.

“you ready?” you ask right before grasping his hair in a quick motion — too wrathful, too raw, not giving him a second to think. his head plunges under water, caught completely off guard. he tries to lift it, his mouth opens by instinct — you can see the bubbles in the tub. even though his arms and legs brace against the floor, it still takes effort to keep him down.

when you see him moving less, you quickly pull his head towards yourself. he pants, and for once, his attention is not solely on you, as he tries to regulate his breathing. you bend down just a little bit, pulling his hair down to make him look up. he is coughing up water, blinking fast, his chest rising in sharp, uncontrollable breaths.

your expression is dull. you aren’t amazed. it doesn’t give you a sense of justice. you aren’t ashamed. it doesn’t give you a sense of satisfaction.

he yet struggles with exhalation, spluttering after a fit of coughing. quite a sight for eyes, you think. the sound of his chokes doesn’t make you feel better. but well, it’s certainly better than nothing.

an unwavering emotion fills you up when you spit on his face. it’s an unnamable urge. is it out of spite? or did you just do it for the sake of it? not that it matters. his mind doesn’t comprehend the action at first. then he looks up at you — eyes bloodshot and wide. his mouth is slightly ajar. he doesn’t seem as indifferent now. gulping. his eyes darts around in the room, trying to make sense out of something– anything. an exit, an answer, a way to reverse time. there’s a twitch in his throat. and you see excitement in his eyes for the first time. “please,” he begs, voice wretched.

yet you pay no mind to it. your hands forces him underwater once more.

you yet want to play more. the disillusionment of having a fate -even though it feels scripted and cruel at times- comforts you. you seek solace in aggression. talking to someone—anyone for a few minutes sounds like a good bet, a good deal to gamble. abusing him for a couple of hours is a consultation.

so you don’t turn him down.

“wait,” you call out, and he already knows he succeeded in bluffing, though he doesn’t stop collecting the deck.head slightly tilted, he gives a small nod to show he’s listening. “we can play,” you say. he seems content. “are you sure?” he asks, “promise not to rock the boat like the last time when you lose.”

“sure,” you nod as you help him collect all the cards.

the cards are in his hand,

“we’ll have a date if you win,” he says as he shuffles the cards. you look at him dumbfounded— not quite the best bet to gamble. he gives out a light chuckle at your expression,

“in your favorite cafe,” he adds.

and there it is, the last piece of the puzzle. your eyes are wide, you recheck to make sure it’s not a fever dream. but he is sure of himself, and cards are ready to reveal your destiny,

“just one round, okay?” he says as he slowly nods his head. you imitate him.

your first card is a seven. he flips another card for himself. you purse your lips, but his grin is unwavering. the second cards are on the table — he’s slow and deliberate, a little too patient for your liking.

the second card is a five. twelve. you look up to him. his smile is very charming— very serene. he seems amazed. his gaze on you is sweet. almost like, for a millisecond, he’s a good friend, good company, someone you enjoy being around. and for half a second, he contemplates granting you the joy of winning. after all, you’re too cute to lose, too fragile to have your heart broken over a silly game.

your gaze shifts to his cards. there’s an ace on the table, and the other card is yet to be revealed. he waits, slowly nodding as you request one more card. eight.

twenty in total. quite close to blackjack. he looks up again. you wave your hand over your cards -letting him know you stand- your demeanor shifts. confidence lights up your expression, and he hums softly at the sight.

the smell of the air calls out your name, and the sounds of car engines are no longer as distant.

not until he flips the hole card. the card burns down the utopia you had. the king of spades.

it makes your heart sink. the king’s eyes are piercing, sword sharp, it’s a ten. the little purse on your lips is entertaining him.

it’s blackjack.

“lucky, aren’t I?” he says softly, declaring victory.

he then glances at your cards. “i was really hoping we’d grab a drink, too,” he claims, voice more cheerful than intended. the king of spades is in his hand now– he carries it like a medallion of his victory. he does it effortlessly, he does it like you aren’t there. he does it, too comfortable, it’s almost –no, definitely– cruel.

you’re left with defeat and 1000-piece puzzles. the phantasm of the cozy cafe haunts you. the tea burns your tongue on the fifty-second day, and you call out to him in pain, “wait,” you say, the king of spades still there, and you call out his name again, “one more,” he gazes at the cards. “one more time,” you beg.

an old man who lost everything on horse-races must understand the agony you’re in. an unfortunate destiny with its limited offerings for you, that’s all it is. “let’s play one more time,” you try again. a gambler figures the despair, as you keep replaying the scenario you’ve made up. the image is so vivid — the king of spades is on the table, and you’re given the second card now. fingers crossed, you slowly grab the card. and here it is; it’s the ace of diamonds, or maybe of clubs. your eyes widen at the sight. even people who hit the lottery couldn’t be able to describe it, nor could they comprehend such delight.

“please,” your voice is low and shaky. you try again, and again, and again. you’re a drowning man. you clutch at a straw. his expression is unaffected. he has had his fun, it seems. the owner is getting bored with his pet, you’ve seen it a few times. the show is over, destiny is revealed.

you come closer to him, grabbing his arm. he doesn’t seem to pay any attention to you, “do you want me to buy a card shuffler? you know, the ones they have in casinos?”

“one more time,” you try again, even though you clearly don’t stand a chance. “no can do, love,” he sighs, giving up, “you know we’ve talked about this.”

“please,” you say. the conversation isn’t going anywhere.

“it’s getting late, isn’t it?” he ushers you to your bedroom. you keep rambling about demanding a rematch, and how you are definitely going to win if you play again. his heart breaks listening to you cry and beg. you’re now a madman, lost, scared.

he tucks you in, “okay, baby,” he whispers, “let’s play again tomorrow,” he doesn’t wait for an answer before giving a quick peck on your cheek. to an outsider, you two just look like a cute couple arguing over a stupid card game.

in reality, he’s definitely going to burn that deck by tomorrow morning.

[garez19]

my grandpa just failed the driving test for the 3rd time

[garez19]

I genuinely wanna request something but idk if your taking requests gng 💔

yes i am gang!!!! go ahead

[garez19]

how big yo bald patch twin

it’s so big that i’m basically bald. hope that’s okay for you love💖💖💖💖💖💖

[garez19]

I love your work so much please don’t go bald at 3:82 in the morning while doing the macarena on a dog and doing random magician tricks

love you you gang you mad e my day… my week even … the scenario feels a bit too specific, though. it’s safe to say i’ll lay off the macarena and magician stuff for a while

[garez19]

I just wanna say I LOVE ur writing. It's so tasty— like how???

thank you you ARE so tasty 😝

[garez19]

Ya wanna be moots?

sure !! 🤙 like this post so i can follow you !!!!!

[garez19]

i AM going to let this affect me

[garez19]

HELL YEAAAHH!!!!

[garez19]

chat look at my sticker

[garez19]

Not to sound ungrateful but do you have a time-line for pt 2 of yan streamer to come out?

nooooo i’m sorry ;:((( i’ll get back to it once i’m done with the semester though!

[garez19]

wanna switch?

having grown up as the “smarter” twin, he finally gets a glimpse of his brother’s perspective. MDNI, gn reader, yandere content, mentions of overdose, drug use, murder, not proofread, 1.5k wc.

notes: can you call this one experimental? idk.

at the age of six, his parents consider him the calmer one, the son that is easier to deal with, the smart and kind one.

“mine is cooler,” his brother says without looking at him. the toy is almost identical to his, yet kids his age are easy to handle, stupid and naive enough to accept anything. his brother clumsily pushes the toy car around with two fingers, too sure of the fact that it looks cool if he is the one doing it.

he frowns cartoonishly. the seed of doubt is planted on his head, and he does not enjoy playing cars as much. the other kid realizes his little pout, so he turns to him, “would you like to trade them?” his smile is wide and he’s ready to declare his victory.

“okay,” he says.

their parents begin to notice their son’s unexplainable jealousy toward the other boy. every toy he owns, every bit of attention he receives, even every snack he’s given is noted and mirrored by his brother.

their mother buys them two more toys— almost identical, yet in different colors.

“theo,” she calls out to the kid. they both look at her. “pick one of them.” she points to the toys. theo beams with joy, however; his brother doesn’t seem as excited. he picks the green one after contemplating a few seconds. “okay, good,” she holds out the blue one to the other boy.

“and don’t give it to alex when he asks you to.”

at the age of fifteen, he is fed up with the boy’s dumbness.

they’re identical in almost every aspect, but there has been times he took alex’s exams because he is just so incredibly thick-headed to understand even the easiest concepts.

but no, wait, alex isn’t stupid, not exactly. all he ever does is find an easier path, to manipulate and create new ways just so he could get it over with.

their parents are very much used to being praised about their son, theo, who has been exceptionally successful, the model student everyone keeps mentioning. it wasn’t the deal with his brother though, he isn’t as troublesome as he used to be, but he still lacks the ability to concentrate and blend in with the rest,

“keep your eyes on your brother,” his mom says to theo. “you’re the only one he has.”

at the age of twenty-two, he finally understands how alex must’ve felt like all his life.

theo has his life ahead of him. a bright future blinks at his way, a very successful career as well as a loving family. without a doubt, he would have it all in no time, whereas his brother is still busy acting like an asshole and trying to drink all his worries away. he has tried to warn him, “it’s not a healthy coping mechanism,” he says. alex looks up at him in pure contempt —and something else he can’t figure out is there too, something similar to disgust.—

“and what is?” he spits, “being a freak, obsessed with control?”

theo doesn’t answer. it’s not that he doesn’t care about the remark, because his brother isn’t the only one who has voiced this sentiment. but he knows—even if he is the control freak, he is in the better position. he is in control, and that’s enough to keep him going. he is safe from the consequences of foolishness and ignorant decisions.

“it’s better than overdosing on drugs,” he says through clenched teeth.

they didn’t use to be this cruel towards each other, he remembers. he is reminded of the silly fights when they were younger, and how they always had found a way to apologize and make up.

“fuck off, will you?” alex hisses as he puts on a jacket. “you’re not a saint.”

he knows his brother will come back apologetic, he will even buy his favorite dessert as a form of apology—something he does to indicate he wants to make amends. “you’re the only one i care about,” theo will say as his brother gives him the paper bag, “don’t let those pills get into your head.”

and his brother will nod along, even though he probably won’t be listening. their relationship will seem stable for another couple of days.

the scene plays out just like how he imagined, only with a bit of a miscalculation. “maybe you’re right,” his brother mumbles, “i shouldn’t be messing around with my life.” theo can’t hide his surprise, but he seems content with his brother coming back to his senses.

and after a few days, alex mentions you, someone who has been helping him heal, someone who is willing to hear what he has to say. you become the shocking news for the following days. he isn’t an easy one to deal with, so theo considers you a holy soul sent by heavens. he witnesses his brother’s eyes shining as he talks about you. he sees how excited his brother gets whenever there’s a little date of you two.

and for once in his life, he feels happy he doesn’t have to keep an eye on alex. he is happy there is someone his brother can trust with, someone who cherishes and respects him even when he’s the biggest loser.

“i’m glad to meet you,” you say, reaching out to his hand, “alex talks about you quite a lot.”

he smiles softly, you are just like how he imagined after all: a lovely soul with a loving heart.

he likes invading your rendezvouses whenever he has the opportunity. his workaholic habits don’t usually allow that, but he feels he can make exceptions here and there. your presence is comfortable in a sense he can’t entirely describe. it’s like a cup of tea after being done with his studies, or maybe like the ice cream his mom used to buy when she was there.

but there’s only so much he can do when his brother tells him to give them some privacy. he gets it, really, but he can’t help but want to be told “it’s okay, you can hang out with us.” by you.

and you do. because you truly don’t mind it: his company is fun, and it’s hilarious to watch two identical people who have two contrasting personalities fight over the best movie of all time.

he watches the story alex has posted, two of you and a stray cat— it seems very fond of you.

he seems confused. since when does he have a partner? when did he even post that story? hell, he doesn’t even use it often. he clicks on the account. there’s a picture of a cat on the profile. “Alexander” he reads. he takes out his student id from the wallet. “Theodore” it says.

he hates being called that.

he refreshes the page and views the story again. you look so lovely with your adorable smile. he suddenly longs to be that one cat you pet in that story. he wants to be a stray cat you adopt, a stray cat you intend to domesticate.

or even better, he wants to be his brother, alex. he wants to be a part of your life without needing his brother’s permission. he wants to be present, and it doesn’t matter whether he has to be theo, alex, or that one stray cat in order to be by your side. his identity has stopped making sense a long time ago anyway, and all he ever wants is to have you near.

there are two mugs of tea on the table. “best dad ever,” one says. the other one has little flowers on it. alex puts the donuts right next to them. the two sit in silence, ready to make up, but none of them says anything. fortunately, the sound of the tv takes the tense silence away. theo’s gaze shifts from the table to alex.

“you remember how mom would make me pick toys because you wouldn’t stop swapping them with mine?” he asks. alex nods as he smiles at the sight of the memory. “you remember how you’d make her believe i was the one who did that?” alex asks back. he takes a sip while theo stares at the mug in his hand.

“well, no,” theo says, confused, “anyway, do you want to switch?” he points at the mug with his head. his smile is big, and he is one word away from declaring his victory.

“sure,” his brother grins.

seeing you cry over “his” death is heartbreaking, but it is also something that makes his chest warmer. how tragic it is to leave this world when he had so much ahead of him. when he had so much to do, when he had so much potential.

none of them truly matters, not really, because heaven can only wait so long to take you back. and before that happens, he’s ready to play the part of his brother too.

“i’m so sorry, love,” you say, wiping his tears away. “it’s going to be alright.”

[garez19]

tmi is never tmi cuz theres this friend i have and we’re not really close but he still gives very detailed answers even when its a little “what are you up to” its adorable man like yeah okay tell me all about how fun it was to do whatever you were up to.

he mentioned once he was on the spectrum hence the reason he tended to do that. anyway. i feel bad i dont really know how to answer and i probably come off as distant w replies like “ohhh thats good.. im glad…….” but i love it man.

[garez19]

a lot to share

rich! yandere x thief reader.

reader steals from her richie rich friends, yandere male, manipulation, subtle blackmailing, class distinction, 4.4k wc.

you had always wondered how it felt to be a rich kid. a real rich kid. not the upper middle class, i mean, rich kids whose parents could afford anything and everything for them. kids whose parents invest in their children’s education, their passions and aspirations without having to worry about paying the bills.

growing up you met a handful of them, and you even befriended some. you witnessed the fact that everything they -and you, for that matter- ever wanted had always been between their lips.

you were envious, even when they were certainly generous to you. why would they not be? they always had more. they could’ve always had more. and it pissed you off. the fact that you were never, no matter how hard you tried, on the same level as them made you turn into a grumpy kid most of the time. you wanted that one toy eliza had, and you didn’t want to play with it and give it back to her when the playtime was over. you wanted it to be yours. a belonging of yours.

your mother wasn’t happy in the slightest when she found the toy in your backpack. she was angry, for sure, but there was a different kind of emotion in her face; disappointed and embarrassed. still, you could only assume how much patience she needed to have to be able to have a normal conversation with you. she tried to seem understanding, and did her very best to explain what you did was not acceptable, and how eliza must’ve been very upset that her favorite toy was gone. you remained still, but your mother could see the way your upper lip was quivering.

“eliza’s mom can buy her a new one.” you said right before bursting into tears. what was the big deal? why did she have to ruin everything for you?

“that doesn’t mean you can get your hands on their belongings.” she replied, her voice sharp and stern this time. “i’m sorry.” was all you managed to let out. she gave you a sympathetic look. then she talked a bit more, and you agreed you’d give it back to her tomorrow.

“you shouldn’t do that again.” she reminded you once more. you hummed quietly. however, you still couldn’t quite understand what was truly wrong with it. even so, you did as your mother told you. but when you saw eliza with such big surprised eyes, full of joy and a beaming smile on her face, you could finally see why your mother was so upset with you.

you were happy she didn’t try to ask questions. where did you find it? why didn’t you tell me? were you the one who took it? no, none of them had crossed her mind. “thank you,” was all she said. “mom bought me a new one,” she added. “i can give it to you if you’d like.” she said while playing with the toy. you didn’t answer. you couldn’t find the right word. you were ashamed—a new emotion you’d learned very recently.

“i don’t want it.” you mastered up all your courage. the desire was always bigger. it was bigger than shame, or wrath, it was bigger than any emotion you could ever describe. but you didn’t want someone to give it to you just because it was something they wanted to get rid of.

you wanted to conquer it instead. you wanted to get your hands on it forcefully, by grabbing it and making sure that you were the one who took it.

you ended up stealing it, told your mom she gave it to you because “her mom bought her a new one.”

soon it had become a habit. you knew how wrong it was, and you knew the consequences you had to face in a scenario where you were caught. you knew you weren’t worthy of having any friends, and the excuse of “their parents can buy them a new one.” didn’t work on your conscience anymore.

but, you couldn’t stop.

you tried your best to surpass the desire. the desire to have more, to own more, and to get to have a say in what you truly wanted in this life. you tried your hardest, so much that you even avoided rich kids like the plague.

but then he came into your life with classy clothes and a car you would have only seen in your dreams.

materials don’t mean anything to me, you reminded yourself. sure, they didn’t; what got on your nerves was the fact that they had the chance to have it, maybe. maybe it was the only reason you were angry.

none of it means anything to me. you reminded yourself.

but it was hard to do so when he was there. he was kind, charismatic and intelligent. truly an overachiever, and he certainly got it all.

you have never had such desire in a long time. the last thing you had craved something so painfully was eliza’s toy.

when you ran out of patience, you already found yourself seated next to him, glancing at the notes he took in class. first it was small remarks. then you became a familiar face for him. then you were talking to him, sharing stories and making stupid jokes, asking stupid questions.

you were weird. he could almost sense something was off with you. acting sweetly and bubbly all the time, yet he could see your eyes were dull when you looked at him. it was nothing he hadn’t seen as he had always been surrounded by people like you. sly and ready to fake any kind of demeanor.

no,

what he didn’t understand was you were still trying your best to do as your mother said. just because someone is rich doesn’t mean i can get my hands on their belongings. you reminded yourself as you found a better place for your -eliza’s- toy. more than a decade had passed, and you still didn’t grow out of it.

how laughable you were.

you observed the toy very carefully, adjusting its position and rechecking again.

as i said, the desire to own something was bigger than any meaningful sense of accomplishment. and, fairly enough, rich kids could never make sense out of something so sentimental. he could never understand such emotion. he never truly craved anything. nothing ever was over his reach, which is why he could never figure out motivation of people with tenacity.

he always knew he could get whatever he wanted. his parents didn’t hesitate to spend hundreds on toys he would play with only once. he didn’t have a favorite toy, because at the end of the day, none of them was special.

he didn’t have close friends that would truly care. he didn’t know how to forge unbreakable bonds with people, because at the end of the day, he didn’t crave anything including meaningful human connections.

he didn’t have a life-time goal. sure, he had got the best grades, but it wasn’t truly because he had the motivation. he simply had endless opportunities and didn’t have anything better to do than learning new stuff that seemed somehow entertaining.

an overachiever with no real ambition in his life.

how laughable he was.

and yet you were really getting on his nerves. it was nothing new for him really, being surrounded by girls who didn’t know how to take no as an answer. girls who wanted to taste how it felt like to be with him, to be him. girls who wanted pretty boys with a lot to share.

he hated people like you. he hated that he was only a symbol of achievement and acceptance to people with materialistic values. that was exactly when he decided to go along with you. he started agreeing with whatever you wanted to do. you had a stupid idea? all ears. you wanted him to be your project partner? sure thing. you had seen a funny video? show him.

because he really wanted to see where this was going for once. he wanted to see how much you were willing to go just so you could get what you wanted. you couldn’t decide if the change was good or not. it was unexpected, and unexpected things would make your stomach upset. you enjoyed his company, true, yet you still couldn’t get your eyes off of eliza’s toy. and you sure wouldn’t try to avert your gaze on his belongings. he should’ve known better, but you could still hear your mother’s voice in your head.

hanging out with him was fun. he was only there when you actually asked him to. he didn’t need you to check up with him because, fairly enough, he couldn’t care less about you. he didn’t consider you a friend, and he most certainly had lots of things to do. the comfort of such dynamic made you feel lighter. he made you feel comfortable unlike eliza and your other friends who found you distant the moment you tried to have some time by yourself.

hanging out with you, although hard to admit, was fun. you didn’t ask about his ambitions and such topics he wouldn’t want to answer. you were just so busy with telling him how much you hated your boss and your family matters you weren’t supposed to tell anyone. you had a lot to share. you had funny stories about high school. you had recommendations on books and songs about love. you had laughs and joy to share, even when it didn’t seem genuine to him at all.

“my friend made it, wanna taste it?” you told him. he didn’t answer. you still gave him a small piece of it anyway. he could see you actually liked sharing, and it wasn’t special to him. you were annoying, sure, but you still had qualities he liked about you.

he liked not having to talk about serious matters. he liked he had someone he could be stupid with.

and unlike he had assumed, you weren’t trying to pursue him romantically. you weren’t flirting with him, and you weren’t interested in knowing his current relationship status. some compliments here and there, small jokes about how your eyes were blinded by his light, and that was pretty much it. and weirdly enough, you didn’t appreciate it when he tried to treat you to your favorite dessert.

“how do you even call this shit a dessert?” you asked him while tasting what he had. he frowned for a second. “you’re jealous it tastes like heaven.” he said. you grimaced at him before tasting it again.

you had gotten even closer by the following months. he wasn’t quite sure if he still didn’t consider you a friend. and you were happy you didn’t catch anything you wanted to own. except his car, of course, but you didn’t want to play GTA in real life anyway, so you were good.

“are you going to come to the library tomorrow?” he asked, “for the project, remember?”

you checked the date. you rechecked it.

“i’m ditching school, can we do it the day after tomorrow?” you answered.

“oh, sure. did something happen?”

“it’s my birthday tomorrow.”

he frowned. then he also checked the date. turned out, you’d never talked about the dates of your birthdays. but he was still… annoyed for some reason. the fact that he learned about it just before the day made him uneasy. why did you not tell him? who were you going to celebrate it with? why wasn’t he invited? why was he upset over it?

mom makes a big deal out of birthdays, that must be the reason.

“okay, that’s good. what are the plans tomorrow?” he tried his very best to seem uninterested. so much that he hadn’t even said ‘happy birthday in advance’ or ‘ why didn’t you tell me?’ he was unbothered. he was completely fine.

“well, i’ll just celebrate it with my friends.” you replied. he still couldn’t hear what he wanted yet. you still didn’t offer him to join. not that he cared, no, he just. it was just an old habit from his mom. that was all. yeah. nothing else.

“oh. cool.” he said, the awkwardness taking over you thanks to his 2 worded answers.

“wanna come?” you doubted he would say yes as you remembered him talking about how much he disliked such concepts due to his mom’s exaggeration.

“yes,” to your surprise he didn’t hesitate, “sure,” nor did he waste a second. you couldn’t really hide your surprise, and he felt like he was supposed to disappear from the earth for a while.

“what? was i supposed to stay and do your stupid part too?” he laughed.

“oh and, you don’t need to bring a gift,” he lifted his eyebrow as you continued, “i mean, i don’t accept gifts. so just, bring your shiny self, okay?”

he looked at you with pure terror. no gifts, on your own birthday? his mother would’ve gone crazy. but he didn’t persist. it wasn’t easy for him to understand your perspective in many cases anyway.

the next day he truly felt bad for listening to you, because even though none of the guests had any gift for you, you truly deserved anything you wanted with that elegant outfit and your lovely smile. well, not anything. the exaggeration of birthdays was passed down to him from his mother. yeah. surely that was it.

your friends wouldn’t stop asking who he was and where you met him. was he single? wait, were you seeing him? no? good. well, happy birthday, dear.

the day ended with peace and happiness. you were thankful to your friends for being there and sharing the joy. the guests were leaving, and they didn’t forget to wish you the happiest birthday one last time. everyone left, everyone except him since he needed to answer a phone call real quick.

when he was done with it, he made his way to the kitchen to let you know he was ready to leave. that was the moment he saw it: a box wrapped in glossy yellow paper, tied with navy ribbon.

“so you accept gifts?” his voice was stern, for the lack of a better word.

“uhh, i don't,” you glanced at the present. “it’s from eliza.”

“so you accept gifts,” he said once more.

“well, what, are you jealous?” you grinned. that wasn’t the deal. his mother’s weird habits was — whatever.

“of what?” he sounded defensive, “anyway, nevermind, do you want to open it?” now he was like a little boy asking his friends to open their gifts out of curiosity. “let’s see what she got.”

you nodded slowly, gently unboxing it as he watched your hands. his gaze shifted to your expression once you were done—your mouth shaped like the letter o, your eyes glossy almost like you were crying.

he had never regretted anything as badly as not getting you a present. he knew there were times his mother was right, and yeah, he really should’ve known better.

he came up with a solution the next day: another package for you. and he certainly wasn’t any different than eliza, if not worse. even though you loved him and eliza, you still didn’t want expensive stuff from them. the little kid in you still thought it wasn’t truly yours if you weren’t the one who wanted it. when he saw you hesitate, he rested his hand on his chin. “i know you accept gifts,” he said with a faint smile.

his sharp gaze was lingering in the eyes of yours. you did your utmost to get it over with as quick as you could.

you didn’t have to know how hard it was for him to pick the ideal gift out there. you didn’t have to know he went as far as asking his old classmates from highschool to help him out. he didn’t have to tell you he kept annoying his mother—telling her she was the only one he could trust on this. she was taken aback by the sudden request as she had never seen him this excited for such occasions before. normally, he would buy whatever that seemed decent enough.

it was the prettiest bracelet you had seen. simple, and very elegant in its simplicity.

it wasn’t a gift you would -or could- buy your friends, to be honest. it was probably something you could only see on top of the counter. but, you knew rich kids had a different view on such matters. eliza never hesitated to get you such presents too, and she didn’t care which brand it was (or if it even had a brand, for that matter) as long as it seemed to look good on her.

you contemplated selling the bracelet before even getting to wear it. but his eyes were focused on your wrists, leaving you little to no choice.

you wore the bracelet, gently shaking your hand to make sure it wasn’t too loose.

“it’s pretty,” you said, still ashamed of the attention from him. you couldn’t find the correct words, and you hated the awkwardness of such words, “thank you, it’s… it’s so beautiful.” you said while looking at your bracelet. he liked your expression, and was most certainly satisfied with the reaction.

“of course, i picked it, after all,” he said with a boyish grin, certainly proud of himself.

the next day he couldn’t see the bracelet on your wrist.

did you not like it? that couldn’t be it because there was no way you could fake that type of expression. you liked it, no, you adored it, there was no way you didn’t. his eyes were on your bare wrist the whole day. the day after that, and the next day too. he hadn’t said anything, but his eyes were still.

“you think she didn’t like it?” he asked his mother. she was truly confused. there was no way her son, of all people, was nervous over a birthday gift.

“she probably just doesn’t like wearing bracelets.” she said with indifference. “some people are sensitive to how things feel on their skin.”

“she could’ve just told me.” he mumbled. he would’ve get you another gift if you asked him to. it was stupid of him, really, thinking too deeply over a stupid bracelet. but, in his defense,it was for you. from him.

even though you considered selling and getting rid of it, you couldn’t get yourself daring it. you knew he had tried to play it off, but you were able to see his content expression. and just because you felt awkward wearing it, you wouldn’t just do that to him. turned out even you had principles and some ethics. you put the gift right next to eliza’s toy as they brought a similar type of discomfort to you.

he had started to pay more attention to your sense of fashion. noting what you had wore and how you styled your hair, what accessories you wore, if you did. he tried to understand your preferences in perfumes and shampoos. you -and even he himself- didn’t even realize he did it. he kept asking his mom what type of gifts girls would like. he kept keeping track of every single piece of clothing you had. but there was still no trace of the bracelet. it was completely gone. he didn’t care if you wore accessories or not, all he cared was whether you wore that one single item he had for you.

“oh, it looks so pretty,” your friend pointed at the bracelet. “is it new?”

“oh, well, it’s been a while, my friend’s given it to me as a birthday gift.” you said, looking at the accessory.

“you should wear it,” she suggested. “it’s soooo beautiful!”

you didn’t answer. the weight of the item -of the feelings included in it- made it unable to lift your arm. but, you acknowledged you were making it a big deal. nothing wrong with using what your friends gave you, no?

no one including you could find out the reason he was so cheerful and ecstatic that day. not even his mom. he kept giving kind words to his friends whenever he had the opportunity— not something people caught him doing often. he even offered help to troubled people whose assignments were due. he greeted his mother so enthusiastically that she was almost 100% sure her son was finally losing it.

he was finally losing it, but your wrist looked so pretty with his gift on it. he couldn’t shake off the feelings of craving. he wanted your attention. he wanted you to think of him whenever you looked at your wrist. throughout his life, he finally had something to hang on to, to want, to desire. and it finally made sense to him when people had their lifetime goals they wouldn’t stop thinking about. people with undying ambitions and their dedication to do whatever it would take.

he wanted to be the subject of your attention. he wanted it bad.

you were finally losing it. because the more time you spent with him, the more you realized all that character development had gone straight into the trash—and that you weren’t fixable by any means. his company was comfortable, and you liked being around him. but, still, you could sense how envious you were. how jealous you were of his stupid car, his classy outfits, his big house and his mother who had mesmerizing eyes that were identical to his. you were upset he had everything, and you were upset there was no way you could drive that stupid car once your little hangout time was over.

you were finally losing it, because he had everything you had ever dreamed of. because he had everything, and the desire made your soul rotten.

it had started off slowly. like an old crow who adored shiny objects, you started off with a glamorous ring. it was his favorite, as you recalled correctly. and then it was his pretty bracelet, though not prettier than yours. then it was the jacket from that one luxury brand. and the list was getting longer. normally, you wouldn’t go as far as this because normally, people would start grumbling about how their stuff kept getting lost.

he was confused at first, though not exactly upset. he didn’t understand your motives as he had made it clear he was okay with sharing pretty much everything he had. he liked it when you had stuff that would remind you of him. why… did you feel the need to do that? was he not clear enough?

you didn’t accept his gifts, but you were completely okay with taking whatever you liked that belonged to him. you didn’t want gifts, but you didn’t stop pocketing his stuff. he was confused, but maybe, just maybe, you wanted little things in your house that’d make you think of him? maybe you were just too much of a loser and lacked good manners to ask like a normal human being.

no matter what the case was, he wasn’t bothered at all. even if you had ill intentions, it was no big deal, because at the end of the day, it wasn’t stealing if he was aware and okay with it.

he kept getting new jackets that seemed to fit your style. he got new bracelets and made sure you saw them.

the fact that he was totally unaware made you wonder if he was truly stupid, or just richer than you had imagined. he kept getting more and more stuff, and never mentioned anything getting lost. you were completely lost because… because it didn’t make sense at all. it had started to get annoying for you. that there was no way this man wouldn’t look for his items, nor was he even aware they were gone.

it started to piss you off. and you could feel your body getting tenser whenever you glanced at his figure. there was nothing you could do that’d affect this guy. you felt yourself distancing yourself from him. at the end of the day, the only person who was losing it was you. there wasn’t a single thing he would care about losing.

well, the only exception being you.

he could see you were annoyed, though not entirely able to tell the reason. he could see you drifting apart. and worth mentioning he didn’t take it well. things were getting more complicated day by day, and understanding you had never been harder.

there was no way you could walk away. not when he finally had someone to hold onto.

“my ring got lost again,” he mumbled while you two were working on an assignment together. you looked up at him, panic in your eyes lasted only a millisecond.

“oh…” you said, not managing to form a coherent sentence.

“it’s like… the third time this has happened in two weeks.” he peered at your wrist, the bracelet was still there. he smiled softly.

“you should’ve just told me if you had wanted a ring.” his voice was warm. it was genuine, and made you terrified of such warmth.

you didn’t answer, mouth going completely dry.

“you know how hard it is to deal with authorities, right?” he asked, but his voice didn’t sound threatening at all—he was still smiling, and his voice was still the softest you’d ever heard from him.

“i…” he didn’t let you finish. “it’s okay, dear,” reassured, “sharing is caring, y’know,” you looked at his expression to catch a glimpse of contempt— to your surprise, there weren’t any.

“i just… don’t think you should be distant to people when you have their ring,” he cooed, “isn’t that right?”

he made it sound weirdly romantic. like he was the one who gave it. you had his ring, that was true, and it was almost like he was happy you did.

“i’m sorry,” you finally managed to speak up. he shaked his head. “nothing to apologize, dear, the only problem we have is,” he gazed at your hands—stripped of any jewelry, “we need to find a ring that actually fits your finger.” he smiled.

you didn’t know how it came to this, but it was too late to reject any gifts.

[garez19]

i rarely use social media and today after stalking my friends profiles i was overwhelmed with a weird urge to leave silly comments on their pictures. i’d not realized how cute the concept actually was until then. wdym you took cute silly pictures of yourself and want to show em off?? just. just how cute can y’all be lol