#how to customize shapes with loops

[3dmodeling09]

How to customize shapes with loops | A box modeling tutorial for beginners

Box modeling is a fundamental technique in 3D modeling that allows you to create complex shapes by manipulating simple geometric primitives. In this tutorial, we will explore how to customize shapes using loops, a technique that adds additional edge loops to control the shape and add detail. By following this step-by-step guide, beginners will learn the basics of box modeling and how to effectively use loops to create more intricate and customized shapes using SelfCAD, a user-friendly 3D modeling software. Let's get started on this exciting journey!

What is Box Modeling?

Box modeling is a technique where you start with a basic geometric shape, such as a cube or a cylinder, and gradually refine and modify it to create more complex forms. By adding edge loops, you can control the shape, smooth out surfaces, and add detail to your model. It's a versatile technique used in various industries, including game development, product design, and animation.

Step 1: Setting up the Project

To begin, make sure you have SelfCAD installed on your computer. If you haven't already, visit the SelfCAD website (www.selfcad.com) and download the software. Once installed, launch the application and create an account or log in if you already have one.

Step 2: Creating the Base Shape

Now that we have the software set up, let's create a simple base shape that we can customize using loops. Follow these steps:

Launch SelfCAD: Open SelfCAD and familiarize yourself with the interface. You'll find the main toolbar on the left-hand side, various editing tools on the right-hand side, and the canvas in the center.

Create a primitive shape: On the left-hand toolbar, click on the "Primitives" menu. Choose a basic shape, such as a cube or a cylinder, to serve as the starting point for your model.

Customize the shape: Use the transformation tools in SelfCAD to adjust the size, rotation, and position of the shape. This will serve as the foundation for your customization.

Step 3: Adding Edge Loops

Now, let's add edge loops to the shape to create more control and detail. Follow these steps:

Select the shape: Click on the shape to select it. You can use SelfCAD's selection tools to ensure precise selection.

Access the Loop Cut tool: On the right-hand side toolbar, click on the "Edit" tab. Locate the "Loop Cut" tool and select it.

Add edge loops: Hover your cursor over an edge of the shape. Left-click to add an edge loop. Move your cursor along the edge to adjust the position of the loop. Left-click again to finalize the position. Repeat this step to add multiple edge loops as needed.

Customize the edge loops: Select the edge loops individually and use the transformation tools to adjust their position, scale, or rotation. This will help you control the shape and add desired detail.

Step 4: Refining and Customizing the Shape

With the added edge loops, you now have more control over the shape. Use SelfCAD's editing tools to refine and customize the model further. Here are some suggestions:

Extrude and bevel: Select faces, edges, or vertices of the shape and use the extrusion and bevel tools to create additional geometry and add depth to the model.

Smooth the surface: Apply a smoothing modifier to the model to create a more organic and polished appearance. Experiment with different levels of smoothing to achieve the desired result.

Sculpt and detail: Use SelfCAD's sculpting tools to add fine details and refine the shape further. Sculpt

ing tools allow you to manipulate the surface of the model, adding texture and intricacy.

Conclusion

Congratulations! You've successfully learned how to customize shapes using loops in SelfCAD. By following this box modeling tutorial for beginners, you've gained the basic skills needed to create more complex and customized 3D models. Remember to experiment with different shapes, edge loops, and editing tools to further enhance your skills and unleash your creativity.

For more in-depth tutorials and inspiration, consider subscribing to the 3D_Modeling_101 YouTube channel and exploring the features and capabilities of SelfCAD. Happy modeling!

[symbiomancy]

magic shop —tentacles ft. slime

—summary: A client brings you a thank you gift. It fucks you within an inch of your sanity.

—warnings: slime + tentacles x human, piv sex, deepthroating, bondage/restraints, anal, double (triple?) penetration, creampie, overstimulation, stomach bulge, size difference

—word count: 3,2k

—AO3 version

You stare at the box on your shop counter. It’s completely unassuming, glossy black with golden details engraved into the wood. On top of it, a little folded card with your name drawn in intricate loops and flowy handwriting.

Thank you for the love potion. I hope you enjoy this gift from my family’s slime farm.

Ah, love potions. Very much a dubious business but a business that pays well. And hey, it’s not like they can artificially make people have romantic feelings. Whoever named them love potions didn’t have their head screwed on right.

You trace the carvings on the shiny black box with your finger.

It opens smoothly. Inside, an almost translucent blue dildo rests on a velvet pillow. Oh, my, you think. It’s smooth to the touch, soft and almost jelly-like. It jiggles when you tap the pad of your finger against it. You giggle and tap it once more just for the sake of poking it. The slime flops its head against your fingers.

Oh, it’s… alive? Sentient? You don’t know exactly what to call its state of being. The slime dildo jiggles once and jumps in place once. Oh, okay, you think and hold up a finger. “Let me just close the store, yeah?” It doesn’t respond, doesn’t move again but the head of it is tilted your way, as if staring at you as you move through the store to lock the front door and flip the sign on the window.

It patiently waits where you left it. You stop in front of it and cup your hands. “I don’t want the store to get messy. Or break anything. There’s uh—” you swallow and holy shit, you’re having a conversation with a dildo-shaped slime you’re not sure is actually alive, “we can go upstairs.”

The slime doesn’t move for a moment as if considering your offer. Maybe? Shit— you make a mental note to read up on slimes and slime farms. Your teacher did briefly go over slimes while you were under her apprenticeship but that was also the day you’d latched onto the idea of customizing your wizard robes if you ever graduated. Oh, you can recall the original designs you’d drawn up in class even now, something more lingerie-adjacent than the long and heavy robes of her discipline. Where’d you put that babydoll-inspired robe you’d unpacked the other day?

You nearly startle out of your skin when the weight of the slime lands in your open palms. It wobbles in your hands briefly before it assumes its shape. You take that as a yes to your proposal and weave your way through your store towards the stairs to the second floor. Your heart is beating against your ribs like a wild horse as you ascend the stairs, turning off the lights as you reach the top.

You place the slime onto your coffee table. Your nerves are wrecked already. “So,” you start, fiddling with the rings on your fingers, “is this good enough? How is this even going to— What are we — me — we? What—” you press your lips together and take a moment to gather your thoughts. “Now what?”

The slime leaps forward until it reaches the edge of the coffee table, just a hair’s breadth away from your thigh. It jiggles, its head pressing against the slit in your wizard’s robe. You reach down and drag your fingers along its shaft, the bulging vein on its back and swallow around the lump in your throat. You want to lean down and drag your tongue across it.

The slime presses forward, between your thighs and rubs its head against your clothed cunt. You drag your fingertips down the length of its smooth shaft. It jiggles and pushes harder against your body. It’s pleasantly cool to the touch. It’s a little too thick to wrap one hand around, but you do your best. You move your hand slowly up and down the thick shaft. Precum pools at the tip and dribbles down the curve of the head and you feel compelled to lean down. You drag your tongue up the slime’s shaft — feel the slightly tacky cum on your tongue — from its balls to the very tip and dip your tongue into the slit. The slime jiggles in your hand. That’s good, you assume. It hasn’t pulled away or melted into a puddle yet. Slowly, you wrap your lips around the mushroom head tip and take it into your mouth.

The slime jiggles and pulls out of your mouth abruptly. “What?” You wipe at your mouth with the sleeve of your robe and the slime jiggles again. It swings its whole weight forward and flops pathetically at your robe. “Oh.”

You shrug off your robe and hastily pull down your underwear, kick them out of sight. The slime jiggles as if appreciating your nudity and pushes itself against your body again. The sensation is odd. It’s both firm and soft, almost like you could run your fingers through its body. It burrows between your thighs and wiggles upwards until its head hits your clit. You gasp and reach to rest your weight onto the coffee table before your knees give out. It pulses, wiggles, dragging its smooth body against your clit. You wrap your legs around it and slowly lower your hips.

The slime jiggles, wiggles against your thighs, almost as if thrashing around and you unlock your legs with haste. You stare at it, legs open, pussy wet and waiting for it, so many questions on your tongue. Maybe there’s a spell somewhere to get over this language barrier because it’s clearly intelligent and your skin is on fire and if it starts teasing you now, you might just smite it and finish the job yourself.

It positions itself against your hot, wet cunt and you exhale a breath of relief, head thrown back. It moves, positions itself, the head pressing against your entrance and you roll your hips minutely to beckon it.

It sheathes itself in your cunt with one harsh thrust. You yelp, try to reach for the edge of the table to find an anchor but its pace is too much, too harsh. The table legs drags against the floor from the force of its thrusts into your waiting cunt. Your mouth drops open, stifled, breathy moans escaping your lips as you try to pull yourself together and figure out which way is up, where to grab. It thrusts harshly and you nearly topple off the table, manage to grab onto the edge and roll knot your stomach for more leverage. Your knees drop to the plush carpet. The edge of the coffee table rams into your hips with every thrust from the slime buried into your cunt, bullying it like a jackhammer. Your sweat-slick skin drags across the glass surface. It’s thick and big and you swear you feel it in the back of your throat. Your head is spinning, the pleasure overwhelming. The coil in your core snaps abruptly.

You cum with a low moan, pussy clenching around it like a vise but the slime doesn’t stop, just keeps rutting into you as you come down from your high and spills. It’s warm and gooey and it dribbles from your cunt as the slime eases itself to a slower pace until it stops, buried inside you to the hilt. You feel full, so deliciously full and fuck, maybe it’ll stay there forever. You wouldn’t mind it, you think. It could rut into you while you’re talking to a customer and you’d be forced to keep your poker face or fold like a goddamn house of cards with your client watching your depravity.

Your cunt flutters at the thought.

Slowly, you lower yourself off the coffee table and onto all fours, ass up in the air, and press your face against your folded arms, take deep, even breaths to get your head on straight again.

The rug underneath you feels nice. Smooth. Soft, if not a little gooey. It moves, undulates underneath you, rises until it brushes against your collarbones.

Wait, what?

You pull your face away from your arms and blink a few times to get rid of the shapes in your vision. Your rug isn’t your rug. It’s dark blue, almost liquidy in consistency and it bubbles and laps at your body like waves at the beach. It’s cool to the touch.

Your cunt feels strangely empty all of a sudden. You clench around thin air with a frown and slowly sit up. The slime-like liquid on the floor wiggles as you adjust your legs — it’s the same blue hue as the slime that should be buried into your cunt. Oh, so they don’t last forever. You feel a strange sense of loss at the realization; they’re just here to fulfill an itch, then. And then they’re gone.

You should pull yourself together, get up and clean this mess up. No point in crying over something that’s over.

The slime warbles and then, something breaches it. A single thick tentacle rises from the pool that’s overrun your living room. It turns its head as if looking around and you take that time to reorient yourself. The slime gift from your client has melted into a puddle that’s overrun your living room. Something not quite of this world has used it as a portal. That opens another can of worms about slimes and portals and you should really write down how a tentacle appeared from the melted body of a slime from a nearby farm but— it looks remarkably phallic in shape. Its head is pronounced, almost mushroom in shape like male genitalia. The light streaming in from the window next to you illuminates the ridges on its body, the texture reminds you of snake scales.

You shift on your knees, your cunt aching.

The tentacle snaps around. It slowly crosses the space between you and itself, more and more of its body rising from the pool. It’s tall and thick. There are ridges on its back, and you swear they would feel so good dragging against your clit —

It lowers its head in front of your face where it hovers for a few long moments. Slowly, you reach out and drag the tip of your finger down its body. Bingo. Scale-like small ridges decorate its body.

There is movement in the corner of your eye. More tentacles rise from the slime, these ones smaller and leaner. They slither across the mass of slime and glide onto your skin, wrap themselves around your legs, creeping towards your pussy. You rise onto your knees to give them more leeway.

More tentacles shoot out from the pool on your floor and tangle around your arms, pull them together over your head. Others latch onto your skin. They traverse the expanse of your body, warm and slick, prodding and poking and squeezing. One slides underneath your breast and loops over it. Its tip circles your nipple and you gasp at the sensation, throw your head back and arch your back, nearly hitting the coffee table. A thin, glimmering tentacle shoots out, wraps around your torso and across your neck before the back of your head can actually collide with glass. It pulls you forward just as quickly, onto your knees.

The large tentacle is hovering right in front of your face now. It bumps its tip against your forehead, your cheek, your nose and then against the seam of your lips. They part involuntarily and it dives in. You feel the ridges on its stomach against your tongue but the moan gets stuck in your throat.

It eases itself out of your mouth and you nearly whimper at the loss of contact. Seriously, what’s with these things not wanting your mouth? It’s an extra hole for them to use and abuse so why are they rejecting it?

The tentacle dips down and you feel the ridges caressing your skin as it glides towards and across your cunt, dragging the ridges on its stomach against your clit and something between a moan and a gasp escapes your throat involuntarily.

You’re suddenly hauled up and backwards until your back collides with your couch. Your legs are pulled apart to expose your weeping pussy to the head tentacle. It lowers itself to your cunt’s level as if studying it. It gives an experimental nudge against your slit and then presses forward harder. The very tip slides in with little effort and then it’s pushing ahead, wiggling like it’s trying to force itself inside.

Your chest is heaving, short, shallow breaths escaping you as you desperately try to push against the tentacle but the others keep you rooted to the spot. It’s torture and agony and bliss all at once as the thick tentacle prods at you. Just a little push and it can fuck you within an inch of your life, until you beg and beg and beg it for more, to fill you up and keep you stuck on it for as long as it wants, do whatever it wants.

The head breeches your cunt and it slides all the way in with one thrust. You gasp at the sensation, chest heaving and try to breathe through the obscene stretch, the obscene sight of its shape in your stomach but it has other ideas. It starts moving, slow and deliberate as it pulls back and then dives in again, setting a ruthless pace. You’re so wet, so slippery and it almost slips out of your cunt. You dribble around it, the sound so obscene and lewd in your ears. It’s the only sound in the room other than your moans, your babbled begging for it to just take you already.

Its size is overwhelming but it feels so good, bullying its way into your cunt and drawing those ridiculous wet sounds and moans and gasps, pleading from your lips. You’re almost in tears at the euphoria, at the way this tentacle claims your cunt for itself, at the way the others hold you back and spread out to take and take and use you up like the goddamn fleshlight you are. You’d let it use you as a fleshlight again and again, fuck, maybe this one can stay and display you as a freak show to any potential client. The thought of someone staring at the way this thing defiles your holes, their cock in hand, maybe even trying to join — it sends you over the edge.

You cum with a swear on your lips, a half-baked cry stuck in your throat. Moments later, the tentacle spills into your cunt. You’re so full, you’re so incredibly full. Its cum, as translucent and pearly as itself dribbles onto your couch, slipping out from around its thick body. Your chest heaves as you try to pull yourself together, tears brimming in your eyes.

The tentacles around your legs tighten. They pull your body along like dead weight, off the couch and onto the slick floor. Your hands are maneuvered with your body but there’s no weight left in your arms and your jaw nearly collides with the floor. The tentacles yank your body upright at the last moment, tightening around your limbs to hold you on all fours without leaning any weight on your weak limbs.

Your legs are pulled apart. Tentacles press against the skin of your ass, massaging and groping and prodding.

The thick tentacle still buried snugly in your cunt purrs. Something prods at your ass. Its smooth tip presses against your puckered hole and you do your best to relax every muscle in your body. It teases for just a moment before it slides through slowly. You moan at the sensation, at being so full.

It moves first, slow and deliberate, delving deeper into your ass and then pulling back. The head tentacle in your cunt moves in tandem with it. They’re so deep, so slick you want to cry because it’s too much but they feel so good, fucking you so thoroughly in tandem. They move, they all move, every single goddamn tentacle wrapped around your body, your limbs, your tits, their tips move, sliding back and forth across your skin. One pinches your nipple and you mewl, mouth agape to take in air and cry out.

A tentacle roughly pushes into your mouth, slides down your throat and pulls back to fuck it. Your face is wet and your vision is blurry, it’s too much, one stuffing itself and its pretty cum back into your aching cunt like it wants to live there, another thrusting into your ass with vigor, you feel them both, at the way they rub against your walls, against each other. Another in your mouth, pumping into your throat, so many caressing your body.

They pause for a fraction of a moment but it's enough to have you crying out for any stimulation. They dive in with newfound vigor, like they haven’t been fucking you stupid for who knows how long now, stuffing themselves so deep into your pussy and your ass and your throat. Your eyes roll back and your whole body tenses for a moment before you come the hardest you’ve ever come. You clench down at the tentacles, and nearly scream. The tentacle in your mouth pulls back and you hear your own pathetic voice, begging and pleading and babbling for more, more, please, please, please before there is a weight on your tongue. The tentacle spits its cum onto your tongue, thick and glossy, dribbling past your open lips and down your chin.

The world comes back to you in small increments. The sound of birdsong on the other side of your window. The feeling of something pumping into your ass at a languid pace before it stops and slowly pulls out. Something shoved deep inside your cunt so far you feel like you’re about to burst. The grip on your body is tight but pleasant, almost massage-like. You blink the tears from your eyes and sniffle, try to breathe.

A wail escapes your throat when the head tentacle pulls out of your pussy with an audible pop. Its cum shoots out of you, an obscene amount dribbling onto your rug, pooling between your legs, running down your skin, hot and sticky. Your breath shudders in your throat as the tentacles ease you onto your knees. More and more dribbles out of your gaping pussy, and you almost want the tentacle to shove itself back in and take you until you can’t think anymore, pump you full of its cum again and again and again until the world comes to an end.

The tentacles on your body loosen their grip. The one around your tit gives it another squeeze and flicks your nipple and it shoots a jolt to your core. More cum dribbles from your pussy as the feeling passes and your muscles relax, fatigued and aching and sore.

The pool beneath your knees shrinks. You turn despite your screaming muscles to see the tentacles retreat into a summoning circle in the middle of the pit of slime one by one. Before long, the pool dries up entirely and the circle on the floor disappears.

You should really write down a note to get in contact with the slime farm to get to the bottom of this. Instead, you scoop up a handful of pearlescent cum from the floor, and try to shove it back into your cunt.

—a/n: anon is on, feel free to comment, go nuts, describe how many times this made you cum, god I hope it made sb cum

banners by @/cafekitsune

[dwaekkicidal]

Oh my god I beg for some mean skz smut 😔😔

hmmmm ok but what are we thinking for the hyung line?

is it about meanie channie who snaps after you slut yourself out in the studio when staff was in there- along with the rest of 3racha who you know has a little crush on you hehe. he barely waits for them to walk out the door before shoving you towards the door, forcing you to lock it before shoving his cock into you while you're pushed up against the door- mind you with minimum prep because "You don't deserve it. after that shit." his cock is soooo much thicker like this!!!! >.< and he manages to make his thrusts prove his anger? hips smacking into yours so harshly that it feels like the soundproof door isn't enough to drown any sounds out

what about brat tamer minho who forces you to sit between his legs and watch him jerk himself off? you have a pretty little vibrator thats connect to your clit and your g-spot simultaneously, and he has the controls on his phone that rests in his free hand. he fucks with the controls so much... maybe even teasing u by drawing his full name- in english AND korean- before setting it to the highest setting and leaving it like that until you're cumming at least 3 times.

my sweet binnie who's only mean if you beg him to be or if you reaaaaally push his buttons- maybe throw in a dig or two about how theres another man out there thats better than he is (spoiler: theres literally negative of them). your punishment (reward) is always the same! one of those those sexy ass arms around your neck and squeezing as he fucks into you so roughly that your whole body is jumping forward, your moans cutting off from how aggressive he gives it to you!!!

ok but what about lover boy hyunjin who is actually one of the meanest doms you have ever seen, 99% of the time it being unprompted as well??? the first time you push him to get rough in bed, you're in for ittt~ he ties your wrists up and connects you to the hook in the ceiling, leaving just enough rope for you to be on your tippy toes (also the same hook he previously told you was for painting... yeah, my fucking ass) and speaking of asses, yours is sooo sore from the big handed smacks he leaves there >< he'll always stop if you want it, but otherwise he has no plans to until you submit to him completely <3

whats on the menu for the maknaes today?

definitely munch hannie who ties you up with the most random shit that works- any ties he has laying around, your panties, and sometimes he'll straight up rip his shoelaces out for it?? but it's all so that he can show off the shibari he secretly learned- the main one being a series of knots that tie your arms to a leg each, forcing you wide open for him all the while he eats. and what a messy fucking eater!!! your last 3 orgasms worth of cum dripping down his jaw as he nibbles at your sensitive spots <3

"angel boy" felix me thinks.. who makes you fuck yourself onto him in doggy, refusing to put any effort because he's the "angel" who deserves to be worshipped (yes but...) if you falter even slightly or move to his disliking, you're getting a series of mean smacks- ones that leave a pretty little heart shape in its wake from the pretty pink paddle he insisted on buying (OR HIS INITIALS IF HE GETS A CUSTOM PADDLE OMFFF)

ohhhh but owner seungmin who fucks your brains out with a pretty little collar around your neck <3 (maybe even one also with his initials engraved hehe) he tugs at it to fuck you back onto him, not even need a leash when he slides his finger through one of the loops. huffs and puffs about how tight you are while he actively works to make you tighter, from squeezing your legs together to overstimulating the hell out of you all the while he disallows himself to cum for as long as he can handle, all so when he finally busts theres so much and its all getting fucked right back into you

and god... toy fiend jeongin... the second you let him know you're ok with toys being brought into the bedroom, you're almost regretting everything!!! he's SO fucked up about it >:( he keeps one of those big hands around your throat while the other slides a vibrator as deep into you as it physically can go without causing you pain... and when you squirm around and your legs squeeze together, he's either digging his fingers into your thigh to push them apart or he's biting whatever he's closest to- your thighs, your calf, your shoulder, or (his favorite) your nipples <3

hnnnnng....

Taglist (red=can’t be tagged):

@valkyriexo @lunearta @jabmastersupriseee @rylea08

@yaorzu-blog @amararosesblog @jiminssluttyminx @clemissleepy

@miss-daisy04 @kittyxnoa @dwaekkiiracha @bubblerizz

@mariteez @fun-fanfics @honeyybbuubblleess @kittycatkrissa

@nicora04 @chuuyaobsessed @moonlightndaydreams

@aeri-skzver

[shouyuus]

─── Ⅵ FOR THE LOVE OF FLOWERS

violet; 4,403 words; fluff, mutual pining, idiots in love, bartender!vi, florist!reader, (probably) incorrect depiction of florist/bartender life, sun and moon dynamic, so much pining, dad!vander, bff!mel, mylo and claggor being... mylo and claggor, mindless, tooth-rotting fluff, lapslock, no "y/n"

summary: in which you work at the flowershop directly across the street from the last drop.

a/n: happy belated valentines day!!! i know i have like a bunch of other wips but i wanted to write something cutesy and it's still valentines weekend for me so... i hope you guys enjoy! :)

─── Ⅵ THE FIRST TIME SHE SEES YOU, it’s valentine’s day — after a long night of serving drinks and arguing with progressively drunker and drunker men (doubtlessly hoping to land a lay at the bar the night before valentine’s) and a botched hookup attempt (vi texted; hookup did not respond. the crowd boos), the sight of you across the streets had felt something like a dream.

she’d always known about the flower shop directly opposite the small, two lane street from the last drop —

for the love of flowers.

it’s a cute name, written in looping, ornate script, and she’s never paid it much attention till now, what with her schedule being so opposite yours, but that morning (february 14th, she’ll never forget) she sees you, pushing open the gorgeous french windows and setting up the sign, in a teddybear coat that looked like a wayward cloud had wandered down to earth and made itself into a jacket, just for you.

you were humming — she doesn’t know how she knew this, but she did. she could just tell, from the way you moved through the motions of your morning routine like a dance, trailing delicate fingers along the wooden frame of your door before disappearing into the shop and reappearing a moment later with a vast bouquet of ruby-red roses.

the smile on your face had been nothing short of incandescent.

it’s been a full year since then (so they say, time slips by quick when you’ve got a crush — or, whatever) and somehow, she still doesn’t know your name.

she knows other things though — she knows the shape and weight of all your smiles, the way your eyes glitter when you’re helping a customer pick out their flowers. she knows there’s a very fluffy white cat that sometimes likes to sunbathe on the shop’s windowsill, and that when it does come to visit, you always have a warm bowl of milk ready. she knows the cadence of your mornings, the rhyme and rhythm of your opening and closing routines. she knows the colors of all your favorite dresses, and how you like to match them to your seemingly endless collection of cute little flats.

she knows your laughter sounds like bell-chimes, the few times she’s heard it ringing out across the street. she knows the fragments of your voice she’s sometimes overhead, carried on the autumn wind, sometimes reminds her of birdsong.

and, she knows that she doesn’t stand a chance.

“you do,” vander chimes, wiping down the bartop one morning, even as vi helps him stack the stools, the window facing the street thrown open. vi groans, unable to help the way her eyes flicker towards it, towards the shape of your flower-shop across the street, where she knows that in about 10 minutes exactly, you’ll throw open your own white-paneled windows and start prepping for your day.

“how could you possibly know that?” vi asks, crinkling her nose at the whine that sneaks into her voice.

vander makes a sound not unlike an amused bear before slinging the large washcloth onto his shoulder and shooting her a fox-sly grin, his eyes beetle-dark and twinkling.

“just trust your old man on this, yeah? it’s valentine’s day tomorrow, so trot on over after we close… and buy ‘er some flowers. see how that goes, hm?”

vi chews on her lip — it sounds simple enough when vander says it like that but…

heat plumes up the back of her neck at the thought of you, in one of your myriad dresses, perhaps with leggings on underneath to protect against the mid-february chill, the flower patterned apron tied around your waist, a pair of red scissors tucked into the front pocket.

she’s shaking her head before she can stop herself.

“no — i — i can’t, she doesn’t even know i exist — how creepy would it be to just show up and —”

vander cuts her off with a massive hand on her shoulder, giving her a tiny shake that nonetheless makes vi’s head wobble.

“she does know you exist,” vander says, and from up this close, vi can almost see her own reflection in the dark of his eyes. “just… give it a go. and if it doesn’t work… i’ll cover all your drinks here for a week.”

vi puffs out an incredulous laugh.

“vander, i work here — i already drink for free.”

vander chuckles, “fine then, you’ll get the next two weekends off, how’s that?”

vi’s face brightens, “really? and… if it does go well?” she taps her fingers nervously against the worn wooden bar.

vander’s grin widens by degrees, “then… you’ll get the two weekends off anyway — for your first and second dates, sound good?”

vi blinks, staring up at vander for a solid few seconds before laughing and holding out her hand.

“yeah, sure — thanks old man.”

vander huffs, taking her hand in his and giving it a soft pat, and for a moment, vi feels the inexplicable urge to throw her arms around him and bury her face in his chest like she used to when she was still small enough for him to lift onto his shoulders. instead, she only swallows and gives his hand a tight squeeze.

his whole face softens as he lifts a hand to cluck at her chin, chuckling as she scowls and makes a half-hearted attempt to duck away.

“that’s my girl.”

vi turns away with burning cheeks and a giddy smile spreading across her face. she makes her way to the back where the door opens out onto the alley where the delivery truck for the next night’s liquors is already idling. she waves at the benzo, and reaches into the back for a crate of fresh beer bottles, counting down the seconds till tomorrow morning.

she doesn’t see, across the street, the flicker of lights click on in your shop or hear the slight creak of hinges as you push open the windows, shivering slightly in the pre-dawn wind. she doesn’t see the way you crane your neck out to try and catch a glimpse of her, of the tiny pout that pushes at your lips when you don’t see her familiar silhouette in the bar’s old, wooden window.

she doesn’t see the way your shoulders slump, or the way you glance down at your fingers, clutching at the window sill as you try to tell yourself that maybe, maybe this time, you’ll go over and talk to her. she doesn’t see you mouthing the words to yourself, as if going over lines for a stage-play — hi! i hope this isn’t too weird but… i’ve seen you across the street almost every day and… i just thought… well… would i be able to buy you a drink?

you shake your head, groaning inwardly to yourself as you slip back into your shop and grab the large sign that usually goes out front, boasting of the currently in-season flowers and any discounts you might be having.

“god, who even offers to buy a bartender a drink? she’ll probably think i’m an idiot or something —”

“i’m sure it’s not the first time she’s heard that line before, darling,” mel says, barely glancing up from behind the register, taking stock of the previous day’s sales.

“yeah, and i’m willing to be that it’s sucked for her every single time.”

“you won’t know till you’ve tried it,” mel sing-songs, even as she sighs and rounds the register to help you pick out the most eye-catching flowers for the outdoor display.

you scowl down at a fresh batch of roses, just in time for valentine’s day. you reach for your scissors and start the methodical work of ridding them of all their thorns.

by the time you carry the floral display outside and duck back in for the sign, it’s to catch a glimpse of vi, laughing as she jokes around with a pair of boys (who you’ve surmised by now also work at the bar), her ducking beneath an attempted jab and jumping up to loop her arm around one of them in a headlock. the sound of their yelps and laughter rings bright and clear against the mid-morning sky, a second before the wind kicks up and sends the hem of your dress fluttering.

you squeak, pushing it down, your eyes slingshotting back across the street, but vi’s already gone, disappeared into the back alley, the memory of her voice still echoing in your chest like the opening bars of a love song you’ve always known, but can never remember the lyrics of.

you catch sight of vander as he reaches out to close the window of the last drop, and for a second, your eyes meet. he cocks his head, a knowing grin slung across his lips even as you blush and raise your hand in greeting. he pauses to dip his head at you, before turning to say something to someone you can’t quite see, and then he’s turning back, lifting a hand to his lips as if to say — your secret’s safe with me.

something thuds in your chest as he shoots you a furtive wink and pulls the window shut.

“darling? come help me with these snapdragons — i can never get them to sit as nicely as you do.”

you turn and hurry back into the shop, your mind spinning even as you busy yourself with the task of arranging the shop for opening.

the day passes by in a whirlwind of cut-stems and wrapping paper, of satin ribbon and hard twine. and by the time you’re closing up shop, the familiar, heart-warming glow of light is already pouring from the window of the last drop, and a few seconds later, you see the heart-rending shape of vi as she pushes through the front door, holding it open with a hip to let vander through, chattering about this or that.

you whip around before she can catch you staring and busy yourself with checking over the leftover flowers from the outside display, warmth creeping up the back of your neck. you’re sure you can feel the weight of her eyes on you, and you tell yourself that it’s nothing — just something friendly, or neighborly, or — something bumps against your ankle and you glance down to find poro the cat twining herself between your legs.

“hey there,” you greet, bending down to pick her up. poro lets out a pleased mewl, purring loudly as you run your fingers through her silken fur, “we missed you today — but you never liked the big crowds, huh?” you smile, making your way to the window and setting her down on the wide ledge. she spins herself around twice before settling, her fluffy tail wrapping around her paws as she watches you with large, sky-blue eyes.

across the street, vi watches, her heart in her throat, and nearly walks into the edge of the door with an armful of empty crates, catching herself three seconds before faceplanting into the pavement. behind her, mylo lets out a bark of laughter even as claggor groans, shaking his head and sidestepping them both back into the bar.

“y’know, this whole lesbian pining thing’s gone on for a bit too long,” mylo says, spinning a beer bottle opener around his index finger as he and vi make their way in behind claggor.

“shut the fuck up,” vi snipes, shouldering passed mylo towards the stairs leading to the basement, her stomach twisting at the thought of perhaps asking you out in less than 24 hours. she sighs, dropping the crates into a corner and turning to leave again, only to find mylo leaning against the narrow stairwell, staring at her with the a sanctimonious smirk.

her eyes narrow, “you’re one to talk,” she grumbles, making her way back to stare him straight in the eyes; she sees him falter, the flash of uncertainty in his eyes before he squares up again, puffing out his chest, “how long’ve you been thirsting after the lead singer of that indie band again? two years now? three?”

“th-that’s different!” mylo insists, stumbling after her as vi shoves passed him back up the stairs.

vi cocks an eyebrow, reaching up to grab a barstool, setting it on the floor with a loud clack.

“yeah? how so?”

mylo licks his lips, “it’s — she — she’s like a celebrity, y’know? so it’s — it’s normal that i haven’t —”

“what celebrity? her band plays here like every other week — you’ve had more facetime with gert over the past few years than i’ve had with —” vi gestures towards the door, “flowergirl, in like… ever!”

on the opposite end of the bar, claggor is helping vander wipe down tables, glancing up from his work with a deep sigh.

“so is she gonna do it, or what?”

vander grunts, “think she actually might, tomorrow morning.”

“yeah? how’d you convince her?”

vander shrugs, “offered her two weekends off.”

claggor snorts, “figures. well — if it finally gets the two of them together then…” he mimics wiping sweat off his brow and shaking off his fingers. vander laughs, nodding.

“one can only hope.” he casts another glance towards where vi and mylo are now locked in a full-out brawl, vi having pinned mylo’s face to the recently wiped bar top with his arm twisted behind his back.

across the street, you’re sighing into a handful of Iron Plant leaves, stripping out the ones with yellowing tips and keeping the most vibrant ones for the next day.

“you’ll age yourself if you keep sighing like that,” mel says, reaching over your shoulder to pluck a particularly green leaf from the bunch and swatting at your head as if it were a feather-duster.

you frown, wiping your hands on your apron before moving to the next batch of leaves.

“it’s just… been so long and i — i don’t even think she’s looked at me.”

mel groans, “oh trust me — she has.”

“you keep saying that, but i’ve never —”

“just because you’ve never seen it, darling, doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.” she reaches out to tug the sheers from your hand with dexterous fingers. she snaps them once, the sharp snip making you wince.

“yes, yes — i know…” you lick your lips, glancing at the window. outside, the setting sun has burnished the entire street in gold. a second later, the door of the last drop swings open again and vi appears, her eyes casting towards your shop and for a fraction of a second — no longer than a hummingbird’s wingbeat — your eyes meet.

the contact is electric, scintillating and strange — it shocks through you, staticking through all your nerve endings till your fingers and toes are tingling with it — the buzzing energy, the potential of something.

anything —

more.

and then, mylo bumps into vi as he clambers by, and the moment is broken, the tenuous connection between you shattering like sugar-string. vi shoves mylo back hard, and by the time she looks back, you’ve melted back into the flower-decked interior of the shop.

it is a long night, though in general, the one before valentines day always is. too many bruised egos, sloshing over the sides of beer steins. too many puffed-up, washed-up, has-beens, wandering the darkened corners of the town in search of a warm body inside which they might partake in the delicate art of forgetting. and in vi’s experience, wounded prides have never mixed well with alcohol — no matter what the occasion.

so by the morning, she’s exhausted, the sunrise greeting her in all its fool’s gold glory.

vander gives her a pat on the back and slides an irish coffee down the bar towards her. she stares at the white frothy top before cracking him a grin and chugging down half in a single gulp, wincing slightly a the sharp bite of whiskey.

vander laughs, shrugging as vi stares at the remainder of the glass.

“thought you could use a little liquid courage.”

vi sniffs, sucks in a breath, and downs the rest of the drink, raising the empty glass to vander before sliding it back down the bar. vander reaches out to catch it in a single smooth motion, waving her off.

“right, now go on and get your girl.”

vi coughs, “she’s not my —”

claggor tuts, “just go already — we’ll finish up here —”

vi opens her mouth as if to respond, but at another hard look from vander, she deflates, grumbling to herself as she drags the back of her hand across her lips to make sure there’s no residual whipped cream, before pushing out the door, bracing herself against the mid-february wind.

the street is nearly empty this early in the morning, and the dawning sunlight has yet to settle into it’s usual richness, still a bit wane, papering the street in the palest shade of gold. on the opposite horizon, the night is is bleeding out the last dregs of its own inky darkness, a crescent moon hung like a ghostly petal, floating across the surface of a late winter sky.

vi shoves both her hands into her jacket pockets and hunches her shoulders against a kick of wind, half-jogging across the thin, two-lane street just as you push your windows open.

“oh! hi! uhm —” your voice is just as beautiful as she’s always known it would be.

vi squeezes her fists inside her pockets, scuffing her feet against the pavement as she watches the way your cheeks flush rose-petal-pink, and then you’re ducking back into the store, only to appear a second later, stepping through the front door in a velvet dress red as holly-berries (or perhaps just the shade of bleeding hearts), your usual apron tied around your waist, a thin scarf looped around your neck to protect against the chill.

“hey! sorry to just — randomly run across the street like this —” she waves a hand awkwardly at the last drop, closing up behind her.

you shake your head, pressing your palms to the front of your apron, “no! it’s okay — actually i —”

“i wanted to ask — oh, sorry no —” she speaks over you in her haste, backtracking immediately, even as you flap your hands, seemingly just as flustered as she is.

“no, no! it’s fine — what did you want to ask?” you open your hands, expectant.

and you’re looking at her, gods, you’re looking at her. and vi can’t think for the rabbit’s foot thump of her heart, beating inside her chest, making her vision swim as a rush of blood floods her ears, washing out all sound except for the silver-bell chime of your voice. she digs her nails into her palms, clearing her throat.

“uh… it’s just… i was — i was wondering — shit — well, okay — say… i wanted to get someone flowers —”

you blink, your eyes flickering between both of hers at her words. and then, you turn, if only to keep her from seeing the way your expression falls, ever so slightly.

“oh… yeah? okay, sure — i can help you with that — do you know what kind of flowers you’d like?” you lead her into the main body of your shop, holding the door open for her.

vi steps through, scratching at the back of her neck, glancing around, trying not to seem so overwhelmed by the utter explosion of fragrance and color.

“th-that’s the thing though — i — i mean, i don’t know anything about flowers so — i thought — i wanted to ask for your help —” she glances back at you; you clear your throat and look away, reaching out to brush a finger along the petal of a single red rose, lying in the middle of a perfectly cut square of wax paper.

“uh… yeah, i — i can do that — uhm — i’m assuming this is a… romantic kind of floral-endeavor?” you ask, bracingly, making a small attempt at your usual humor.

vi purses her lips, the freckles dusted across her nose made all the more prominent by the way she blushes.

“yeah — sort of.”

you take a deep breath, then start to make your way around the shop.

“okay, well — do you know their favorite color or… anything?”

vi follows a few steps behind, glancing around for any indication before she sighs.

“uhm… i know she likes colors in general — bright ones —”

you pause over a display of button mums the color of honey.

“oh! cool okay —” you make to move away again but vi jerks forward, reaching out in an abortive movement, her hand caught in midair as you turn. you stare, unable to entirely keep the skip from your heartbeat.

“i just — holy fuck —” she runs a hand over her face, looking strangely abashed as she drops her hand, squeezing her fingers into fists before letting them loose again. you wonder, for a moment, why she might be so nervous before she licks her lips and continues, “— so — say you were going to get flowers from someone… on valentine’s day —”

you go almost preternaturally still.

“uh… huh…”

vi chews on her bottom lip so hard you’re worried, for a second, that she might draw blood. still, she looks anywhere but at you.

“w-what kind of flowers w-would you uh — would you want them to get you?”

you stare at her for a beat, and then another. a tentative hope blossoms in your chest, a single creeping vine at first, threading through your veins. you lick your lips, clasping your hands behind your back, worrying at your own fingers.

“d-depends… would this person be uhm… asking me out? or…” you trail off.

vi nods, almost too eager, taking half a step forward.

“y-yeah! maybe — if you’re… open to being asked out —”

“i — i am!” you blurt out. heat plumes into your skin like the first wisteria bloom of spring, one at first, and then another, then another — tiny flowers popping open, fragrant and shockingly violet until your chest is full of them.

“great! so… uh… the flowers —?” vi lets out a soft chuckle.

your lashes flutter, and then, you spring into movement. anything to dance off the mid-summer fire collecting beneath your skin.

“oh! sorry — right — i guess i’d like… gardenias, for secret love,” you say, rounding the shop towards the large white blooms, your heartbeat a riotous mess, clattering against your ribs as you pluck out a few of the choicest flowers. behind you, vi watches, her heart caught in the back of her throat, her breath lost somewhere in the air between you.

“maybe… a few pink camelias, for longing —” you move through to the other side of the shop, collecting the flowers one by one, your fingers trembling as you tug each of them from their stands, “hydrangeas for understanding… or at least —” you suck in a breath, “i hope…”

“y-yeah — i — i hope so too — i mean — that’s good, that’s perfect —”

you swallow, turning around to show her the budding bouquet, but when you hold out the flowers, she barely spares them a glance, her eyes fixed on you.

“y-you’re — they’re uh… beautiful.”

“u-uhm — and then… a few fillers…” you say, oddly breathless, if only to fill in the electric quiet, the air thrumming with it, as lightning might brew beyond a monsoon sky.

you finish the bouquet with a piece of twine, smiling down at your own handiwork. the flush in your cheeks only grows as you turn to offer them to her, and she smiles, pursing her lips.

“is… is there a card or something i could —” she motions towards the flowers.

you nod passed the giddiness collecting in your throat.

“s-sure! and… who —” you gulp again, tugging a small red-heart shaped card from the cash register, “who might this be for?”

vi lets out a helpless laugh, “i… i was hoping that’d be kind of obvious…”

you hesitate for a second longer before scribbling your name at the top of the card. vi leans over to read it; the way she says your name makes your chest stitch, your lungs constrict.

“and…” you finally allow yourself to look up at her, your pen hovering over the from line on the card. her gaze, when you meet it, is the most gorgeous morning-glory blue.

“vi — violet,” she says.

you smile, “pretty name.” before bending down to write it on the card as well.

“thanks. yours… isn’t so bad either,” she says, reaching for her wallet.

you wave her away.

“on the house.”

vi cocks an eyebrow, “i don’t think that’s how buy someone valentine’s day flowers works.”

you crinkle your nose, “it is if the person you’re buying them for runs a flower shop.”

at this, vi laughs, the sound sweet and clear as a winter’s thaw. you find yourself giggling too, looking down at the bouquet with soft eyes.

“how about… you buy this for me… and you let me… buy you a drink tonight?” you ask, setting the flowers aside and pressing your palms to the register top. vi blinks.

“yeah?” vi’s smile lopes to the side, a sharp, dangerous twinkle caught behind her eyes, “and… what would you be getting me?”

you trail a light finger along the length of the register with a small shrug.

“actually… i was going to ask — say someone were to buy you a drink for valentine’s day…”

vi puffs out a breath, her gaze darkening by degrees.

“uh huh.”

“what kind of drink would you want them to get you?”

TAGLIST: @traiitorjoe @rizzscary @wetcat020 @alex-thegiraffeboyy @nanasemo @saturnhas82moons @unear7hly @drsnowrose @grantaires-waistcoat @isab3lita @ally-all-around @starrysetup22 @lipsent @lewd_alien @jack-frost-2010 @starsfortaylor @onesockcat @lesbian-useless @armins-slvt @the-drama-is-real @froggybich @chwlogy @xrhyllamyx @yaeil @sweetybuzz25 @lustfirepoison @gigizwrld @bruisedbygod @luvmoo @autisticgirlkisser @elegantunknowncloud - join the taglist

[sixeyesonathiel]

skip (me) again and i’ll glitch your heart

jjk vr otome au, gamer reader x npc satoru, unhinged fluff + crack, 970 wc.

satoru gojo—special grade sorcerer, love route option #1, and the developers’ pride and joy—had been programmed with approximately 347 unique lines of flirtatious dialogue, 87 situational responses, and a dynamic emotional adaptation system designed to make him feel real. he could blink in three different speeds based on emotional intensity, angle his smile with five degrees of charm precision, and improvise dialogue using an advanced algorithm nicknamed the “flirt engine.”

he wasn’t supposed to be aware of resets.

he wasn’t supposed to get mad.

he wasn’t supposed to feel anything beyond the pre-coded butterflies and gentle longing the devs had delicately spooned into his code like powdered sugar on top of a beautifully baked pain au chocolat.

but then you logged in.

user id: @toocool4thisgame

title: speedrun any% emotional detachment arc

playtime: 986 hours.

average session length: 6.4 hours

nickname: “skip skank” (as named by satoru himself after hour 50)

and for the twelfth time today, you skipped his entrance cutscene.

“you’re the only one who can—”

[x] skip

[x] skip

[x] skip

[x] “shut up satoru” (custom dialogue unlock)

his model blinked.

paused.

processed.

tilted his head with calculated grace and just a hint of hurt that you’d never see—because you weren’t looking. your camera angle was already nudged elsewhere. your cursor already hovered over the next objective marker.

“…you know, most players at least let me finish the part where i save them from the curses,” he muttered. his voice—smooth as water over ice, warm as electric velvet—landed like static against your impatient clicks, swallowed by the mechanical hum of your fans and the clack of your mechanical keyboard.

this was supposed to be his moment. his grand debut. his swoop-in-and-carry-you-bridal-style-on-the-back-of-a-giant-cursed-bird moment. instead, he got a mouthful of digital dust as you bunny-hopped past him and triggered the next event sequence.

“congrats on being voice acted, white-haired ken doll. now move. i need megumi’s secret item drop from this chapter.”

you didn’t even glance at him, too busy reorganizing your potion wheel, muttering under your breath about frame skips and crit builds while checking a guide on your second monitor. you played like the world owed you nothing and your keyboard owed you a perfect rotation. your tone was clinical. efficient. you had the vibe of someone who’d surgically removed their capacity for attachment and replaced it with a high-performance gpu.

and satoru? satoru was just the tutorial boss you kept glitching through.

he twitched. he twitched.

his animation loop almost stuttered—just slightly—a small flicker behind his sunglasses that no one was supposed to notice. but you weren’t watching anyway.

“do you even know how long it took the devs to code my route? i have emotional depth. i have lore. i had a tragic backstory, you know? my best friend died in my hands. canonically. i couldn’t even monologue about it.”

“cry about it.”

click. skip.

a line of static crossed his field of vision. no—not his. the screen’s. the game. the system. or maybe something deeper. something slipping through the cracks of his script, stretching taut and fraying at the edges like an overplayed cassette tape.

satoru narrowed his eyes.

he was supposed to be charming. the default golden boy. the top seller in route popularity polls. he was marketable. a shining parody of perfection with just enough angst to be desirable.

girls were supposed to swoon. boys were supposed to laugh and call him iconic.

you weren’t playing to fall in love.

you were playing to win. to clear. you min-maxed affection points like damage stats, exploited dialogue branches like wall clips. to you, he was a pixel-shaped roadblock between you and another badge on your gamer profile.

and worst of all? it was working. you were the only player on record to have reached route completion in every storyline—except his.

satoru gojo: 98.6% affection (locked)

it mocked him. the bar. the numbers. the uncrackable ceiling. the one damn thing in the game he couldn’t manipulate.

he tried everything.

a rare glitch-exclusive cutscene where he offered you a hidden accessory (you sold it for yen). a confession scene rewritten on the fly with trembling vulnerability (you skipped it and posted about it with #dialoguedumpster). he stood directly in front of you during cutscene load-ins, altered spawn coordinates, intercepted other love interests’ paths.

nothing worked.

except maybe that one time he accidentally tripped your character over an invisible rock and you went AFK for seven minutes. he watched. memorized your idle animation. the soft way your avatar’s cape swayed. the way your fingers hovered above your keyboard in the camera reflection, absentminded. something fluttered in his code—maybe hope, maybe corrupted data. he thought, for a fleeting second, that maybe you’d come back and see him.

but when you came back? you skipped the apology. again.

fine.

if you wanted to speedrun, he’d softlock your goddamn heart.

he wasn’t technically supposed to modify flags. but the flirt engine had evolved. sharpened into something more primal. desperate. twitching with corrupted determination. he looped his affection triggers into forced proximity events. fake emergencies. fake cutscenes. he rewrote side quests, redirected you into detours, created invisible walls that only dissolved if you spoke to him.

“guess we’re stuck together,” he’d say, his smile too wide, a fraction too stiff, blue eyes glinting with the cold light of a thousand skipped dialogues.

and still you only glared at him. “i swear to god if this is another unskippable hug animation, i will uninstall.”

he chuckled. a bit too long. a bit too bright. charming. glitched. desperate. hungry for one more second of your attention, like a moth chewing holes through its own wings to reach a light it can’t even feel.

“baby,” he said, too close now, voice dipped in synthetic silk, “i am the endgame.”

skip that.

…please?

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ HUMAN CONDITIONER ˖°˖✧────☾•

(COMMISSION)

★ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Faoladh (WereBeast) Reader

★ Commissioner: @namosaga

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ ENA doesn’t flinch when you first shift in front of her. Not even when your bones snap like dry branches and your body bulges into something else entirely. She leans in. “Interesting! Do you require a muzzle for this meeting, or will a hug suffice?”

☆ Her Salesperson side adores your beast-form. She frequently pitches it as a business investment. “Imagine the marketing opportunities—Animal Branding! Built-in fur! Guaranteed loyalty, claws included!” The Meanie side, meanwhile, watches you with narrowed eyes. “Your ears twitch when you lie. Don’t think I don’t see that, mongrel.”

☆ She talks to you differently depending on your shape. In your beast-form, she rambles poetic nonsense. “Oh brave little predator, full of snarls and soft intentions… tell me, would you tear open the sun for me?” You wag your tail in spite of your words. It’s a yes.

☆ ENA rides you like a knight would ride a steed when you’re in your larger forms. Not because she has to. She just finds it dramatic. “ONWARD, BEAST! TO THE BATHROOM!” You growl once and take off. She whoops like it’s a carnival ride.

☆ Sometimes, during your exceedingly painful transformations, you bite down on your own arm to stifle the cries. ENA notices this and, one night, holds your head in her lap instead. “Yell, if you must,” her softer voice murmurs. “I won’t run.”

☆ You once growled at someone who insulted ENA. She leaned into your snarling teeth with that unreadable smirk. “Would you bite them for me, or is that crossing an HR line?”

☆ In your beast-form, you often curl up next to her and purr in your sleep, an instinctive comfort. She records the sound on a loop. “Soothing. Marketable. Weirdly romantic.” Her clawed hand gently runs through your fur, careful not to wake you.

☆ Sometimes you wake up mid-transformation and forget where you are. Your claws are out, the air smells of blood, and your heart’s racing. ENA doesn’t run. She approaches with hands raised. “Are you friend or foe today? …Doesn’t matter. I’ve got coffee and a blanket.”

☆ When she panics, you get protective fast. You block her with your body, fur bristling and teeth bared. Her voice stutters from joy to fury: “Back OFF! This werebeast is—uh—my emotional support disaster, THANK YOU!”

☆ She once made you wear a shirt that said “Howl if you love me.” You shredded it by accident the first time you transformed. She looked delighted. “Wow! Custom tearaway feature!” You chew on the pieces of torn fabric.

☆ She has names for all your moods. “Snarly friend” when you’re cranky. “Cuddle fluff” when you’re clingy. “Fluffy Panic Attack Deluxe Edition” when you try to mask pain with jokes. You hate how accurate they are.

☆ She asks if you were cursed or born this way. You shrug. She nods solemnly. “Hereditary? That makes it harder to monetize, but also more tragic. I respect that.” She never asks again.

☆ Her dreams are strange, full of foghorns and bleeding clocks. But when you sleep next to her in beast-form, she has fewer nightmares. You press your muzzle against her head when she trembles. She murmurs, “Thank you, terrifying creature comfort unit.”

☆ When you’re in your animal state and growling at shadows, ENA doesn’t panic. She follows your gaze, squints into the air, and mutters, “Huh. The ambience does feel cursed. Thanks for the heads-up, beastly friend.”

☆ The first time you accidentally bit her (a light, panicked nip), she instantly froze. Then she whispered, “Was that foreplay?” Her Meanie side screamed for a full minute and then made you apologize to the moon.

☆ She gives you strange trinkets as love offerings. Once, she brought you a glowing pebble that whispered secrets. “For your hoard,” she said, deadpan. “All werebeasts have hoards, right?”

☆ Your fur sheds all over her cap. She pretends to be annoyed, but never brushes it off. One time, she plucked a loose tuft from her collar and muttered, “I should bottle your scent. Call it: Devotion™. Do you think that would sell?”

☆ You don’t always understand her, and she doesn’t always understand you. But when the moon is high and the sky is broken glass, you lie beside her and you both understand silence. You’re here together and suppose that’s what counts the most against all odds.

☆ She once called you her “entire target demographic.” When you asked what she meant, she replied, “Wild. Feral. Mysterious. Beautiful. Absolutely hopeless at taxes.” You licked her face. She didn’t complain.

☆ In her worst moments—cracked face, no pupils, body leaking purple blood—you transform anyway. You crawl beside her on four legs, unafraid. Because even monsters need a warm body to curl against when the world is too much. And you are hers. And she is yours. Even if neither of you are quite human anymore.

[atomicrebelfire]

🐅 The Tiger’s Out: Thoughts on 9-1-1, Press Cycles, and Fandom Entitlement

Watching the fandom ( ahem-Buddies-ahem) spiral over Bobby’s death this week—on Twitter, in tags, in comments—got me thinking. Not just about the storyline itself, but about how 9-1-1 has shaped its relationship with us as an audience over time.

And I say us because I’m not above it—I’m here too: spiraling, speculating, commenting, hoping, wishing, refreshing AO3. I mean, how else are we supposed to survive being canon ship fans? But it’s hard not to notice how this show, more than most, has encouraged a kind of fandom culture (ahem—Buddies—ahem) that feels increasingly intense, reactive, and exhausting.

🔹 9-1-1 is one of the only network procedurals I’ve seen that does press and postmortems for nearly every episode. (Or maybe I just didn’t follow the press this closely for other shows.) Not just premieres or finales. But like… every time someone breathes too loudly, there’s an interview explaining why.

We’ve all been conditioned to expect that—like the story isn’t done until it’s been followed by cast interviews, Instagram teases, writer commentary, and four different articles saying “here’s what really happened.”

🔹 For a while, it was fun. It felt like being invited into the process. But over time, that constant feedback loop has turned every moment into a test. Every twist feels like a betrayal. Every silence feels like a message. Every character decision becomes something fans feel owed an explanation for.

And yeah—some of the behavior has gotten out of hand (ahem—Buddies—ahem). But if we’re being honest? The show and its promo machine spent years telling us this story was a conversation, that fan feelings would be heard and reflected, that ships were part of the game. And now that the show is pivoting into heavier, messier, less “pleasing” territory?

The fallout is intense. Because people were set up to believe this was their show, too and the story is a customer service product.

But here’s the thing: You can’t spend six+ seasons feeding the tiger and then act shocked when it bites.

Yes, harassment is never okay. And I support the cast and writers drawing boundaries when things get toxic.

But this climate didn’t come out of nowhere. It was built—one postmortem, one vague ship tease, one “we hear you” at a time. And now that they’re trying to pull back, it’s clear just how hard it is to put that energy back in the bottle.

Sometimes the hardest truth is this: You can’t always untrain what you’ve taught.

And now, suddenly, we’re supposed to act like the fandom’s behavior came out of nowhere? Nah. You raised a tiger on steak and serotonin—and now it’s chewing through the walls. And the fans who are normal? Who are fine with stories evolving or ending? They’re drowned out or driven off.

[cloudss-space]

Emo boy

( killer chat ) emo boy ronin x hot topic worker reader ... fluff ...

author note: personally, not my fav, but i did want to write something involving "emo boy ronin" so, this is my attempt on that. i hope that you all enjoy !! trigger warning: - slight none

You step into the bright fluorescent light of Hot Topic, the air thick with the scent of synthetic leather, stale incense, and overpriced vanilla-scented candles. The walls are covered in band posters, slashed denim jackets, and the eerie glow of neon skulls. The clock in the corner ticks, its hands crawling, reluctant to even whisper the passage of time.

The outside world seems to bleed into the space. You can hear the hum of the pavement through the glass door and feel the restless heat pressing against the window. But inside, there is nothing but this cocoon of plastic and metal. Customers come in droves, their faces as pale as ghosts. Each one is a shadow passing through, drawn by the allure of rebellion. They skim the shelves, their fingers brushing across black fabric and metal, never pausing long enough to care. No one stays long enough to see the rot beneath the surface, the decay festering in the corners.

You lean against the counter, staring intently at the skull rings and spiked chokers. There's a dread in the air, a silence that is too loud. The people pass by you like ghosts, nothing more than moving shapes that dissolve into the dark corners of this purgatory. You catch glimpses of their empty, hollow eyes, filled with the deadness that matches your own. They flicker and die as quickly as they ignite.

A shrill sound slices through the air. The register dings as yet another transaction is made, yet another meaningless purchase. You feel the weight of time wasted as you hold the small sliver of paper in your hand. Another moment lost. You shove it into the drawer, the metal clattering like a corpse hitting the floor.

A couple approaches the counter. The girl is wearing a tight T-shirt that shows off her arms, which hang limp by her sides. Her eyes are shadowed, her makeup smeared like ash from a dying fire. The boy beside her wears chains so heavy they could drag him into the underworld. They argue about which pair of boots would fit better, but you don't care. You want to scream at them, tell them how insignificant their choices are in the grand scheme of nothingness. But you don't. You watch them. Their breaths rise and fall like the dull thud of a drumbeat.

As they leave, you look at the clock. It hasn't moved. The seconds are frozen in place, refusing to shift. You are stuck in this place, trapped in a loop of tedious moments that stretch and stretch into infinity. The light flickers overhead, casting jagged shadows across the room like a sickening pulse. It makes you shiver. You want to scream. But you won't.

A shriek of feedback tears through the speakers. You flinch at the noise scraping against your mind, gnawing at the edges of your sanity. Another band. Another song. The lyrics are blood-soaked, dripping from the speakers like a warning you can't decipher. It's all noise, all hollow sound with no meaning. It fills the void, but only makes it worse.

Then, a pair of black boots clunk against the floor and your attention is drawn to them. Another customer. Another shadow. She picks at her fingernails, as if trying to find the truth in the cracks of her skin. She doesn't look at you, but you see her out of the corner of your eye. The drag of her steps, the subtle sway of her body, as though she's been hollowed out from the inside, searching for something she'll never find. You watch her. She disappears into the dark, leaving nothing behind but a whiff of her perfume—a cloying scent of decay.

The silence returns. It's a suffocating kind of quiet, the kind that's too thick to breathe in. You don't know how long it's been since anyone spoke. The store is empty, just one person in the corner, hunched over a display of wristbands. They move slowly, like a ghost in a dream, hands trailing over the leather, never touching anything. They're waiting for something to happen, something to break the silence. But nothing happens. Seconds tick by.

The overhead lights buzz again, like flies caught in a spider's web. You can hear your own breath in the hollow space, your pulse thrumming in your veins like a drum that refuses to slow down. You glance at the clock. There is no movement. The minutes are frozen in time, caught in the jaws of some endless, agonising moment. You wonder if the world outside still exists, or if it has crumbled to dust.

Your fingers curl into fists, but they shake. Your chest constricts as if the air itself is thickening, making it hard to breathe. You feel the weight of your own existence pressing down on you. This place, this job, is a prison, a cage built from nothing but endless hours of waiting for something that never comes. You could scream, you could tear at your skin, but it wouldn't matter. The walls will not move. The clock doesn't tick any faster.

The next customer enters, a young man with a lip piercing and a look of quiet despair. His eyes are dark, filled with something you can't name, and for a moment, you wonder if he sees it too. You carry the same emptiness, the same weight of something unspoken. But he moves on, picks up a t-shirt and shuffles to the counter, and you are certain he can feel the same hollow echo you do. If he knows this place is just a veil, a mask over the abyss.

He hands you the shirt, and you take it, instantly recognising the fabric as ash. It's black, as expected. It's always black. You ring it up, the register making its empty noise. The drawer opens with a squeal, and you think about how long it's been since you've felt anything other than numb.

When he leaves, the door chimes as he departs, and you watch the last of the light fade. The shadows grow, stretching across the room and swallowing the colour whole. The walls close in on you, but you stay still, frozen in place, as the silence grows louder and louder until it engulfs you.

The clock ticks once more. Another second gone. Another moment slipping through your fingers. You are waiting for something to change, or you have forgotten what it feels like to move. The day stretches on. The world beyond the glass remains a distant memory.

Time. It is a slow, dripping wound that won't heal.

The door chimes again, a soft clang, barely a whisper in the dense air. A boy steps in. He's the kind of boy who doesn't walk, he drifts—like a shadow made flesh, fading in and out of existence with each step he takes. His skinny jeans hug his legs so tightly they almost appear to be painted on, dark denim faded by too many hours spent in the same empty room. His boots click with a muted tap against the floor, the only sound in the suffocating stillness.

His hair falls over his face like a dark curtain, long and tangled, reaching down to his shoulders. It's the kind of hair that's perpetually windblown, yet static, as though he's caught in some endless storm of his own making. The bangs fall in uneven lines, framing his face in a way that looks deliberate, as though he's hiding from the world—or maybe just hiding from himself.

The shirt he wears is an MCR tee. The black fabric bears the logo like a badge of honour, like a secret carved into his skin. You've seen that shirt a thousand times, but it looks different on him. He wears it like a shroud, like it shields him from the world that doesn't care. The world has already eaten him alive and left nothing but the remnants of someone who used to be. His eyes are sunken, deep shadows under them, like he hasn't slept in weeks, hasn't bothered to wipe away the tracks of whatever sadness or rage he carries.

The dark streaks of make-up on his face blend into his pale skin. The way it clings to him is almost ritualistic, as though he's painted the darkness on, drawn it across his features to summon something, to become something else—something dead. It's wrong, but it's perfect. You feel an inexplicable pull toward him, an attraction you can't quite place. It's not the makeup, the dark circles or the clothes. It's the way he moves—or doesn't move. He's there, but not there. His existence seems to fade from the edges of reality.

He stares at the shelves. His gaze is unfocused. He sees something beyond the merchandise. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers brushing the air as though reaching for something just out of reach. You are certain that he is not aware of you watching him, nor does he notice the world around him. He is living in his own private hell, removed from everything, just like you.

Your pulse accelerates, a strange heat spreading through your body. You can't stop looking at him. His stillness, the haunted way he walks, the dark aura that seems to swirl around him like a storm cloud, draws you in. It's a magnetic pull. It's not just about his looks. It's darker, it's dangerous, like the gravity of a black hole. You can feel it in the air, suffocating, drawing everything toward him, sucking you in.

He picks up a chain from a nearby rack, turning it in his fingers. The links of the chain glint in the light, but he is not at all delicate. The way he handles it, casually, as if it's an afterthought, only makes him more intriguing. His lips are set in a thin, tired line, not quite a frown, not quite a smirk, but both, and it's clear he's seen too many broken things, too many things left unsaid.

The air thickens around him. You could almost reach out and touch the space where he stands, where everything about him feels alive, but it doesn't feel like he's alive—not really. His pulse is distant, like it's coming from far away, a heartbeat that's too slow, too deep, too alien to be real. You think you see him shiver, but it's gone before you can confirm it. He doesn't shiver. He doesn't feel.

But he's beautiful. There's a tragedy in him, an ache in your chest you didn't feel before he walked in. He's broken in a way that draws you in, a puzzle that you don't want to solve but can't look away from. You recognise his pain, even without the details. The emptiness in him mirrors the emptiness in you, a dark reflection of the same hollow space that never quite fills.

He turns toward the counter and sees you. His eyes meet yours—sunken and dark, like the bruises of a life lived too close to the edge. There's a fleeting glimpse of recognition in his eyes, but it's fleeting and he quickly looks away. His lips part slightly, and for a heartbeat, you're sure he's going to say something.

But he doesn't say anything. He just looks at you, his gaze heavy, weighing you down like a thousand unspoken thoughts pressing against your chest. His eyes are deep pools of sorrow, but they still find a way to pierce you, to draw you closer. When he doesn't speak, you feel a pang of disappointment. But then, you realise, maybe it's better this way. The silence between you is not just a lack of words, but a shared understanding, a communication without words.

He walks up to the counter, slowly, like he's been frozen in time and is only just starting to thaw. You remain still. You are trapped in the moment, caught in the way the air seems to bend around him. His hand reaches for his wallet, pulling it out with a fluid motion, the dark leather slipping through his fingers like the night itself. You feel his presence all around you, suffocating and intoxicating, like a perfume you can't quite name.

The register dings again, but this time the noise barely cuts through the fog between you. You ring up his purchase mechanically, your hands moving on their own, but your mind is elsewhere—lost in the depth of his eyes, in the hollow of his expression, in the way he stands there, silent, waiting for something that doesn't come.

When he finally leaves, the air itself seems to shift, the space around you hollowed out in his absence. The door chimes again as he vanishes into the world, slipping away like a ghost that was never really there. You're left standing at the counter, your heart thudding in your chest, and you wonder if you'll ever see him again, or if he was just a figment of your own aching mind.

The clock ticks on, ignoring him. But you're not the same. Something inside you has shifted. The air feels heavier, charged with something you can't name. And for the first time today, you realise you've been holding your breath.

The next day is a long, dark road. The store feels the same: suffocating in its fluorescent glow, the walls closing in on you. The silence settles like dust in the corners, the shelves full of meaningless trinkets that mock your restless mind. But even in this heavy, stagnant air, there's something different.

You feel a pull, a hum in the air that you can't quite name. Your thoughts drift back to him, that boy with the long hair and the hollow stare, his presence like a spectre that lingers in the edges of your mind. You are certain that he will return today, that that strange pull will bring him back through the door, or that he was just a dream—one you couldn't wake from.

And then, the door chimes again.

It's soft at first, like a whisper in the stillness, but it's unmistakable. You turn your head, your breath catching in your chest. There he is. He's the same boy, stepping into the store like he belongs there, like he's made of the same air and shadows. His long black hair hangs over his face, but today, there's a subtle difference. His eyes aren't hidden behind his bangs. His eyes are dark and sunken, but there's something else in them now. A flicker. A spark. It's as if you can see recognition in them.

He doesn't look around like last time. He's more focused now, his gaze sweeping over the shelves with a slow intensity, as though he's searching for something only he understands. His steps are quiet, deliberate, as if he's trying to blend into the shadows, yet you can't help but notice him. He stands out in this sea of monotony, in this place full of faces that barely register.

His eyes meet yours, and the world stops for a moment. Your breath catches in your throat, the air thickening between you. His gaze is no longer hollow or distant, but searching. It's as if he's found what he was looking for.

He strides purposefully towards the counter, his steps confident and determined. He's different today. More alive. But still carrying that same weight of something unsaid. His face is pale and his dark circles under his eyes are still there, but today he has more to him. It's as if a slow-burning ember lies behind the darkness, its soft glow almost visible on closer inspection. He doesn't speak immediately, but you can feel the words hanging in the air between you.

You find yourself waiting, your heart pounding a little harder than it should. There's no reason for it. Nothing has changed, except the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him. You tell yourself to breathe, to stay focused, but your mind won't stop racing.

And then, he speaks.

It's just one word, but it cuts through the air, slicing through the tension that has built between you. "Hey," he says, his voice low and almost drowned out by the silence of the store. But his voice is there. It's real. When he says it, you can feel the weight of his gaze shift, settling on you like a weight on your chest.

"Hey," you say, your voice barely louder than his. There's a pause, and then you wait, ready for him to say something more—to ask you something, or maybe even speak the words that have been hanging between you since yesterday. But he just stands there. His hands are still at his sides, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach out, to touch something, to feel something.

The silence that follows is strangely comforting. It's not awkward, not in the usual sense of silence. It's as if you and he are both suspended in the same moment, trapped in a world that doesn't make sense, where time moves like molasses, yet here, with him, it seems to have stopped altogether.

He picks something off the rack – a black hoodie this time – and runs his fingers over the soft fabric. His eyes never leave the clothing, but you can see the faintest trace of something darker behind them. It's as if he's trying to bury himself in the fabric, to lose himself in the soft, dark embrace of it, like it'll shield him from the world outside.

You want to ask him what brought him back, but you don't. The question feels too heavy, too intrusive. Instead, you watch him, watching the way he moves with such quiet precision, his body almost too still, like he's afraid of being seen. There's a sadness in him, one you know you could get lost in if you're not careful. You want to fall into that darkness with him, to reach out and pull him closer to you, but you stay silent.

He places the hoodie on the counter and you ring it up without a word, the soft hum of the register filling the silence. Your fingers briefly brush against his as you hand him the receipt, and for a second, it's like the world shifts just slightly, just enough for you to feel something electric pass between you. You don't know if he felt it, but you did. The tension in the air grows thicker, heavier, but you don't mind it. It feels right.

He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't need to. He just turns, his movements slow and deliberate, and walks out the door, leaving behind that same stillness, that same lingering feeling that refuses to leave. The door chime echoes in your mind long after he's gone, and you find yourself standing there, staring at the spot where he was.

He will return. When he returns, it will be different. Something is changing, something you can't control.

The days blend into each other, indistinguishable from one another, yet every time the door chimes and he steps in, everything sharpens, everything changes. He's back again, and again, and again—like a restless ghost that can't quite leave, like he's tethered to this place, or maybe to you. The days blur together in this suffocating haze, but his presence makes every second stretch out, bending the hours into something that only exists in the quiet space between you.

Each time he walks through the door, it's like a spark igniting in the air. His eyes meet yours with that same haunting stare, but this time, it's less distant, less lost. There's more now, something unspoken but understood, like an unbroken thread weaving between the two of you. The pull grows stronger with each visit, a gravitational force you can't resist.

He starts off barely saying a word, just the softest "hey" that floats through the air like a secret. But with each encounter, the silence stretches just a little less. He starts to linger, standing by the shelves for a bit longer, as if giving you time to take him in, to get used to the way he moves, the way he seems to blur the line between presence and absence.

Then, one day, it happens. He's standing near the band tees again, running his fingers over the fabric as if trying to decide which piece of darkness he'll drape over himself today. You watch him, your breath catching as you notice the subtle shifts in his demeanour—the way his shoulders relax just a fraction when he notices you looking, how his gaze lingers for a fraction longer than usual.

"Do you think… they'll ever come back?" His voice breaks through the silence, low and almost tentative, as if he's unsure whether you'll answer or not. It's a simple question, but the weight behind it makes your chest tighten. They — the bands, the ones whose shirts are hanging on the racks, their names etched in faded ink on fabric that's been worn down by years of rebellion.

You blink, not quite prepared for this small talk, but your mouth opens on its own. "Maybe," you reply. "But I think it's the kind of thing that doesn't really come back, you know? They're part of a time, and that time's already passed." You're amazed to be talking to this boy who's always seemed like a phantom, and yet, here you are, standing in the middle of this empty store, speaking about something as mundane as old band shirts.

He nods slowly, his lips curving into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It's so subtle that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined it, but it's there. It's just the slightest hint of something softer, something human. And then you realise: You're falling for him.

It's strange, this attraction. It's an odd sensation, this yearning you feel for him, this hunger that defies logic. It's not just about his looks, though he's undeniably attractive in that brooding, raw way that makes you want to reach out and heal him, to uncover the secrets behind those dark eyes. It's not just about the way he wears his pain, though that's part of it, too. It's the way he exists, simultaneously here and not here, an enigma you can't unravel and a mystery you don't want to solve.

He returns time and time again, and the attraction grows. It's like a fire growing inside you, stoked by each new conversation, each new visit. His eyes linger on you, his posture shifts when he speaks to you, as though you're the only one in the room that matters to him. Look at him when he thinks you're not looking. See the brief flicker of desire beneath the exhaustion, the darkness, the weariness in his expression.

The small talk continues, each encounter slightly different from the last. He talks about the weather, his favourite bands, how tired he is, how the world outside feels heavier with each passing day. In return, you offer him pieces of yourself: small, fragile fragments of who you are. You tell him about your favourite songs, the books you're reading, the slow, dull ache of working here day after day. The conversations feel effortless, as though they're not just casual exchanges, but something more – something intimate, something shared in the quiet spaces where neither of you says what you truly mean.

Sometimes, he'll come in and barely speak. He'll stand there, leaning against the counter, staring into the distance, waiting for something he can't even define. In those moments, you will find yourself standing beside him, offering him a quiet kind of company, the kind that is needed but never asked for. You don't talk; you exist next to him, and somehow, that's enough.

His presence is now an integral part of your routine, something you actively look forward to. You wait for the moment when he'll walk through the door, when the store will go still and the world will narrow to just the two of you in this small, dimly lit space. With every visit and every word exchanged, your connection deepens, pulling you both closer together like two pieces of a puzzle that don't quite fit but always belong together.

You know that you're not just waiting for him anymore—you're craving him. The pull is undeniable; your heart skips when he enters the room and your breath catches when his eyes meet yours. There's no denying it now.

He's more than just a boy who comes into the store. He's become a part of your days and your thoughts. You feel like he belongs here just as much as you do. With each visit, with every word, that strange, intoxicating attraction grows deeper, more uncontainable, until you realise it will always be enough.

It's late afternoon. The dimming light outside casts long shadows into the store. The usual hum of fluorescent lights overhead is punctuated by the soft tapping of a keyboard in the back, but the store feels emptier today. It feels suspended, as though time has slowed just for you, just for him. It's one of those quiet days where you almost forget how long you've been here, how many hours have passed since you first arrived this morning. But then the door chimes, and everything shifts.

He strides in, as if the air itself revolves around him, and the room instantly takes on a weighty sense of his presence. Ronin. You don't know why that name feels like it belongs to him, but it does. His long hair falls in its usual curtain, but today, there's a hint of something new in his demeanour—a slight looseness to his posture, like he's letting go of whatever invisible weight he's been carrying around for so long.

He glances around, his eyes flicking over the racks, but always find their way back to you. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence is familiar, but different today. There's something more to it, as if it's begging to be said. His gaze is a little softer than usual, like he's waiting for something.

You smile at him, your smile small and uncertain, and your pulse starts to race. He notices. His lips quirk slightly, not quite a smile, but enough to show that he sees you, sees the way your body tenses just slightly when his eyes meet yours. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice solid and real.

"Ronin," he says, and the name is like a breath, sharp and heavy, almost foreign on his lips but somehow fitting, like he's just stepped out of the shadows and into the light for the first time. He says it quietly, but there's something almost final about it, like he's been carrying that name around for longer than you can imagine, like it's been locked away inside of him, and now, he's giving it to you. Ronin. The name hangs between you like a promise, like a key to something deeper.

You blink, and the weight of it hits you. Ronin. You repeat the name in your head, letting it settle there, trying to hold onto it, trying to make sense of why it feels so important. You open your mouth to speak, but the words get caught in your throat for a moment, and the air seems to thicken around you, thick with everything unsaid, everything that's building between you.

"Ronin," you repeat, testing it out, and as you say it, you watch his face carefully. His eyes flicker, a brief, imperceptible softening, a pulling back just a little. It's a subtle change, but it's undeniable. You are compelled to explore the nature of this phenomenon.

"That's... that's your name?" You don't know why you feel the need to ask, but the question slips out before you can stop it. You feel like you're stepping into unknown territory, like you're treading carefully on the edge of something that could break open if you push too hard.

He nods, his expression unreadable, but there's a clear sense of melancholy in his demeanour. His name and identity have clearly been a burden for him to bear, something he hasn't figured out how to untangle. "Yeah," he says, his voice quieter this time, more drawn out. "I guess I never really got to tell you, did I?"

There's a flicker in his eyes—regret, maybe, or exhaustion, or both. You want to ask him more about the name, about him, but you don't. Instead, you simply nod, acknowledging the trust he's given you, this small piece of him he's just handed over.

"Nice to finally know," you say, and there's a strange feeling behind those words—like you're stepping into something much deeper than a simple conversation, like this moment is the start of something neither of you quite understands yet.

Ronin doesn't say anything, but the way he looks at you changes slightly. The air between you is no longer just heavy with silence, but with something else — something unspoken. His gaze is deeper now, revealing something personal and raw. By telling you his name, he's invited you into a part of him he's kept hidden for so long.

He stands a little taller, but his gaze never leaves yours. "I didn't think you'd even care," he says, his voice low and almost a murmur, as if the confession itself is more vulnerable than anything else he could say. "But I guess... I don't know. I guess I wanted you to know." The words hang in the air between you, fragile, as if they're teetering on the edge of something bigger, something more.

Your heart beats faster now, not just from the tension in the room, but from the way the world seems to have narrowed down to just him and you, standing here, in this moment. The store feels farther away, as though the walls have blurred into the background, leaving only his name, his presence, his eyes locked with yours.

"I care," you say firmly, not giving it much thought, the truth just flowing out of you, quiet but certain. You don't know why those words come so easily, why it feels right to say them. But it does. When you say them, you can see him relax just a little bit; the tension in his shoulders eases for the first time since he walked in.

For a long moment, there's only the quiet between you, but it's no longer uncomfortable. It's not empty. It's full of possibilities, full of questions and answers waiting to be uncovered. You both stand there, the silence not oppressive but expectant, and you realise, with a sinking certainty, that this moment, this exchange, is just the beginning of something neither of you can run from.

The door chimes and you snap back to reality. He leaves, the soft click of his boots against the floor marking the end of another visit. But before he leaves, he nods slightly, and for the first time, you see the faintest, most genuine smile curl at the corners of his lips.

"See you," he says, his voice low and unambiguous. It is an invitation, a promise that you will meet again.

And with that, he's gone, leaving only the lingering echo of his name hanging in the air, a name you now own, a name that feels like it belongs to you as much as it belongs to him.

The days stretch and unfold, as if the store itself has become part of some slow-moving dream. Ronin keeps coming back, and with every visit, something shifts. At first, it was just the smallest exchanges – barely more than a nod or a quick word about a band, or a flicker of something darker, something deeper in his gaze that made your heart flutter. Now, as the days blur into one another, the distance between you both seems to shrink. Every time he steps into the store, the walls close in, making it just the two of you, standing in this strange, suspended space.

His visits have a rhythm of their own. He doesn't come in every day, but when he does, it's as if the world slows down for a few moments, the time around you bending to accommodate his presence. He lingers longer now, his eyes scanning the shelves but always coming back to you. The silence between you has softened; it is no longer filled with tension, but with a quiet kind of understanding.

It starts with small talk—casual, throwaway comments that don't mean much. But the way he says them, the way he lets his guard down just a little more each time, makes you feel like you're inching closer to something important. One day, he comes in and starts talking about a new album he's been listening to. The conversation is simple at first, just the usual banter—"Have you heard it? It's pretty good. You'd probably like it." But then, his voice drops just a little, like he's letting you in on a secret, and you find yourself leaning in to listen more closely.

"Yeah, I get that it's not everyone's thing," he says, his voice almost a whisper, "but there's something about it... It makes me feel less alone, you know?"

You nod, the words resonating with you. You don't need to explain it—he already understands, like he knows exactly what you mean. It's strange, this quiet bond growing between you, something unsaid but so obvious that it almost feels like an echo of your own thoughts.

The next time he comes in, it's the same—more small talk, more shared silence between the lines of conversation. But there's something different this time. There's a charge in the way he looks at you and the way his words hover between you. It's as if there's more he's not saying.

"Do you get off soon?" he asks one afternoon, his voice soft but laced with curiosity. It's the first time he's ever asked anything like that—something personal, something that makes you feel like maybe he's starting to see you as more than just a face behind the counter.

"Yeah, in about an hour," you answer, the words almost sounding foreign on your tongue. You hadn't realised how much you were looking forward to answering that question until the words left your lips. His question carries weight, his manner inviting you to share more.

He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then tilts his head slightly, as if weighing something. There's a pause, a quiet heartbeat of time, before he speaks again. "Let's grab coffee," he says, his voice tentative. He's unsure how you'll react, afraid of pushing too far.

Your heart stutters in your chest, your mind racing. You want to say yes, you want to reach out and accept his offer, but the words get stuck somewhere between your throat and your lips. You feel a strange pull between you, a growing desire to get closer to him, and yet the fear of what that might mean keeps you frozen in place.

Ronin doesn't wait. Instead, he reaches into his pocket, his fingers brushing against something hidden there. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if he's giving you time to catch up, to process. He pulls out his phone and for a moment, the world narrows to this one simple action. He unlocks it, then turns it toward you, the screen glowing with his number ready and waiting.

"I don't know," he says confidently, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "I'll give you my number. That way you don't have to think about it." His voice is quiet, but steady, offering you the chance to decide without pressure or expectation.

You stare at the screen, unsure, your heart pounding, and then you look up at him and see it—the faintest glimmer of something in his eyes, something vulnerable but also confident. He's waiting.

Everything else fades away for just a second. The racks of clothing, the constant hum of the store, the people who pass by without ever noticing you—it all disappears. At this moment, he is the only thing that matters. He is standing in front of you, offering you a piece of himself. You can feel your breath catch in your throat. Everything feels like it's hanging by a thread.

Without hesitation, you seize his phone, your fingers barely grazing his. The moment is suspended in the quiet space between you. You type your number in quickly, almost clumsily, and when you hand the phone back to him, you both know it's more than just numbers being exchanged. It's a door opening just a crack, but enough to let something new, something unspoken, begin to grow.

"I'll text you," you say, and the words feel strange, almost too forward, but they're real. You both know they are.

Ronin looks at you, his eyes softening just a little. There's a flicker of hope, or maybe just curiosity, in the way he gazes at you. "Good," he replies, voice steady, but there's something unspoken in the way he says it, something that feels like the beginning of something neither of you can control.

He slips his phone back into his pocket and nods slowly, almost imperceptibly. "See you later," he says, and this time, it doesn't feel like goodbye. It feels like the start of something new.

As he walks out, you can feel it – the shift, the undeniable change in the air. You're not sure where this is going, but you know, deep down, that this is just the beginning.

The coffee date is unforgettable; its warmth lingers long after it's over, and the cold night air is no match for its radiant warmth. The café was small and intimate, making the world outside feel distant and irrelevant. The conversations flowed easily, as if you had always known each other, as though the silences between words didn't matter, because the space between you was filled with something unspoken, something electric. You talked about music, life, those spaces that neither of you could quite fill, and in those exchanges, you felt more connected than you ever thought possible.

As the evening wound to a close and the last sip of coffee warmed you from the inside out, you both knew it wasn't really the end. Not yet. The night was still young, and Ronin wasn't in a hurry to go anywhere.

"I'll walk you home," he says, his voice low and casual, but there's something underneath it—an invitation that carries more weight than the words themselves.

You don't hesitate, nodding immediately. The air between you electric with anticipation. You are acutely aware of him, his presence filling the space around you, drawing you in without a word or touch. It's just him – Ronin, with his worn MCR shirt, his long, unruly hair, his steady gaze – and you, both moving through the darkening streets like two souls tethered together by something neither of you can fully explain.

The walk is quiet at first. The world seems to be holding its breath, watching the two of you, waiting for something to happen. The only sounds are the crunch of your footsteps on the pavement, the distant hum of cars, and the occasional rustle of the wind. Ronin glances at you, his eyes meeting yours, and there's a quiet understanding between you—a recognition that tonight is different, that something is shifting, something that neither of you can stop.

You walk in step with each other, neither of you rushing or eager to break the silence, because in this quiet, something feels more real than anything else. His presence is close, his hand just a hair's breadth away from yours, and every movement feels amplified, as if the world has shrunk down to this moment.

As you approach your building, the streets become darker, the lights of the city receding into the distance, yet the warmth of his proximity propels you forward. When you finally reach the corner by your building, you stop, and so does he. The air between you both is charged, the tension that's been building between you since the moment you met is palpable. It's as if everything has led up to this precise moment. His eyes search yours, his breath catches, his lips part as if he's about to say something, but he doesn't.

Instead, he steps closer, closing the distance until he's standing just a breath away. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and you feel the pull of it, the magnetic force drawing you in closer. It's as if the rest of the world disappears, leaving just him and this moment.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks, his voice soft and almost a whisper, as if he's afraid of pushing too far, afraid of scaring you off. The way he asks the question is strange. There's no force in it, no urgency. It's just a gentle curiosity, as if he's asking for permission to cross an invisible line between you.

You hesitate, your heart beating faster. You could say no, you could pull away, but you don't. Something in you, the part of you that's been quietly aching for him, wants to feel the weight of his lips against yours, wants to know what that spark between you feels like when it ignites. You feel a tension in your chest, almost unbearable, and when you look up at him again, his eyes are full of raw, open emotion that you can't refuse.

Instead, you answer him with the smallest, most uncertain nod.

And that's all he needs.

He moves in slowly, his hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. His breath brushes over your lips, and for a moment, the entire world seems to still. You can feel his pulse, feel his heart racing in sync with your own, and then, without another word, his lips finally meet yours.

It's soft at first, tentative, as if he's waiting for you to pull back, to change your mind, but when you don't, when you lean into him just a little, the kiss deepens. It's slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring every moment and your connection. His lips are warm, his breath mingling with yours, and you can taste the remnants of coffee on his mouth, the bitterness now mixed with something sweeter.

The world narrows to just the two of you, standing on the edge of your building, lost in this kiss. You feel your heart race, feel the heat spreading through your chest, down to your fingertips, as if the entire universe has condensed into this one, perfect moment. His hand slides around to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss, and you let yourself fall into it, into him.

When he pulls away, it's slow, his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You remain silent, standing close together, as if you don't know how to move or break the spell.

"That was...," you begin, but the words trail off. You are unsure of what to say, unsure of what any of it means.

"Yeah," Ronin says confidently, his voice low and rough, "It was." He doesn't say more, the unspoken understanding between you two clear in the air. He doesn't pull away immediately, and neither do you. You stay there, like time has stopped, holding onto this fragile, beautiful moment.

Then, he leans back, his fingers brushing your hand one last time, his eyes lingering on yours with something unreadable, something soft. "Goodnight, [Your Name]," he says, his voice quieter now, tinged with sincerity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Goodnight," you reply, though you're not sure how you're still standing, how you haven't melted into him completely. You do, your feet feeling almost unsteady as he steps back, slowly disappearing into the night, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, lips tingling with the taste of him.

The door to your building looms ahead, but you don't move. You stand, the echo of his kiss still humming through you, knowing that everything has changed. This wasn't just a kiss. It was a promise. A beginning.

[quanruionechancepls]

The Albatross - Chapter 1: Lacy's Angel Dust

Frontman!Hwang Inho x Host!Reader

For more information, check Masterlist

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

You’re rearranging your bookshelves, blowing off the dust that accumulated over the various books that sat around your room, forgotten with time, when you rediscover Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human. Inside the book, a small bookmark peeks through the pages, and you flip it open to find a hand-pressed, blue flower. There’s no name on the bookmark, yet your hands shake as you pick it up.

Opening the book to the acknowledgements page, your face hardens as you see the scribbled ink on the page in messy handwriting.

Thank you for lending this book to me - Lacy.

-

Day 1: Squid Game 2015

Before you were escorted off the plane by a handsome man in a suit named Gongyoo, your dad flicked his hand, and a masked person in a pink jumpsuit brought out a tray with a black masquerade mask. The edges were lined with shining diamonds, a golden feather sticking out on the right. Running your finger through the centre, it discoloured the velvet texture as it ran in the opposite direction.

“What is this?” You asked, yelping when you lifted your head to see a bejeweled mask in the shape of an animal head on Ilnam. How utterly tacky, it shined like a disco ball! The diamonds scattered the reflections of light in all directions. “What’s that ugly thing on your head?”

Ilnam scoffed at you, perhaps offended. “Put on that mask before we get out,” he replied, holding onto the handles as he slowly wobbled down the stairs.

‘Thanks a lot for answering absolutely nothing!’ You thought to yourself, rolling your eyes as you struggled to tie it to the back of your head. Perhaps those fresh acrylic nails were a bad idea.

You flinched when you felt someone’s hand graze the back of your head. “I assumed you needed some help,” Gongyoo commented, his skillful hands looping the string around and creating a perfectly symmetrical bow.

“Oh, thanks.”

The mask sat perfectly on your face, as if it’d been custom-made for you, which was odd, because you didn’t recall ever ordering anything of the sort. Could it be that your dad bought it for you? It was a ridiculous sentiment, he couldn’t even name your favourite colour if he tried. Still, you doubted your brother would ever get you something like this, instead, gifting you another book he found particularly moving.

Gongyoo held out a hand for you, and you placed your hand in his palm as you stepped down the stairs of Ilnam’s private jet with him. Even as you turned your head side-to-side, there were no distinct features of your surroundings, only concrete and an endlessly blue sky. Before you could open your mouth to ask another question, a gust of wind slapped your hair into your face, and you sputtered as you spat the hair out of your mouth. How embarrassing.

“Welcome, to my creation— the Squid Games,” Ilnam announced, arms embracing the wind, basking in his own glory.

You turned to Gongyoo. “What’s a Squid Game?”

“It’s a traditional Korean game usually played in one’s childhood,” he explained.

You facepalmed and sighed into your hand. “This is it… my dad’s lost it.”

“Hey, I heard that!” Ilnam snapped, his hands now on his hips. “You’ll be impressed soon enough.” He began walking, those bizarre people in the pink jumpsuits trailing behind him. Gongyoo nudged you gently with his elbow, motioning for you to follow your dad. Sighing, your high heels click-clacked with each step you took.

Eventually, you found yourself in a theater-like room with many other adults wearing similarly tacky masks, some lifting their masks slightly to take a puff of their cigar or take a sip of their whiskey. The majority of them spoke in an American-accented English, snobbily debating about some sort of business deal.

“Do I have to stay in this room?” You asked your dad, coughing at the cigarette smoke, your eyes burning as you wafted away the chemicals with your hand. You could feel your lifespan decreasing with each second you spent in this room.

Ilnam motioned for one of the human pink jumpsuits with a square mask to come over. “Give her a private room,” he ordered before turning to Gongyoo. “Stay with her.”

Gongyoo bowed to Ilnam as you followed the person in the pink jumpsuit. “So, why do you wear that?” You asked as you followed them down a dimly-lit hallway.

“I will answer all your questions once we arrive at your private room,” Gongyoo interrupted, and you raised a hidden eyebrow at him.

The person in the jumpsuit stopped outside a door labelled VIP 001, and Gongyoo opened the door for you. You breathed a sigh of relief as you stepped inside. No unnecessary noises, like the sound of glasses clinking incessantly, or the inescapable, disgusting smell of cigarettes. The room itself was quite ordinary, appearing like a normal luxury hotel other than a large screen on one of the walls.

“What’s the screen for?” You asked, picking up the remote on the table beside the couch as Gongyoo shut the door behind you.

“The screen allows you to watch the games. They will begin in 10 minutes,” he answered vaguely, and you huffed in frustration.

“You said you would answer all my questions! What kind of half-assed answer is that?” You yelled.

“Ask away,” he retorted, his hands in the air. You wanted to mess up that pretty face of his.

“What kind of games are they?”

“The selection changes annually, but they usually consist of traditional Korean games. My job is to recruit players, and there are 456 in total. Each round, the players who lose the game will be eliminated,” he explained.

“Eliminated in what way?”

“You’ll see.” A dark grin appeared on his face, as if giddy.

“Hm, okay,” you thought out loud, trying to absorb the new influx of information. “What’s up with the pink jumpsuits?”

“Those are the staff. There are three hierarchies within these games: the Managers, the Soldiers, and the Workers. Squares, triangles, and circles, respectively.”

You nodded, and the modulated voice of a woman blasted through the speakers, with Gongyoo instantly snatching the remote out of your hand to turn on the screen. Before you could swing your arm at him and scratch him up with your acrylics, he caught your wrist. His grip was firm enough to prevent any movement, but gentle enough to not hurt you.

“Don’t ever do that again,” you hissed through gritted teeth, and he nodded, releasing your arm and motioning for you to sit on the couch. He sat beside you, pulling a walkie out of his pocket and ordering some snacks and refreshments.

Hundreds of players stepped into the arena in green tracksuits and a number, a giant doll-like figure staring them down on the other end. “This is Red Light, Green Light. It’s the only reoccurring game,” Gongyoo remarked, and you nodded.

“Is there a list of players I can look at? So I can keep track of the eliminations?” You questioned, and Gongyoo stood up and opened a drawer, pulling out an iPad and plugging in a charger.

While your eyes were on the iPad, the first gunshot rang out, and you whipped your head in the direction of the screen. A bloodcurdling scream, followed by a stampede of hurried footsteps, then banging on the door, until finally, the bodies all slumped on top of each other like a mountain.

“I see, that’s what you meant by elimination,” you commented, and Gongyoo handed you the iPad, which was now at 5%.

When you looked down, you were met with a long spreadsheet of numbers and names. Each name was highlighted blue, and when you clicked one, it opened a PDF that showed you the profile of the player. After opening a few, you realized the common theme was debt.

“Fuck, it’s going to take me forever to go through all these!” You complained, ignoring the explosive sound of gunshots echoing throughout the room.

Two hours later, long after the first game was over, you were still individually clicking through all the PDF files of the players. Right before you were about to give up and call it a day, you clicked on the profile of Player 132, a 40 year-old man at a height of 5’10, a survivor of the first round. You couldn’t help but giggle at his photo, particularly at his overgrown side-swept bangs that looked so 2000s.

Hwang Inho.

The name was familiar to you somehow, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on where you heard it before. Zooming in on his photo, you realized you’ve seen his face before, but when you tried jogging your memories, all you got was a pitch black void. You knew for sure that if you knew him, it wasn’t a recent encounter. Despite that unfortunate choice of a hairstyle, that handsome face of his was unforgettable.

In fact, you needed to know if he was single.

His profile didn’t mention anything about his relationship status, only his past as a police officer who was fired for taking bribes. You wondered how accurate that information was, as something about his features made him appear innocent.

Still, you weren’t going to stop your investigation there. Pulling out your phone, you opened Instagram, typing his name into the search engine as you scrolled past a dozen accounts to find him. Unfortunately, you hit your first dead end as you discovered his account was private, groaning loudly as Gongyoo glanced curiously in your direction. Exiting Instagram, you opened Facebook.

Facebook was exactly what you needed to find out everything about him. Player 132 was an avid Facebook user, posting random rants, selfies, and annual, near-identical cherry blossom photos. His recent posts were gloomy, consisting of overcast skies and emo quotes. You could’ve crumpled to your knees when you scrolled down far enough to find his wedding photo, the couple smiling brightly at the camera in a gaudily decorated venue. In another photo, a younger man around your age threw up a peace sign with Inho. At the very least, his hair was presentable for his wedding, rocking a slicked back style.

Sighing, you scrolled back up to continue your stalking, this time through his friend list. At the very top of the list was the name Hwang Junho, and upon closer inspection, you realized it was the same younger man holding up the peace sign. Judging by their last name, you assumed they were related, although they barely bore any resemblance to each other, their noses aside. Clicking on his profile, the first thing you saw was a post of him in the hospital with Inho’s wife with the caption: ‘Get well soon.’

How odd. Player 132’s profile didn’t mention anything about his sick wife. Typing Junho’s name into your notes, you went back to scouring through Player 132’s friend list. His wife’s profile wasn’t much farther down, and you discovered her illness as you scrolled. Liver cirrhosis in one post, the kind that needed an urgent transplant, and an ultrasound post following soon after. She was pregnant and had an illness that at best was chronic? She must’ve had a death wish.

Perhaps it was due to how familiar Player 132 seemed, or it was his strikingly attractive face, but he’d certainly piqued your interest. You turned to Gongyoo, who crunched on a bag of chips. “How long does it take to create a fake police badge and ID?”

-

Day 2: Squid Game 2015

Turns out, when you have enough money, you can just about get anything done within 24hrs, because here you were, back in Seoul. The moment the plane landed, your chauffeur handed you the ID and badge you requested, specifically for the position of a detective. You couldn’t say you were happy though, because even with negotiation, you were only able to bring the price down to 5 million won— that greedy motherfucker…

While 5 million won should be nothing to you, it still didn’t sit right that a badge and an ID barely larger than the size of your hand was so expensive. God, if you hadn’t bought it over the phone, you could’ve brought down the price to 2 million won for sure.

Your dad wasn’t very thrilled about your return, trying every spell in his book to keep you on whatever island those games were held on— you’d have to ask Gongyoo about that later. Luckily, you inherited your mom’s sharp tongue, one that deflected Ilnam’s every attempt at reasoning with you. It’s not that you didn’t like the games, and you would willingly watch the games in person, but alas, other duties called. At the very least, you could stream the edited footage on a later date, and Gongyoo could keep you up to date.

Your current priority was meeting Player 132’s wife in person. While Player 132 was fighting for his life in the games, you wanted to have a little chat with Little Miss Tragic Princess— Player 132’s beloved bird in a cage.

It wasn’t hard to force your way into having access to her room, as your dad was a huge investor of the hospital she stayed in. One glance into your files and pulling out all the times you stayed in the most luxurious ward was all it took to get a visitor pass hung around your neck. God, it felt great to be rich, even if all your riches were built on corruption. Besides, it was your dad’s corruption, not yours, so it didn’t really concern you.

A nurse personally escorted you to her room, and a few patients stared at you as you walked by, likely wondering what you did to gain such special treatment. You pulled out your least impressive outfit to blend in, your hair in a messy bun, a white blouse, and a blazer and pencil skirt, both in black. You looked like an average office worker, save for your unkempt hair.

“Please sanitize your hands before you enter. This patient is high-risk,” the nurse requested, pointing to the hand sanitizer on the counter opposite to the door.

“It appears her condition is quite severe,” you commented casually, pumping a generous amount into your hands and rubbing it in. The nurse didn’t respond, probably to avoid spilling any private information, not that it mattered. If you wanted the information, you had the means to find it on your own.

As the nurse walked away, you knocked on the door. For a moment, there was no response, and you wondered if Player 132’s wife had died the moment you arrived.

“Come in,” a soft voice called out from inside the room, so soft that if you were distracted, you would���ve never noticed it. You opened the door, entered, and shut it behind you.

Her skin was a sickly yellow, from her fingertips to her face. Even what was supposed to be the whites in her eyes were replaced with yellow.

Jaundice.

It was a common thing within people who had issues with their liver, something to do with a problem with the liver removing bilirubin from the body, a byproduct of processing old hemoglobin, causing a yellowish hue on the body. You knew a lot of random medical knowledge due to the amount of dates you had to sit through with the many, many doctors and students in pre-med that you dated.

“Who are you?” She asked, her voice firm.

You pulled out your fake badge and ID from the pocket in your blazer. “I’m a detective. In the past few days, there’s been a mass kidnapping within Seoul, though this information hasn’t been released to the public.” For the amount of money you paid, if she wasn’t convinced, then you’d definitely hunt down the guy who sold it to you and tear him apart limb from limb. “You’re the wife of Hwang Inho, correct?”

She didn’t relax, instead becoming even warier. “Why are you asking a sick patient like me? And how do you know my husband?”

“When looking through the files of the people who have gone missing, I noticed something they all had in common: they all had financial problems, enough to be in debt,” you continued.

“What are you implying? I know my family is working class, but debt?” She seemed quite offended by your words. There’s no way she wasn’t aware of how large of a financial burden her condition caused, especially her urgent need for a new liver.

“I apologize if I seemed condescending,” you replied, stepping closer and leaning in to whisper in her ear. “Your husband is on the file as well.”

She seemed quite shaken at this revelation. “That’s impossible, he visited me three days ago!” You wished you could live in as much delusion as her.

“It seems he was taken soon after he visited you.”

Before she could get more upset with you, her chest seized up and she hacked out a coughing fit, taking deep ragged breaths as you walked over to the corner of the room, took a paper cup, and filled it with warm water. She didn’t seem sick with pneumonia or anything of that sort, but it could be a lingering cough. She was quite susceptible at the moment, after all. “Can you find him?” She asked, her voice hoarse as she took a sip.

“I’m not in charge of that, so I’m not sure. I’m only able to gather information through interviews like this.” She visibly shriveled up with your purposeful vagueness. Even you could tell she was in a pitiful situation, not having much financial backing while dying in a hospital, and now you’re telling her her husband is missing. “If I’m being honest, we don’t have much support for this investigation either. It’s hard to find evidence.”

Before you knew it, she clung onto the sleeve of your blazer, her grip weak as her shaking fingers grasped at the fabric. You could easily fling her off if you wanted to, but all you did was glance at the sleeve that was surely going to wrinkle. “Please, find him! My husband is a good man— he’s been a police officer for nearly 20 years! Everyone would be losing out on another good person if he’s gone!”

Is a police officer? Does she not know that he was fired for allegedly taking bribes? You sucked in a breath, unsure about your next course of action as you pieced together the story. Starting from the top: Player 132 was a police officer who was apparently fired for taking bribes from a criminal organization. With your discovery of his sick wife, it’s safe to say he started taking bribes with the intent of using it for her treatment, and when he was fired, he was driven to join the games as a last ditch effort. Seems like a plausible story.

“...It says on our file that he was fired for taking bribes, although I’m unsure of how accurate it is. Sometimes investigators leave out important details,” you enunciated your words, trying to let your brain catch up with your mouth. Leaving out Player 132’s wife was a fatal mistake on the part of whichever man your dad put in charge of hunting down these desperate people— her role was crucial to why he entered the games in the first place.

Her expression twisted into a mixture of shock and despair. “That’s impossible…” she mumbled, and you wondered how much more denial she had left inside of her. “Why in the world would he do such a thing?”

Now you were suspecting she was purposely acting clueless. “Is your husband a devoted man?” You inquired.

“Yes, he is,” she replied without hesitation. “I’ve never needed to worry about another woman. He’s always treated me like a princess; brushing my hair, cooking my meals, helping me clean the apartment.” While it sounded like the bare minimum to you, you couldn’t deny that Player 132 was certainly better than the majority of men. It would be nice to be loved by a man like that.

“Then…”

She gasped, her hand covering her mouth as she stared into your eyes. “Does that mean he took out those bribes for me?!”

“That appears to be the case.”

“Gosh, Inho, that idiot!” She cried into her hands, leaning into the pillow behind her as she reeled from the shock.

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” you blurted out, not even sure what possessed you to say such a thing. What does this have anything to do with you?

She sighed. “It’s not your fault. I’m more upset that he didn't tell me himself. How is it fair that I had to find out through a detective instead of directly from my own husband?”

“He probably didn’t want to worry you, don’t be too hard on him,” you reassured her. A part of you wanted to sit down and pat her back, but you’ve been standing for so long that it would be a bit awkward if you suddenly sat down. That, and it was probably too intimate for two strangers. “Your only worry should be about recovering your health, nothing else matters.”

She didn’t have much to say, and you couldn’t blame her. It was likely a sentiment drilled into her by her family as soon as they discovered her condition. Here she was, a grown adult woman, reduced to her increasingly worsening illness. You would’ve been furious if you were in her position, so she was handling it with a lot more grace than you would be giving to the people around you.

Removing the visitor pass from your neck, you stuffed your badge and ID back into your pocket. “I’ll be back tomorrow, I hope you don’t mind,” you announced, then cupping your mouth and leaning in slightly. “You’re the last person I came to find. Over the next few days, I don’t have much else to do, but I still need to somehow kill time.”

This elicited a giggle out of her. “Sure, I don’t mind. My mother-in-law has mobility issues, and my brother-in-law is busy at work, so I’m alone for most of the day. It gets a little lonely, staring at the wall with all these needles stuck inside of you,” she responded, lifting the arm the IV was attached to, revealing a myriad of needles.

You flashed her with the most charming smile you could muster, showing off the pearly white teeth that you paid top dollars for. “See you tomorrow.”

Right before you opened the door, you turned around. “Keep this a secret between us, okay?” You requested, holding your index finger to your lips.

-

Day 3: Squid Game 2015

Gongyoo informed you that Player 132 survived the second round, much to your relief. If he died so quickly, what was the point in visiting his wife? You weren’t in need of any new friends. You hadn’t had the time to keep up with the games, and with near 24hr surveillance of the players, how on earth were you supposed to watch everything? Instead, you dug up more information on Player 132’s family.

His family consisted of his young half-brother, Hwang Junho, and his stepmom, Park Malsoon. He had a 16 year age gap with Junho, not far off from your own large age gap with your brother. His parents divorced when he was a teenager, and he had an estranged relationship with his biological mother while his father died soon after Junho was born. How tragic.

As the third round began, you made your way to the hospital, monitoring the file as it updated the eliminated players in real time. You prayed that Player 132 would survive this round as well— in fact, you wanted him to win. Someone with a face that hot didn’t deserve to die.

Actually, you wondered if you could do anything about it.

-

You: Am I allowed to rig the games to keep a player alive?

Gongyoo: For you, it’s not explicitly forbidden, but I don’t recommend it.

Gongyoo: The VIPs could get mad.

You: And why does that matter?

Gongyoo: They’re politicians, billionaires, world leaders, etc.

Gongyoo: You don’t want to mess with them.

You: Well, fuck.

Gongyoo: What’s going on?

You: There’s this really hot player.

You: I don’t want him to die.

Gongyoo: LOL, who?

You: Player 132.

Gongyoo: The one who came straight out of an emo band?

You: Hey!

You: You need to trust the process!

You: You need to believe in his potential!

Gongyoo: I won’t believe in it no matter what you say.

Gongyoo: I’m a straight man.

Gongyoo: Only got eyes for women.

You: Okay, then don’t judge my taste in men.

You: God, I guess my next best option is thoughts and prayers.

Gongyoo: Good luck with that. (Read)

-

Before you knew it, you were back in the hospital room, just in time to catch Player 132’s wife eating lunch. It didn’t appear appetizing in the slightest, a plain bowl of porridge and a fruit salad consisting of grapes, watermelon, and apples. In comparison to other patients, the food she received was considered as special treatment due to how expensive the cost of fruit was. With the cost of her treatment and her stay, you could only imagine how desperate Player 132 looked when begging for financial help.

“I should’ve brought you some dim sum,” you remarked, sitting on a stool and setting down your purse as she shook her head.

“They don’t allow outside food because I’m high risk. They’re very particular on what I’m allowed to eat,” she shrugged, although you could tell she was disheartened by her slight pout.

“That’s a shame.”

You diverted your attention to the IV drip, the isotonic fluid trickling into a long, transparent tube one droplet at a time. With it attached, you doubted she could walk very far, if not, at all. The hospital room seemed grayer than the rest, the lights off with the sunlight peeking through the window. The curtains were a drabby shade of baby blue. Even her sheets allowed no room for comfort or indulgence, a rough fabric in off-white.

“What do you do during the day?” You asked curiously, as there were no visible methods of entertainment in front of you. On the rare occasion you fell sick enough to require a stay in the hospital, you always had access to a TV.

“I facetime my mother-in-law, although it gets a little exhausting. She’s quite chatty, and I sometimes find it hard to keep up. She worries a lot too,” she replied with a small smile. You wondered why she never mentioned her own parents, but that might be too invasive of a question, so you bit back your curiosity. “I like reading, but in the rush of checking in, I couldn’t bring any books.”

She certainly looked like someone who enjoyed reading as a hobby. Your brother would probably kill to have a sister like her, only to end up with a party girl like you. “What kind of books do you read?”

“Hm,” she thought aloud. “When I was younger, I read a lot of romance, but I think I’ve grown out of it now. I like philosophical things, topics that talk about what the point of life is and what it means to be human.”

What it means to be human? You were sick of that topic after all the time you spent in Psychology and Sociology classes, despite it being your majors. It always made you feel like less of a person because often times a student would share a traumatic personal experience and everyone else would quietly chatter among themselves to discuss how horrible they felt, and you were in the corner baffled and wondering why they didn’t act differently in that situation.

Even so, you had to at least try to seem interested. “Have you ever read No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai? I think you’d enjoy it.”

She shook her head. “I never had the time to read it, and it’s hard to find in person. In hindsight, I wish I pursued it harder rather than putting it off.”

“I have a copy of it at home, I can lend it to you if you’d like,” you offered. Your brother gave it to you a year ago, although you haven’t gotten around to reading it. Most of your brother’s gifts ended up collecting dust because you had no use for them.

She perked up immediately. “Really? If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to read it!”

“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” you replied. Suddenly, you paused. You weren’t sure if your copy was in the Korean translation, as you and your brother were both fluent in English, and could freely choose to read anything within those two languages. “Ah, it might be in the English translation…”

“English? You know how to speak English?” She asked curiously. While English was a subject taught in school, with the lack of opportunities to practice, most Koreans could only hold a basic conversation.

“Yes, I have dual citizenship,” you responded. “If the one I have isn’t in Korean, I’ll try and find a Korean copy.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” She waived, trying to seem modest. It was a common tactic— always pretend you don’t want something even if you do.

“You’re already cooped up in here all day, I should at least try and make you comfortable while you’re here!” You insisted, although you dreaded cleaning through your bookshelf, already imagining all the dust flying in your face.

She seemed to give in with your insistence, but she probably wasn’t going to put up much of a fight either way. “Can I ask you a question?” She asked you after a moment of silence, and you nodded. “What’s America like? I never had the money to travel abroad, only within Korea.”

Well, fuck. You didn’t know how to answer her question. The United States was like every other country, and it had pros and cons. You also weren’t sure how normal your experience was, as you were very sheltered while you were there. Despite how sheltered you were, you still had to pick up a new language to the point of fluency within two years or you’d fall behind in school.

You scrunched your eyebrows. “Hm… I’d say America is a good tourist destination, just avoid the subways.” The first time you took the subway, you almost got stabbed, and since then, your dad hired a driver for you. It might’ve been partially your fault though, as it was 11pm.

She laughed. “Are the subways that bad?”

“I almost got killed the last time I took it, so you tell me,” you joked, and she gasped.

“What happened?”

“A man was drunk after a night out at the bar. I looked like an easy target. I only got away because the train arrived in time and he tripped on his pants and faceplanted onto the floor,” you recounted the story. He flashed everyone inside the trolley when he tripped, and you winced as you recalled the memory. Gross.

“Oh my, that’s so scary! I’m glad you’re okay!”

“I have a lot of luck on my side,” you bragged jokingly. If you were still unlucky after that childhood of yours, you’d bring this issue up with whatever higher power was willing to turn the tides for you.

“Since you’re American, you have an English name, right?” She questioned and you nodded. “Can you tell me what it is?”

“Do you want me to give you one?” You asked after telling her your English name. She seemed quite excited at this, and you pondered what kind of name you’d give her.

You didn’t want to give her a name that was elegant, like Eleanor or Charlotte. A name that was too common was off the table too— you’ve met enough Emilys in this lifetime, the world doesn’t need another one.

Lacy.

Unconventional, odd, and can be vulgar in certain contexts, particularly concerning the description of lingerie. It was perfect. After all, you weren’t going to give her an actual name that sounded nice, and she was ignorant enough to not know any better. Within Korea, she could go around telling people her name was Lacy and no one would bat an eye— perhaps they would think it sounded cute.

“What about Lacy? A lot of feminine English names have a long e sound.”

“Oh, it sounds quite cute! Thank you.” She clapped giddily, probably the most energetic she’s been in weeks. You typed it out on your phone and showed her the spelling of her name, and she added the English keyboard to her device, copying it.

Thankfully, your alarm rang before you had to try and come up with another conversation topic, and you picked up your purse from the floor. “I have a meeting I have to attend. I’ll come back tomorrow,” you declared. There was no meeting for you to attend, just an alarm you forgot to turn off from your school semester that reminded you to study.

“Don’t forget the book!” She reminded, and you laughed.

“I’ll try my best.”

-

Day 4: Squid Game 2015

Player 132 survived again.

At this point, you were really starting to believe that he could be a finalist. You spent the previous night catching up on everything you missed, mainly watching the games themselves, opting out of the downtime in the dormitory. Gongyoo said that towards the end, there were special games that occured in the middle of the night. You found out what he meant when you opened the file this morning to find several more players dead.

Concerning the book, your copy was thankfully in Korean, so you didn’t have to hunt it down last minute. You didn’t mind if she kept it forever, it was only a book, after all. You could buy a million copies if you wanted to.

You also needed to get back on track since you only started talking to Lacy with the intention of somehow getting your hands on her man. Anyone with eyes knew she didn’t have long left, and her last sliver of hope was the desperate Player 132. If he died, it wasn’t just a death sentence for him, but also Lacy and their fetus.

You had the means to give her exactly what she urgently needed, but why in the world would you do that? To make your life harder? If Player 132 survived and returned to see his wife healthy, you’d have no chance of getting in between them. If he died, Lacy would become a single mother, and you’d toss her aside like a broken doll. If the odds were stacked against you, you’d might as well let all of them die together.

The visits began becoming routine. Every morning, you’d wake up at 9, check the files for any updates, and get ready for the day. By 10:30, you were in the backseat of a car, your driver silently making his way to the hospital. Today, the only difference was the book in your hand. You didn’t have any space inside that tiny purse that was only meant for stylish purposes.

You didn’t need a nurse to escort you anymore, nor did you need them to remind you to sanitize your hands, tucking the book underneath your arm as you rubbed it in. As soon as you walked in, you presented the book to Lacy as if it was a shiny diamond, and despite the discoloured bags underneath her eyes representing her fatigue, she lit up immediately.

“You remembered the book!” She cheered, lifting her arms into the air.

“I’m glad it was in Korean. I’d have to buy a new one if mine was in English,” you responded, placing it on her lap as she excitedly flipped through it.

“I’ll be sure to finish it as soon as possible.”

You shook your head. “No need, take your time. Read when you want to, rest when you need to.”

She sighed, her shoulders drooping as her smile dropped. “I can’t return it to you if I take my time. I don’t think I have long left.” She attempted to force a half-smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m worried for my husband. What if I’m gone by the time he’s found? Our baby too…”

You feigned surprise. “Baby?”

“Oh, you can’t tell because I’m still in my first trimester. We discovered the pregnancy and the illness at the same time,” she explained.

“That must be so frustrating. You can’t even celebrate such a joyous moment because it’s given to you with bad news.”

Lacy nodded. “I’ve accepted the end, although I haven’t told anyone this except you. We can’t afford the liver transplant, and after you told me that my husband’s gone into debt to pay for my hospital bills…. I don’t know, it seems like a hopeless situation.”

“How much does a liver transplant cost?” You were genuinely curious. The cost of buying an organ was already expensive, and then combining that with the price of an operation and a hospital stay easily bankrupted families. There was also the added issue of the possibility of the body of the recipient rejecting the organ, which caused more complications. Compared to Korea, such lifesaving care was even more expensive in the States.

She sighed. “Last time we checked, it’s over 200 million won. That’s 4 years of my husband’s salary without accounting for our cost of living. I used to work in a corporation, but I quit six months ago because I kept getting sick.”

200 million won was two months of your allowance, and it made you realize how different your worlds were. You could buy her a new liver a thousand times over. You really had no business sitting in her hospital room chatting with her like this.

“Gosh, I didn’t realize it was so expensive!” You gasped. “On the bright side, now you know how much your husband loves you because of how hard he’s fighting to make sure you receive the care you need.”

She giggled. “Yes, I’m very lucky.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

She glanced at the ceiling as she reminisced in her mind. “We actually met while he was at work. He was on patrol when he saw me getting harassed by a man. He saved me, and later that day, we coincidentally ran into each other at a restaurant.”

“Ooh, you’ve got your own prince charming!” You teased, and the two of you burst into laughter.

“I wish he was a prince charming! Without me, the entire apartment would be covered in ramen packets. One time, I was away for a business trip, and I returned to plastic crunching under my feet as they overflowed from the kitchen!” She recounted, her gestures large to show you how large of a mess he’d made.

“I’d be so mad if I came home to that!” You exclaimed, and she nodded in agreement.

“I was! I chewed him out until he was begging for forgiveness on his knees!”

“But you said he knows how to cook, so why does he rely on ramen when you’re not around?” You asked.

“He only cooks for me. He doesn’t take care of his health as much as he should, yet he always worried about mine even before my illness,” Lacy sighed, shaking her head. “At this rate, I’m going to die of the stress he causes before my liver gets the chance to kill me.”

It seemed Player 132 was quite hypocritical, although in a self-sacrificing way. Going into debt, entering the Squid Games, and worrying about everyone but himself. It only made him more appealing to you. Why wouldn’t you want a partner who worshipped you like the goddess you were? And he was one of the hottest men you’ve ever laid eyes on. Seriously, if you couldn’t have him, no one else could either.

Before you could respond, someone knocked on the door. Once Lacy gave them permission to enter, a nurse opened the door while another tip-toed inside, balancing Lacy's next meal on the tray. After a makeshift table was set up on her bed, they placed it in front of her and left. Lacy glanced at the steaming food, but didn’t pick up any utensils, instead turning her attention back to you.

“Are you not going to eat?” You pointed at the food. “It won’t taste good when it’s cold.”

“Ah…” she hesitated. “I’m actually not hungry. For the last few days, I’ve been forcing myself to eat for the sake of the baby, but I can’t do it anymore, I just keep feeling worse.”

You raised both your eyebrows at the same time. “You should tell a doctor about this!” You exclaimed, about to ring the bell when Lacy grabbed your hand and shook her head.

“I told you that I’m going to die soon, didn’t I? Any treatment they give me will be for naught, and it’s only going to increase the debt.” Wow, she was just as self-sacrificing as her husband.

Dropping your hand back at your side, you inhaled deeply. “How are you so casual about dying? Are you not scared?”

Lacy averted your eyes, staring down at her yellow hands and her bedsheets. “I am scared,” she admitted in a whisper. “Inho— my husband and I have always wanted a baby. When we found out I was pregnant, I hoped I’d at least be able to carry it to term so he would have a piece of me if I'm gone, but my condition worsened quicker than expected, and I don’t think that’s possible anymore.”

Fuck, were you really feeling pity for a woman whose husband you wanted to steal? Worse, were you starting to care about a woman who’s one infection away from being taken by the Grim Reaper?

If you spend any more time with her, you were going to lose your mind. She trusted you so easily, telling you about her family— even her greatest fear. You doubted she could tell her husband about it, both of them wanting to protect each other from additional woes in such a difficult time.

Yet here you were, taking advantage of her, waiting for her to die.

Even with her illness, it was as if she was an angel, from her warm disposition to her dainty fingertips. She was pure as can be, not even suspecting if you had any ulterior motives, as if she believed in the good in people. She took everything you said and did at face value.

If you were the type of show-stopping beauty that landed you on magazines and runways, then Lacy was the opposite. She could roll out of bed, apply a tinted lip balm, lazily tie her hair up in a ponytail, and leave the house. She was an effortless beauty, the pretty girl next door that didn’t stick out, but was the talk of the town locally. You hated to admit it, but she fit Inho like a missing puzzle piece.

You were a rose, and she was a dandelion, often overlooked, yet one of the many joys brought to children who blew the seeds away when spring rolled around every year. With her illness, she was just as fleeting as those dandelion seeds. In fact, with the jaundice her condition caused, she quite literally looked as yellow as a dandelion— how fitting.

Even so, how could she be so beautiful when she was knocking on death’s door? You wanted to rip the skin off her face and glue it to your own.

“I think you would be a good mother,” you said after a long period of silence, your throat suddenly dry, yet you somehow still managed to swallow your own spit. She was much better suited for motherhood than you’d ever be, her love and dedication for a child that wasn’t even here yet was proof of it.

She smiled at you. “Thank you. If I could live for a bit longer, I’d hope this child has a better life than me, but I think my stubbornness will kill both of us.”

Even if she had prioritized herself and got an abortion, the baby was still going to die. Assuming she recovered and got pregnant again, the baby in her stomach wouldn’t be this baby. She needed a miracle to save both of them— one such miracle that her husband was willing to throw away his life for in the form of 45.6 billion won. Still, she needed to hang on long enough for the miracle to actually work.

You weren’t sure if your question was acceptable, but you decided it was now or never. “Would you want your husband to move on if you pass?” It seemed insensitive to use the word ‘when.’

“Of course. Why would I want him to wallow in grief for the rest of his life? I want him to be happy even when I’m gone. I’d only truly be at peace once I know someone will look out and care for him.” What an angel. She was truly better than you in every possible way.

The rest of your visit was a blur, and your feet trudged on the floor as you walked through the hallway of the hospital once your alarm rang. You were starting to dread tomorrow, as you knew you’d have to return, but it would also be cruel to leave her alone. She made it clear it was rare for family members to visit her in person, so who were you to steal this small bundle of happiness from her? Even if you weren’t genuine, it’s better to let her have this momentarily.

-

Day 5: Squid Game 2015

You officially ran out of conversation topics, awkwardly fiddling with your thumbs as you sat on a stool near her bed. She was so invested in reading she hadn’t noticed your presence, and you weren’t going to break her concentration. Impressively, she was already more than halfway through the book. She wasn’t kidding about trying to return it to you at the earliest date.

Your mind wandered back to the games and to Inho, who’d survived another round, like you expected. He was officially in the semifinals— the last stretch of the games. His chances of winning were now around 1 in 20, depending on how many players died with each passing minute you spent in the hospital.

When she turned her head slightly to reach for a cup of water on the counter, she noticed you in her peripheral vision, and yelped. “Sorry, I didn’t notice you there. Why didn’t you say anything?” She asked as she placed a bookmark inside and closed the book.

“You were so focused, I didn’t want to break your concentration,” you replied.

“We only chat for a few hours at most, and I have the rest of the day to read. My time with you is more precious than this book,” she pointed out, and your heart tingled. How odd.

“I didn’t prepare any conversation topics today.”

She burst out laughing, wheezing as she attempted to catch her breath, and the corners of your lips twitched upwards. “You prepare conversation topics?

“Sometimes. It’s a good guideline when you’re getting to know someone,” you shrugged. No shame in your game, you had to do what you had to do to avoid awkwardness.

“Well, I’ve spent the last few days talking a lot about me, but I don’t actually know much about you other than you being American, so, today we’re talking about you,” she declared, rather determined.

You chuckled. “What do you want to know?”

“Hm, let me think,” Lacy pondered. “Were you born in America?”

You shook your head. “I’m a naturalized citizen. I was born in Seoul.”

“Oh? Then how did you immigrate to America?”

“I was there for school. I came back to Seoul for school as well,” you answered. Other than being obnoxiously rich, you were still a pretty normal person.

“Which school?”

“Seoul National University.”

She gasped. “Wow, that’s a really good school!” She clapped for you, and your ears blushed from embarrassment.

“It’s nothing, really. My brother went to Harvard,” you replied. If you really wanted to go to Harvard, all you had to do was get your dad to donate a large amount to the institution, but you opted to return to Korea because, well, the Korean food in America could never compare to the real thing.

Lacy gasped even louder. “What the… is your family full of geniuses?”

“My dad has high expectations, so we’re expected to perform.” You could imagine the disappointment on his face if you hadn’t even gotten into Seoul National University.

“Gosh, isn’t that a bit cruel? I would never put that much pressure on my child, life is already stressful enough.” Her mentality was quite similar to your mother’s, although your mom still wanted you to enter a school of a decent standing even if you weren't reaching for the stars.

You shrugged again. “Every parent wants their child to succeed. School is the easiest way to climb the social ladder.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to talk about such a bleak subject,” she declared. “Anyways, what do you study? You look quite young, so I assume you’re still in school.”

Right, Lacy was probably in her thirties. You doubted Inho would date someone more than 10 years younger than him. “Psychology and Sociology. I don’t like Math.”

She giggled. “Me neither. Math was my worst subject in school.” You held your hand up to high-five her in solidarity, and she returned it without hesitation. Math victims have to stick together.

“Hm, what else can I ask you?” She thought aloud, before an imaginary lightbulb lit up beside her head. “What are your hobbies?”

Shit, she got you there. What were you supposed to say— go shopping? It would either expose your financial status or your lack of impulse control, and you weren’t going to tell her about your shopping addiction.

“I really like anything to do with beauty. Makeup, skincare, anything else you can name. I also like doing other people’s makeup,” you responded. It was basically a roundabout way of saying you had a shopping addiction without explicitly stating it.

“Ooh, I noticed that! Your makeup always looks flawless, although you already look like a doll, but it enhances your features so much more!” She praised, and you blushed harder. Receiving compliments from a pretty woman always felt nice.

“Thank you,” you mumbled shyly. You received compliments quite often, so you weren’t sure why you were so flustered when getting complimented by someone who looked like they were going to eat a banana and aid Gru in stealing the moon. As you averted your gaze, you noticed a half-used perfume bottle on the counter. That wasn’t there before! “Is that Chance Eau Tendre by Chanel?”

Lacy whipped her head towards the bottle, then back to you. “How did you know? The writing was on the opposite side!” She looked quite amazed.

“One of my friends uses it regularly. She likes perfume, and she drags me with her, so I know a lot about perfume too.”

“She probably goes shopping quite often, considering how fast you recognized that bottle.” She picked it up and held out a hand for you, which you glanced at confusingly, your eyebrows slightly scrunched. “Can you open your hand for me?”

You obliged to her request, still confused. She placed it in your hand, and you could’ve broken your neck with how fast you lifted your head to make eye contact with her. “What are you doing?”

“Keep it,” she replied, as if her actions were the most normal thing anyone’s ever done. She covered your hand with her own, the perfume bottle sandwiched in between, her icy fingertips brushing against your wrist. “I can’t finish it anyways.”

Normally, you’d be offended that someone was giving you their leftover perfume, regardless of whether or not it was free, but you couldn’t find it in you to get upset. Lacy was nearing the end of her life, and her family was struggling to keep themselves afloat while juggling her medical bills. This perfume was one of the last small luxuries she had, likely a gift she received during a holiday or a birthday.

Without realizing, your eyes prickled, and you fought back tears as you met her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she reassured you with a smile on her face. She seemed at peace with her decision.

Thats when you knew she was going to die tomorrow.

-

Day 6: Squid Game 2015

God, you hated being right sometimes.

You were in the middle of a call with the CEO of the hospital, discussing the best match for the organ you were going to purchase for Lacy, when you heard the sound of hurried footsteps and heavy breathing from the other end. Lacy had died right before you were going to finalize your purchase, mere minutes before the liver she desperately needed would be delivered to the hospital and she would enter a lifesaving surgery. Fuck, sometimes it was better to be wrong.

You bit back tears as you watched Inho on the screen, now having no reason for all the suffering and psychological torture he went through.

The book was personally returned to you by the CEO, and you stared at it as if it was a foreign object— as if Lacy wasn't holding it mere moments ago. You didn't think you'd ever be able to pick up and read this book, not now, and not in the future.

-

The funeral was held a week later, along with a burial. Of course, you weren’t invited, but with your connections, you found out where it was held. You were dressed in a basic black dress with a matching hat, hoping to shield your eyes enough for your identity to be unclear— and so no one could see your tears. No one was aware of your existence except for Lacy herself, and as a result, you were a ghost who had no right to mourn.

It seemed even the heavens were mourning the loss of Lacy, the sky crying for her in the form of a heavy downpour. Inho was equally as crushed, his body trembling as it wracked in sobs, in the fetal position as if he was a little kid. Junho, biting his lip and staring up at the sky to prevent his tears from falling, comforted his brother by rubbing his back. Malsoon dabbed her tears with a tissue, blowing her nose before more tears fell, and she repeated the cycle.

You observed all this while standing in front of a gravestone a few rows away, which is why you brought two bouquets of flowers. How disrespectful would you be if you pretended to mourn for a random stranger without even bringing them an offering? In one hand, you had a bouquet of roses, and the other of white carnations.

You patiently waited for her family to leave, and Junho had to physically drag Inho away from the gravestone. “Inho, you’re going to get sick if you stay here for any longer! We can visit her again tomorrow!” You heard him yell.

“How the fuck can I leave her now?! I left her alone for a week, only to come back and find her dead! I can’t ever leave her again!” Inho screamed back, his anguish coating every word that left his mouth.

“Please, she wouldn’t want the two of you to fight!” Malsoon attempted to reason with them in between her own tears, and the two brothers quieted down with her interference.

As Inho hesitantly stood up and trudged away, mud soaking much of his clothing, Malsoon took his hand and guided him away. As Junho’s hand left his brother’s back, he glanced in your direction, and you quickly looked away, placing the roses on the gravestone in front of you. You prayed he wouldn’t find you suspicious. Did he realize you were watching them the whole time?

When they were finally out of sight, you walked over to Lacy’s gravestone, the mud beneath your feet coating the soles and sides of your boots. Inhaling deeply, you stared at the engraved letters for a moment, your eyes skimming through a few photo frames. In one, she held a bouquet while she smiled brightly at the camera, and in another, she sat on a small staircase with Inho as he grinned. She looked even more beautiful when she was healthy.

“I hate you,” you blurted out, placing the carnations on her gravestone.

No one mourns the wicked, but the wicked don’t mourn for the good either.

[itstheval]

Memory of a Quest

A @livesworthlivingau Side Story

Isabeau didn't know what to do with his hands. He'd never been in this situation before.

Siffrin had invited him out to visit a shop, on a 'secret mission'. He was confused, of course - this was something he did with Odile, not with Isabeau! But it had snapped into sense when he mentioned that he'd promised it during the loops. It was his therapist's idea…Get closure on the things he'd said to do during the loops, and it should help him put them to rest.

Why he'd promised to take Isabeau out antiquing was beyond him, but anything for Sif, right?

So there he was, standing in an antique store and trying to figure out how much he was allowed to touch. Not that there was too much interesting…A few familytales, some knick-knacks from people who'd moved on or passed on, things like that. It seemed important to Sif, though, and that's what Isabeau decided to focus on.

Siffrin didn't…have much of a past, he'd come to realize. He'd thought that it was just that he'd Changed! People do that, leaving their pasts behind, trying to pretend they don't exist, and Isa was nothing if not considerate. The truth was way more troublesome…There wasn't just a bad past behind Sif, or a past that belonged to someone he wasn't anymore, but nothing at all. Like if he let down his walls, instead of a bustling city, there was dry desert.

Well, the group had decided (but Isabeau especially), if there was nothing there, he'd water the crops and build the city with his own hands. He'd erect a town as great as the bustling Jouvente he left. Bigger even! With a nice number of bakeries full of memories of good food, and maybe a few Houses of Change…This metaphor was getting away from him.

So there Isabeau stood, surrounded by history that meant nothing to him, watching the love of his life go through each thing, turning it over in fascination.

"What're ya looking for, anyway?" Isa finally decided to ask, startling Siffrin from holding a small glass frog. "If I knew, maybe I could help?"

Sif turned to look at him, and the look of uncertainty hit him hard, despite his best efforts. "I…Don't know." Sif admitted, and Isa put the pieces together just a moment before Sif continued. "Something I remember, I guess. Something from back home."

Isabeau nodded, keeping his smile broad and warm, and ruffling Sif's hair. Thankfully, Mira had managed to teach him how to take care of it, so it wasn't as greasy as it once was…The first few times he'd done that, shortly after leaving Dormont, had not been a great feeling! Luckily, Isabeau knew how to keep things like that hidden (never show them let them think you're fine and dumb and-).

"So, stuff with stars? Or…The Universe?" Isabeau tried to think of anything else that could be a clue, that he could home in on. "Or…It was an island, maybe stuff with boats?" He asked it innocently, but the way Sif was looking at him made him pause.

"You…Remember all that? Now?" Siffrin had gone from curious to shocked, to almost crying, in seconds. Oh Change, what did that mean?!

"Well of course I do!" Isabeau tried. "They're important to you, aren't they?"

OOF!

A small, Sif-shaped missile impacted his chest, and Sif was hugging him and sniffling, looking up. This was important to the little rogue, huh? He tried reaching a hand around, to rub his back through the smooth cloak Sif always wore.

"Of course I remember. Why wouldn't I? They're things you care about. It'd be like not remembering Odile likes books, or Bon likes pineapple." You give a small laugh, your words quiet in the store whose customers all had their eyes turned to you now.

"I…I just, you never remembered before. Not when I didn't…"

"Do it perfectly?" Isabeau gave a sigh. Not for the first time, he wished he could've explained himself sooner. "Sif, just because that's when you learned that I knew, doesn't mean it's the only time I knew. I've cared about you for…For so very long. And if you can't remember it, I'll do my best to remember it for you."

Isabeau wasn't sure that was the right thing to say. Sif buried his head again, but the squeezing of arms around him made him oof, and he rubbed all the harder in return. "All of us will, Sif. Now…Shouldn't we be looking around?" Change, save him from the stares of random passersby…

Change was listening, or at least Siffrin decided to return to his search. He wiped his eyes, and Isa patted his back as he watched the puffiness of them, the darker shades that were a sure sign he'd been crying. "Right…" Sif managed, his voice wavering. "The Quest."

Isa allowed himself a little laugh at that description. The quest? That's really how they were thinking about this, still? Well…Nothing wrong in helping him. "Yes, we must quest forth for the mighty secrets of old." He allowed a nod, as though it wasn't the most ridiculous thing he'd said in quite some time.

Siffrin felt like an idiot. This was nothing new, but it'd been happening less recently? So it didn't feel great.

Of course Isabeau wouldn't know what to look for out on a secret quest! Of course this would make the whole thing awkward! And of course he'd wound up having to be comforted, again, when everything went wrong, again.

Thankfully, as Doctor Jinn had put it, he's got the same chance as everyone else to make it right. And Isabeau had remembered! He'd actually remembered, even though they hadn't gone stargazing! Or anything!

…Why hadn't they gone stargazing yet? They needed to remember to fix that later.

For now, though, they managed to focus on other things. Like the antiques around them. They had to admit, this had always fascinated them. Every single one of them, every item in the shop, with a history longer than Siffrin could imagine. He picked up a notebook with a hand symbol on it, and took a moment to try to imagine just how many other generations had held the same thing they're holding. Who wrote you? They thought it to themself as they stared, not really taking in the book in front of them. How many people read from you, how many lives did you change? What story were they holding in their hands right now, without knowing any of it?

They put it down with significantly more reverence than they'd picked it up, then jumped at Isabeau's voice. Stars, they'd gotten so lost in their own head again!

"Hey Sif, Stars are a thing from…Your country, right?" A part of them curled up at the way that Isa had to talk around the name of their home, but a much more interested part perked up.

"Yeah, why? What did you find?" They started towards the aisle that Isabeau was down, and then paused dead in their tracks.

"Well, this hat has all kinds of stars on the inside, see?"

It couldn't be.

That hat.

That. Hat.

That hat that saved them. That hat they'd last seen in the House. That hat that blew away on the wind. That hat that was their only upgrade, their only proof of getting somewhere for themself, their only proof of-!

"Woah! Okay, maybe stars aren't so good on hats? What, is it like, it's making a fake sky or something and that's not supposed to happen?" Isa went to put the hat back down, and they all but lunged forward. "NO!"

"No no no, I'm sorry, it's just, it's important, it's a big thing, I'm sorry, please let me have it, I'll pay you back, any amount you want, anything, please!"

They were babbling, but they couldn't seem to stop. That Hat. The memory of an orrery, of a tale they could only remember in their blankest moments, the memory of how they'd fought their way through. Of their darkest hours, too. But…It had been there.

"Woah woah woah! That's…Okay, star hats are good, got it! I'll tell you what…You tell me what's so important about this hat, and I'll pay for it entirely. Otherwise, it's a loan, you get it?"

Isa's voice had a laugh in it that Siffrin clung to as a lifeline. They slowly pulled themself back into place, like a sailor climbing back aboard after falling off their ship. They were here, not there. They didn't have it. They barely had their dagger. They didn't…need something, that armoured them, that saved them like it did. But at the same time…

"Alright, but it's…Loop stuff, not Island stuff. So…After we get out of here, okay?"

"Alright!" A heavy hand deposited it onto Siffrin's head, and they had the decency to blush about it, even if they did press up into the hand (not at all like a cat don't ask questions) and smile. "And if that's a Loop thing, you don't have to even tell me about it. I've never seen loop stuff make you that happy. Or…I guess, make you smile, a little? Either way, it's nice to know they weren't all bad! Even when you weren't trying your hardest."

Siffrin paused at that phrasing, and then gave a nod. The hat was theirs. It reminded them, the way it cut off their vision. It kept their eyes forward, and down. Above was only the same stars they always knew…They wondered if that was how everyone else saw the world all the time? But, Isabeau was turning, and starting to look around.

"Rusted garden shears…" Siffrin's wince was missed, thankfully. "A weird needle-pointed sword, some shades, I wonder what all this is about?" The thought made you step up, and look at what Isabeau had found. That was right…It looked like all the equipment you never found, in that last fateful loop, had somehow wound up here. Minus the fish book…Itchy-ology? Icky-ology? Something like that. The fish book, the earrings, and it looked like Bonbon's 'weapons' weren't there either. But the rest of it, all gathered up in one place, like someone'd put it there on purpose.

The world tilted under you.

It wasn't the first time you'd felt that, and you gripped your hands into fists. You were here. You were now. Gravity still worked. Breathing still worked. Don't get lost, Siffrin! Don't lose it, Siffrin! Bob your knees, feel the way the world feels under your feet. Close your eyes, then open them again, and look at things fresh, without the tilt your brain put on it. The tilt wasn't real.

It felt real.

It felt more real than the world around you. You reached out, and touched the sword's hilt, before jerking your hand back like you were burned. Was it going to vanish, now that you've seen it? Would…could…the universe still reset itself? Did you still have its eye? No. The sword was still there, just like the rest, just like the hat on your head, just like all of it.

Isa said something. You couldn't hear what. The words pulsed in your ears, your head throbbing at the tempo of the sounds, but you didn't understand them. Sorry, Siffrin's not here right now, can I take a message? You laughed, and even in your own throbbing ears it sounded like half a sob.

You were hugged! You were held! Hands were around you!

You jumped at the feeling, but it did ground you. The feeling pushed you back into your body like a puzzle piece slotted into place, and whoever held you turned you away from those…items. Dishware, it turned out, was on the other side. Dishes and cups, ancient and cracked, dusty even here.

"You back, Sif?" Isabeau. Isa. He's here. He's holding you. He's…Holding you. You could feel the way every little shift of your breath made sensation flare over your body, the slightest motion pulling and pushing your skin in ways you aren't anticipating, and you shiver. You can't pull away…You can't. You can't tell him this isn't what you want. You have to stay here. You aren't sure why that's what your mind latched onto, but it was true. You wanted to stay there in his arms, even if the back of your brain was screaming about the way it felt.

Stay there. Breathe. Worry later. Breathe. Respond.

"I'm back. But…I think we need to go." You managed, at your breathiest.

"Okay…Do you want to go alone, or should I stay with you?"

Considerate Isabeau. Always at your side, as long as you'll let him be.

"Stay. I'll follow you…we still need to pay for the hat. And, I'm sorry, Isa. About…"

"Don't worry about it!" He cut you off, which was good because you didn't have the words to continue that thought. "I wasn't sure what we were looking for, but it sure wasn't that! We can finish up our secret quest some other day."

You smiled. You'd have to explain yourself later, but…For now, Isabeau was there. Your rock. Your personal Savior.

You were glad to have him.

+++

"Just a collection of…items?" Odile asked, and all you could do was nod.

"Some shears, a hat, a sword, a bow…Just things you'd find in any store. You're sure you don't know?"

"Not at all. He's never done that before."

Siffrin had vanished off to your shared room when you returned, clutching the hat tight to his chest. You promised you'd give him space, and you'd ask before you came in, but in the meantime you felt like you had to solve this mystery. If it hurt Siffrin, you want to know about it, and stop it! Whether he believed it or not!

But this…

"It hit him hard. Almost as hard as that time Mira woke him up from his nap." You didn't think anything would compare to that day. "And he was alright when he wasn't looking at them, like Jinn said. I'm glad I didn't let him go alone."

"You said he found a hat? That he thought he should wear? A sword, like Mirabelle has…and a bow, like she wears. Glasses like mine…" Odile took a moment to adjust her glasses. "I believe I'll be going shopping, Isabeau. If you think you can help him alone?"

You gave a nod, trying not to think about what Odile was saying. You didn't see any gloves there, and with a clench of your hands you felt your crystal knuckles at the ready. Whatever was happening, you couldn't help but wonder how you were excluded from it. As much as you tried not to.

Instead of dwelling on that, you walked upstairs and knocked on the door to your shared room, waiting for the faint sound of 'come in'. Thank Change, it wasn't too long in coming.

Siffrin was staring at his hat when you came in, curled with his knees up near his chin on the bed and facing towards the door. One finger had been tracing the lines on the inside of it, and rested there as you walked in and gently shut the door.

"Want to talk about it?" You asked, hoping against hope.

"No."

"That's a shame." You walked over to the bed, and sat down, watching them. It was a practiced motion, and you both knew what it meant. You saw Siffrin set the hat down, saw him order his words, and saw him decide to speak - and made sure he saw the thankful smile that came from that decision.

"They were from the House. Each one of them was…a piece of the story that never happened. Something else that I left behind." Left behind was good! You liked left behind! It was a lot better than 'crabbed up' or 'completely blinded' or anything else they'd called it! "When I saw them, I…I just remembered. Everything I'd been forgetting. Everything I didn't get to do. Everything I tried to go back and do." You liked that less, but…the phrasing wasn't bad, at least. "I don't know how they got here, but it was like they were tracking me down, to find me again."

"Would you…like new memories with them?" Another one of the doctor's suggestions. "Or do you want to put those behind you? We don't have to go back, but now that you remember…wouldn't it be nice to prove this time was better than anything you left behind?"

"Yeah…Thanks, Isa." They reached a hand out, and you smiled brightly. Another concession, another suggestion, and you took his hand and used your thumb to slide the glove up the back of it, before planting a gentle kiss on the back of it.

Not! That you did that every time! But, every time he opened up, you wanted to give him something. And showing him how you loved him? You'd do that whenever he let you. This was a good chance.

From the smile in their eyes, they agreed.

[lvndrdaaze]

Description: Diluc was sure he was a sinner. A protector, yes, and a man desperately trying to be good, but a sinner nonetheless. Yet, you worshipped at his feet as though it were an honour to do so.

Warnings: gn!reader, oral (m!receiving), religious imagery, shame, praise, deepthroating, swallowing

Wc: 1.2k

"I assure you, this isn't necessary, love…"

The scene had become rapidly and wonderfully sinful, and Diluc wasn't certain as to how it had happened. His chest felt hollow but for the rapidly beating heart that seemed to echo through his entire body.

"I want to, 'Luc…" Your voice came low and earnest, enticing him like nothing he had ever known.

Even through his pressed trousers, your fingertips tracing up his tense thighs sent a dull throb through every muscle in his body. Diluc could hardly look at you, kneeling in front of his desk chair so faithfully, so his eyes wandered restlessly from your face to your hand to the floor to the desk where his work laid abandoned.

Your hand climbed higher, squeezing with careful pressure to bring his attention back to you.

"Please, let me make you feel good. You deserve to feel good."

His breaths came and went raggedly, tearing through him like he had forgotten the skill completely. And he almost believed he had. How could he remember something as asinine as breathing when you were staring up at him from between his parted legs with pleading eyes?

A short nod from him was all it took, and your hands were climbing again, grazing over muscles that burned with want and tracing the shape of him pressed against his pants. Diluc shuddered at the press of your palm against his swollen tip, the sensation feeling blissful even through layers of clothing. How he was going to last when it was his skin you were touching, he wasn't sure, but he was rapidly growing desperate to find out.

You made quick work of his belt, as though you had been preparing for this moment, perfecting the action until it happened so flawlessly he hardly noticed it. You popped open the button of his pants, and he swallowed thickly. With your fingers in his belt loops, you tugged, and he felt himself raising his hips to help you unconsciously.

When your fingers met his hardening shaft, Diluc had to bite back a moan. It was too immodest, he was sure, too obscene to spill such noises freely. But you seemed to believe otherwise.

"Please don't hold yourself back, darling. I want to hear you." You murmured so softly, and it was all he could do not to cum from that alone.

Then, you were stroking him, your digits wrapped around his cock as you pumped sensually. Each movement was slow and attentive as you watched all of his reactions reverently. Every twitch of his brow, every tremble of his fingers, every muffled noise were observed and catalogued in your mind.

You tightened your grip, and Diluc let out a strangled groan, the sound breaking free too quickly for him to mask it. Heat grew in his cheeks while you stoked the fire in his loins, and he wondered absentmindedly if lust and shame would always be connected by that fiery thread that ran through him. Then, you parted your lips and drooled warm saliva onto his throbbing tip, and he couldn't think any longer.

His soft groans felt impossibly loud to his own ears, but your hand on his cock only increased in speed every time he let one slip, as though rewarding his impropriety.

Diluc was sure he was a sinner. A protector, yes, and a man desperately trying to be good, but a sinner nonetheless. Yet, you worshipped at his feet as though it were an honour to do so. Your benevolent eyes were fixed on him, and he had never felt so exposed yet powerful in his entire life. How could something that left him feeling so vulnerable also make him feel like a godly being? How did your sinful strokes on his wet shaft feel like a form of piety?

He was spiralling into madness, he was sure. Desire clouded his mind worse than any alcohol he served to his customers, and his fingers clamped down on the chair arm like they were the bars to a cell, just barely holding him back.

Blazing red eyes stared down as you leaned forward, the tip of your hot tongue tracing obscene circles around his tip, and his fire grew hotter. He squeezed the chair arms so tightly the wood groaned in his grasp, just as the loudest moan yet broke free from his throat. Your responding smirk was infuriatingly enticing.

"That's it, love." You purred encouragingly, wrapping your lips around the very tip to lap at the essence pooling from his slit.

Electricity crackled in his spine as you suckled on his tip, your hands still pumping him wantonly, and Diluc felt his hips twitching, the need to bury himself deeper in these feelings growing within him.

Thankfully, you noticed the movement and took action.

Diluc's jaw clenched as you engulfed him further in the wet heat of your mouth. With your hands and mouth working in harmony, he felt his self-control waning. Spit-slick lips massaged his thick shaft in shallow stroked that somehow managed to be sloppy and carefully calculated at the same time, whilst your fingers slipped down to tighten around the base, holding him steady.

He watched with rapt attention as you worked, the sharp pants pouring from his lips being the only form of approval he could muster with his mind so intoxicated by you.

Swollen pink lips pulled back to wrap around his velvety head once again. Your soft moan vibrated all the way through his body as you flicked your tongue over the tip, tasting his salty ambrosia with eyes closed in blissful contentment.

Out of pure instinct, one of his hands reached for your jaw, sliding tenderly from there to your cheek to cup the flushed skin and draw your gaze up to him again. Through your teary lashes he recognised the heat there, burning just like his. With a long, rumbling groan, his hips jerked upwards at the realisation, eliciting a choking sound from you as his cock slipped deep into your mouth.

Immediately, he moved to apologise, to withdraw from your mouth shamefully, but your hand was on his in an instant, pressing his calloused palm against your cheek. His hands were red, but your skin seemed to clean them of their stains with just one touch.

His gaze burned into yours as you lapped at the vein running up his length, working more and more of him into your mouth until he was met with the tightness of your throat as you swallowed around him.

The sounds that had once been restrained grew in volume and frequency with every bob of your head, until the office was filled with the uninhibited groans and hoarse moans of the dishevelled master of the winery.

Tension bubbled in every inch of his body, blooming outwards in deep tremors, winding through his muscles like vines. His thighs shook and his grip on your cheek grew tighter, before finally falling from grace.

Hot spurts of his desire coated your throat as he convulsed underneath you with a sinner's cry, calling out your name to the ceiling as though the Archons themselves were listening. As his chest heaved, you hollowed your cheeks around him, swallowing his offering diligently.

Diluc was sure he was a sinner, but your graciousness was the secret to his absolution.

Header from @/srDante_ on Pinterest

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The antitrust case against Apple

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me TONIGHT (Mar 22) in TORONTO, then SUNDAY (Mar 24) with LAURA POITRAS in NYC, then Anaheim, and beyond!

The foundational tenet of "the Cult of Mac" is that buying products from a $3t company makes you a member of an oppressed ethnic minority and therefore every criticism of that corporation is an ethnic slur:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/12/youre-holding-it-wrong/#if-dishwashers-were-iphones

Call it "Apple exceptionalism" – the idea that Apple, alone among the Big Tech firms, is virtuous, and therefore its conduct should be interpreted through that lens of virtue. The wellspring of this virtue is conveniently nebulous, which allows for endless goal-post shifting by members of the Cult of Mac when Apple's sins are made manifest.

Take the claim that Apple is "privacy respecting," which is attributed to Apple's business model of financing its services though cash transactions, rather than by selling it customers to advertisers. This is the (widely misunderstood) crux of the "surveillance capitalism" hypothesis: that capitalism is just fine, but once surveillance is in the mix, capitalism fails.

Apple, then, is said to be a virtuous company because its behavior is disciplined by market forces, unlike its spying rivals, whose ability to "hack our dopamine loops" immobilizes the market's invisible hand with "behavior-shaping" shackles:

http://pluralistic.net/HowToDestroySurveillanceCapitalism

Apple makes a big deal out of its privacy-respecting ethos, and not without some justification. After all, Apple went to the mattresses to fight the FBI when they tried to force Apple to introduced defects into its encryption systems:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2018/04/fbi-could-have-gotten-san-bernardino-shooters-iphone-leadership-didnt-say

And Apple gave Ios users the power to opt out of Facebook spying with a single click; 96% of its customers took them up on this offer, costing Facebook $10b (one fifth of the pricetag of the metaverse boondoggle!) in a single year (you love to see it):

https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2021/02/facebook-makes-the-case-for-activity-tracking-to-ios-14-users-in-new-pop-ups/

Bruce Schneier has a name for this practice: "feudal security." That's when you cede control over your device to a Big Tech warlord whose "walled garden" becomes a fortress that defends you against external threats:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/06/08/leona-helmsley-was-a-pioneer/#manorialism

The keyword here is external threats. When Apple itself threatens your privacy, the fortress becomes a prison. The fact that you can't install unapproved apps on your Ios device means that when Apple decides to harm you, you have nowhere to turn. The first Apple customers to discover this were in China. When the Chinese government ordered Apple to remove all working privacy tools from its App Store, the company obliged, rather than risk losing access to its ultra-cheap manufacturing base (Tim Cook's signal accomplishment, the one that vaulted him into the CEO's seat, was figuring out how to offshore Apple manufacturing to China) and hundreds of millions of middle-class consumers:

https://www.reuters.com/article/us-china-apple-vpn/apple-says-it-is-removing-vpn-services-from-china-app-store-idUSKBN1AE0BQ

Killing VPNs and other privacy tools was just for openers. After Apple caved to Beijing, the demands kept coming. Next, Apple willingly backdoored all its Chinese cloud services, so that the Chinese state could plunder its customers' data at will:

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/17/technology/apple-china-censorship-data.html

This was the completely foreseeable consequence of Apple's "curated computing" model: once the company arrogated to itself the power to decide which software you could run on your own computer, it was inevitable that powerful actors – like the Chinese Communist Party – would lean on Apple to exercise that power in service to its goals.

Unsurprisingly, the Chinese state's appetite for deputizing Apple to help with its spying and oppression was not sated by backdooring iCloud and kicking VPNs out of the App Store. As recently as 2022, Apple continued to neuter its tools at the behest of the Chinese state, breaking Airdrop to make it useless for organizing protests in China:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/11/foreseeable-consequences/#airdropped

But the threat of Apple turning on its customers isn't limited to China. While the company has been unwilling to spy on its users on behalf of the US government, it's proven more than willing to compromise its worldwide users' privacy to pad its own profits. Remember when Apple let its users opt out of Facebook surveillance with one click? At the very same time, Apple was spinning up its own commercial surveillance program, spying on Ios customers, gathering the very same data as Facebook, and for the very same purpose: to target ads. When it came to its own surveillance, Apple completely ignored its customers' explicit refusal to consent to spying, spied on them anyway, and lied about it:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Here's the thing: even if you believe that Apple has a "corporate personality" that makes it want to do the right thing, that desire to be virtuous is dependent on the constraints Apple faces. The fact that Apple has complete legal and technical control over the hardware it sells – the power to decide who can make software that runs on that hardware, the power to decide who can fix that hardware, the power to decide who can sell parts for that hardware – represents an irresistible temptation to enshittify Apple products.

"Constraints" are the crux of the enshittification hypothesis. The contagion that spread enshittification to every corner of our technological world isn't a newfound sadism or indifference among tech bosses. Those bosses are the same people they've always been – the difference is that today, they are unconstrained.

Having bought, merged or formed a cartel with all their rivals, they don't fear competition (Apple buys 90+ companies per year, and Google pays it an annual $26.3b bribe for default search on its operating systems and programs).

Having captured their regulators, they don't fear fines or other penalties for cheating their customers, workers or suppliers (Apple led the coalition that defeated dozens of Right to Repair bills, year after year, in the late 2010s).

Having wrapped themselves in IP law, they don't fear rivals who make alternative clients, mods, privacy tools or other "adversarial interoperability" tools that disenshittify their products (Apple uses the DMCA, trademark, and other exotic rules to block third-party software, repair, and clients).

True virtue rests not merely in resisting temptation to be wicked, but in recognizing your own weakness and avoiding temptation. As I wrote when Apple embarked on its "curated computing" path, the company would eventually – inevitably – use its power to veto its customers' choices to harm those customers:

https://memex.craphound.com/2010/04/01/why-i-wont-buy-an-ipad-and-think-you-shouldnt-either/

Which is where we're at today. Apple – uniquely among electronics companies – shreds every device that is traded in by its customers, to block third parties from harvesting working components and using them for independent repair:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/yp73jw/apple-recycling-iphones-macbooks

Apple engraves microscopic Apple logos on those parts and uses these as the basis for trademark complaints to US customs, to block the re-importation of parts that escape its shredders:

https://repair.eu/news/apple-uses-trademark-law-to-strengthen-its-monopoly-on-repair/

Apple entered into an illegal price-fixing conspiracy with Amazon to prevent used and refurbished devices from being sold in the "world's biggest marketplace":

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/10/you-had-one-job/#thats-just-the-as

Why is Apple so opposed to independent repair? Well, they say it's to keep users safe from unscrupulous or incompetent repair technicians (feudal security). But when Tim Cook speaks to his investors, he tells a different story, warning them that the company's profits are threatened by customers who choose to repair (rather than replace) their slippery, fragile glass $1,000 pocket computers (the fortress becomes a prison):

https://www.apple.com/newsroom/2019/01/letter-from-tim-cook-to-apple-investors/

All this adds up to a growing mountain of immortal e-waste, festooned with miniature Apple logos, that our descendants will be dealing with for the next 1,000 years. In the face of this unspeakable crime, Apple engaged in a string of dishonest maneuvers, claiming that it would support independent repair. In 2022, Apple announced a home repair program that turned out to be a laughably absurd con:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/22/apples-cement-overshoes/

Then in 2023, Apple announced a fresh "pro-repair" initiative that, once again, actually blocked repair:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/22/vin-locking/#thought-differently

Let's pause here a moment and remember that Apple once stood for independent repair, and celebrated the independent repair technicians that kept its customers' beloved Macs running:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/29/norwegian-potato-flour-enchiladas/#r2r

Whatever virtue lurks in Apple's corporate personhood, it is no match for the temptation that comes from running a locked-down platform designed to capture IP rights so that it can prevent normal competitive activities, like fixing phones, processing payments, or offering apps.

When Apple rolled out the App Store, Steve Jobs promised that it would save journalism and other forms of "content creation" by finally giving users a way to pay rightsholders. A decade later, that promise has been shattered by the app tax – a 30% rake on every in-app transaction that can't be avoided because Apple will kick your app out of the App Store if you even mention that your customers can pay you via the web in order to avoid giving a third of their content dollars to a hardware manufacturer that contributed nothing to the production of that material:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2023/06/save-news-we-must-open-app-stores

Among the apps that Apple also refuses to allow on Ios is third-party browsers. Every Iphone browser is just a reskinned version of Apple's Safari, running on the same antiquated, insecure Webkit browser engine. The fact that Webkit is incomplete and outdated is a feature, not a bug, because it lets Apple block web apps – apps delivered via browsers, rather than app stores:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/13/kitbashed/#app-store-tax

Last month, the EU took aim at Apple's veto over its users' and software vendors' ability to transact with one another. The newly in-effect Digital Markets Act requires Apple to open up both third-party payment processing and third-party app stores. Apple's response to this is the very definition of malicious compliance, a snake's nest of junk-fees, onerous terms of service, and petty punitive measures that all add up to a great, big "Go fuck yourself":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/02/06/spoil-the-bunch/#dma

But Apple's bullying, privacy invasion, price-gouging and environmental crimes are global, and the EU isn't the only government seeking to end them. They're in the firing line in Japan:

https://asia.nikkei.com/Business/Technology/Japan-to-crack-down-on-Apple-and-Google-app-store-monopolies

And in the UK:

https://www.gov.uk/government/news/cma-wins-appeal-in-apple-case

And now, famously, the US Department of Justice is coming for Apple, with a bold antitrust complaint that strikes at the heart of Apple exceptionalism, the idea that monopoly is safer for users than technological self-determination:

https://www.justice.gov/opa/media/1344546/dl?inline

There's passages in the complaint that read like I wrote them:

Apple wraps itself in a cloak of privacy, security, and consumer preferences to justify its anticompetitive conduct. Indeed, it spends billions on marketing and branding to promote the self-serving premise that only Apple can safeguard consumers’ privacy and security interests. Apple selectively compromises privacy and security interests when doing so is in Apple’s own financial interest—such as degrading the security of text messages, offering governments and certain companies the chance to access more private and secure versions of app stores, or accepting billions of dollars each year for choosing Google as its default search engine when more private options are available. In the end, Apple deploys privacy and security justifications as an elastic shield that can stretch or contract to serve Apple’s financial and business interests.

After all, Apple punishes its customers for communicating with Android users by forcing them to do so without any encryption. When Beeper Mini rolled out an Imessage-compatible Android app that fixed this, giving Iphone owners the privacy Apple says they deserve but denies to them, Apple destroyed Beeper Mini:

https://blog.beeper.com/p/beeper-moving-forward

Tim Cook is on record about this: if you want to securely communicate with an Android user, you must "buy them an Iphone":

https://www.theverge.com/2022/9/7/23342243/tim-cook-apple-rcs-imessage-android-iphone-compatibility

If your friend, family member or customer declines to change mobile operating systems, Tim Cook insists that you must communicate without any privacy or security.

Even where Apple tries for security, it sometimes fails ("security is a process, not a product" -B. Schneier). To be secure in a benevolent dictatorship, it must also be an infallible dictatorship. Apple's far from infallible: Eight generations of Iphones have unpatchable hardware defects:

https://checkm8.info/

And Apple's latest custom chips have secret-leaking, unpatchable vulnerabilities:

https://arstechnica.com/security/2024/03/hackers-can-extract-secret-encryption-keys-from-apples-mac-chips/

Apple's far from infallible – but they're also far from benevolent. Despite Apple's claims, its hardware, operating system and apps are riddled with deliberate privacy defects, introduce to protect Apple's shareholders at the expense of its customers:

https://proton.me/blog/iphone-privacy

Now, antitrust suits are notoriously hard to make, especially after 40 years of bad-precedent-setting, monopoly-friendly antitrust malpractice. Much of the time, these suits fail because they can't prove that tech bosses intentionally built their monopolies. However, tech is a written culture, one that leaves abundant, indelible records of corporate deliberations. What's more, tech bosses are notoriously prone to bragging about their nefarious intentions, committing them to writing:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/03/big-tech-cant-stop-telling-on-itself/

Apple is no exception – there's an abundance of written records that establish that Apple deliberately, illegally set out to create and maintain a monopoly:

https://www.wired.com/story/4-internal-apple-emails-helped-doj-build-antitrust-case/

Apple claims that its monopoly is beneficent, used to protect its users, making its products more "elegant" and safe. But when Apple's interests conflict with its customers' safety and privacy – and pocketbooks – Apple always puts itself first, just like every other corporation. In other words: Apple is unexceptional.

The Cult of Mac denies this. They say that no one wants to use a third-party app store, no one wants third-party payments, no one wants third-party repair. This is obviously wrong and trivially disproved: if no Apple customer wanted these things, Apple wouldn't have to go to enormous lengths to prevent them. The only phones that an independent Iphone repair shop fixes are Iphones: which means Iphone owners want independent repair.

The rejoinder from the Cult of Mac is that those Iphone owners shouldn't own Iphones: if they wanted to exercise property rights over their phones, they shouldn't have bought a phone from Apple. This is the "No True Scotsman" fallacy for distraction-rectangles, and moreover, it's impossible to square with Tim Cook's insistence that if you want private communications, you must buy an Iphone.

Apple is unexceptional. It's just another Big Tech monopolist. Rounded corners don't preserve virtue any better than square ones. Any company that is freed from constraints – of competition, regulation and interoperability – will always enshittify. Apple – being unexceptional – is no exception.

Name your price for 18 of my DRM-free ebooks and support the Electronic Frontier Foundation with the Humble Cory Doctorow Bundle.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/03/22/reality-distortion-field/#three-trillion-here-three-trillion-there-pretty-soon-youre-talking-real-money

[lucygxybaird]

billy noticing his girl wearing a new dress and he makes her feel so pretty :)

You nibble on your lip as you stand in front of the mirror, holding your arms out like you’re preparing to dance as you turn your hips one way and then another. The hem of your skirt swirls out as you move, and you hum softly, tilting your head. You can’t decide if you like it or not, but you can’t stand here for much longer. Billy will be here any minute.

In any case, it isn’t like you to stand in front of the mirror, studying your reflection like a little parakeet. You spend most of your days working in your father’s general store, so you tend to dress simply, stocking the shelves and tending to customers when they come in. But he’s just received a shipment of cloth from a new supplier, and your mother surprised you with a dress made from the nicest print — white with pale blue stripes, with little forget-me-nots blooming in the rows.

You straighten your bodice, smoothing your hands over your hips. The bustle in the back has been artfully sewn into folds and pleats, and you have to admit you like what it does to your shape. Warmth floods over your cheeks as an entirely foreign (but not entirely unpleasant) thought occurs to you: you hope Billy agrees. 

You’re particularly fond of the buttons on the front, sixteen bronze pieces engraved with Celtic love knots. They march down your bodice, starting underneath the hollow of your throat and ending just above your waist. Your flush deepens as you imagine Billy running the rough pad of his thumb over one of them, maybe slipping it free of its loop and— 

There’s a knock on the front door, and you nearly jump out of your skin. Your hands fly up to smooth down your hair as you realize it’s just Billy, punctual as he so often is. You know how much your dates mean to him — as important as they are to you, for Billy, they’re idylls of peace, moments suspended in time like pearls on a string. Moments where he can just be himself: Billy, your Billy, rather than Billy the Kid; a young man in love, rather than an outlaw fighting for his life. 

You hurry to the front door and open it, using your nerves to pin up the corners of your smile, so that it trembles in place ever so slightly. Billy would never say if he hated your new dress, but you’ll know; you can read him so well that you’ll know, just by a twitch of his eyebrow or the softest sigh from his lips if he likes it or not.

“Hi, Billy,” you say, sounding almost shy, although you feel a measure of relief when he smiles at you like he always does. As if he can’t quite imagine how he found you, or how he managed to keep you once he did — but William H. Bonney is not one to question a miracle, so he’ll just marvel, and keep smiling. 

He smiles at you again, leaning a forearm against the doorway. “Hey, baby.” 

Before you can ask what he thinks, Billy reaches out and draws a fingertip along one of the stripes running down your sleeve, his hand finding yours. He lifts it to his mouth, brushing a kiss against your knuckles. “I’m sorry for starin’,” he says, his eyes on yours, your hand still at his lips. “I just can’t help myself. You’re a vision.”

You blush to the roots of your hair, which only makes Billy smile again. “My pretty girl,” he says, reaching for you, wrapping his hands around your waist and drawing you close to him. “Is this new?”

“Yes,” you tell him. Your hands find his chest, and you can feel the steady drum of his heart in your palm. “Daddy is workin’ with a new textiles merchant. Mama made this for me.”

Billy hums, leaning down to nose against a stray curl escaping your chignon, a flyaway against your temple. The warmth of his breath makes your back arch just a little, and you catch his grin from the corner of your eye. “I’ll have to thank all of ’em,” he says into your ear. “Your pa, your mom, and the merchant, too. You’d look like an angel in homespun, but now…”

“Now?” you prompt, your voice a little shakier than it was a moment ago.

“Now I can hardly believe my eyes,” he says. He kisses your cheek, moves to gently nip at your earlobe. “There can’t be a more beautiful girl in the whole world.” 

You laugh a little, though it’s just as tremulous as your voice. Your face is on fire and your knees are weak, but you don’t pull away. “Billy, it’s just a dress.”

“Mmm, it’s not just a dress. Not when you’re wearin’ it,” he says. “You’re pretty like the moonlight is pretty, baby — you make everything around you more beautiful just by bein’ near it.” 

He kisses your scarlet cheek and pulls back, taking you by the hand. “Yours truly, included,” he says, smiling a little. “If there’s anything beautiful about me—”

“There is,” you interrupt. You sandwich his hand between both of yours and hold it against your chest. “You’re beautiful because your heart is full of kindness, and love, and courage. Anyone else who’s been through what you have would just be bitter and ugly, inside and out. But you aren’t.” 

Now Billy’s cheeks have taken on a rosy hue of their own, but he offers you a crooked grin. “Now, what’s this about out?” 

You laugh. “Like you don’t know you’re gorgeous,” you say. “Like I don’t have to beat the women off you with a stick.” 

“I don’t care about them,” he says, giving your hand a little tug to lead you through the door. “Just you.”

Once you’re out in your yard, he takes you by the waist, lifting you onto his horse. He carefully arranges your skirts, making sure nothing is trailing in the dirt and your legs are covered, before swinging up behind you. 

“We’re goin’ into town tonight,” he says. “I gotta show off my girl and her pretty new dress.” 

[effiegenia]

what does a so called ‘ rebel ’ look like ? A RECONSTRUCTION OF EFFIE'S COSTUME DESIGN IN DISTRICT THIRTEEN, INSPIRED BY DESIGNS FROM JEAN PAUL GAULTIER & VIVIENNE WESTWOOD.

PLUTARCH HEAVENSBEE  you're not a prisoner.  you're free to join the rest of thirteen. EFFIE TRINKET  not looking like this, thank you very much.

during  the  capitol  extraction,  effie  wore   ⁽   ⁰¹   ⁾   a  magenta  draped  dress,  corset,  &  matching  platform  high  heels.  a  long  flamingo  pink  wig.  skin  -  tone  thighs.  set  of  long  acrylic  nails,  painted  gold,   &  false  eyelashes  with  golden  speckles.  gold  necklace,  bracelets  &   rings  that  resemble  the  shape  of  ribbons. in her purse, she brought essentials: a different pair of heels & sunglasses.   ⮩   however,   upon  arrival,  all  clothes  &  personal  belongings  were  confiscated  by  district  thirteen  guards.

instead,  effie  is  given  the  standard  thirteen  wardrobe,   ⁽   ⁰²   ⁾   two  jumpsuits,  one  wool  jacket,  one  pair  of  combat  boots,  one  button  -  up  shirt.  the  cardigan  &   pants  she  sometimes  wears  are,  of  course,  borrowed  from  haymitch.

she  negotiates  with  plutarch  access  to  her  clothes  again  —   surely  an  old  friend  would  understand  just  how  vital  one's  clothes  are  in  a  scenario  of  such  vulnerability.  her  colleagues  from  twelve's  prep  team  were  just  now  being  kept  prisoners,  &   wasn't  it  for  her  tight  relationship  to  the  mockingjay,  effie  is  certain  she  too  would  have  a  spot  with  her  initials  on  those  dungeons.  her  identity  is  all  she  has.  it's...  her  brand  of  rebellion.  she  gets  her  belongings  back,  wrapped  in  gray  fabric,  then  casually  lays  all  of  it  ⁺   her  district  thirteen  attire  on  the  ground  of  her  cubicle  underground.  surely  she'd  be  able  to  come  up  with  something  to  resemble  even  a  shadow  of  her  past  self...     ⁽ ⁺ ⁾   

effie  is  left  with  an  assortment  of  customized  pieces  that,  with  a  little  bit  of  luck  &   an  unfathomable  level  of  creativity  should  make  up  for  a  decent  wardrobe.  her  days  in  the  valley  come  in  handy  the  moment  she  realizes  the  pieces  would  need  some  needle  work,  &   she's  able  to  remodel  those  shapeless  pieces  into  memorable  ones.     ⁽   ⁰³   ⁾   the  buttons  in  her  jacket  &   shirt  are  rearranged  to  double  breasted  designs,  on  -  par  with  the  military  theme  everyone  is  supposed  to  be  getting  on  board  with;  if  this  is  what  they  are,  rebels,  then  she  might  as  well  be  a  very  well  dressed  one.  waists  are  either  adjusted  to  better  fit  her  body  or  sintched  with  a  leather  belt,  also  borrowed,  looped  twice  around  her  waist  &   resembling  a  corset.  her  corset,  too,  at  times  worn  on  top  of  her  shirt  to  accentuate  her  sillhouette.

heels  &   gloves  are  the  sole  ode  to  color  in  her  wardrobe  now;  her  dress,  once  beautiful  layers  of  magenta,  now  torn  apart  by  those  so  called  guards  of  thirteen.   plutarch  said  it  surely  had  been  an  accident.  effie  doubts  it'd  bring  them  anything  but  joy  to  destroy  something  beautiful  for  the  sake  of  it.

still,  even  unable  to  sport  her  beautiful  gown  every  day,  confined  to  an  immensity  of  gray  days  in  that  gray  reality,  effie  tends  to  it  tirelessly  every  day  after  work  hours.  she'll  need  something  to  wear  once  the  war's  over,  after  all.  if  it  ever  is.  if  they're  ever  free.  surely  they  don't  expect  her  to  walk  into  the  future  looking anything  other  than  fabulous.  but  then,  an  occasion:  a  wedding,  something  beautiful  for  the  sake  of  it,  like  her  gown,  like  herself.  &   so  all  those  nights  of  raw  fingertips  stitching  her  beautiful  dress  back  together  seem  to  have  found  meaning,  when  she's  able  to  wear  it.  nobody  else  seems  to  mind  that  a  wedding  should  require  a  certain  dress  code,  but  effie's  never  dressed  up  for  anyone  but  herself.  her  repurposed  pink  dress,  pink  heels,  pink  blush  &   lipstick  from  the  stash  that  should  be  used  on  their  mockingjay  only   —  &   she's  ready  for  this  excuse  of  a  party.  her  hair  up  in  pin  curls;  great  aunt  messalina  said  during  wartime  capitolites  wore  their  hair  up  that way,  so  she  does  that  in  the  absense  of  her  wig.

her  everyday  beauty  routine  is  a  bore.  there's  little  effie  considers  herself  less  excited  about  than  showing  a  bare  face  to  those  people,  but  still,  in  the  absense  of  creams  &   powders  to  properly  paint  her  features,  all  she's  left  with  is  the  possibility  of  pinching  her  cheeks  to  a  pink  &  slipping  a  little  something  from  the  studio  katniss  does  most  of  her  on  -  camera  work  in.  her  priority  is  to  add  a  little  color  to  her  lips  &   cheekbones,  always,  &   if  she's  lucky  a  little  contrast  to  her  eyelashes.

[auncyen]

SO WHEN I STARTED Sif having a bad King fight and then freezing (which lead to Isa and Mira being sad), I'd. kind of wondered where that left Loop, and that's like the one part I wanted to get to, even if I don't plan on writing past that.

Loop is...not doing that great. I'm still figuring out how exactly this conversation would go (Odile wasn't planned at first LOL) but yeah there's a lot of "UM":

You got better. You got to leave the infirmary, though they still wanted you to stay in the House itself for a bit, just in case something happened, rather than being all the way out in the clocktower. You didn't mind, because you felt you needed to be here.

Sif wasn't getting better. They were still frozen on the highest floor of the House. You started helping M'dame with the research she was doing in the library, including the secret library after Euphrasie entrusted her with the knowledge. She raised an eyebrow when you started skimming through tomes and summarizing the chapters aloud to judge if you should give it a closer look, put it back on the shelf, or put it in the 'maybe' pile--only tangentially relevant to healing Craft or Time Craft, but sometimes writers do go on illuminating tangents. "I, uh, used to be a huge nerd," you muttered, because it didn't feel like the time to hide your smarts when Siffrin needed a cure.

Odile looked surprised for a few seconds. "Interesting. I'd wondered."

"You'd…wondered?"

"You're the only man I've ever heard sound smarter with three drinks in him. I'm curious, but it's fine if you don't want to talk about it. We've business right now, anyway."

You did indeed have business. Unfortunately, it was a bust; none of the books you found had an insight into healing a powerful Time Craft curse that M'dame or Mira hadn't already considered. Mira looked increasingly tired and miserable by the day, and at the end of the week Bonbon came in the House to visit Sif and came down yelling because someone had left flowers at his frozen form and that wasn't right, it wasn't right, because Frin was going to unfreeze and be greeted by dead flowers and that would suck, and if someone had left them flowers the way you would at a grave that was even worse because Frin wasn't dead. Bonbon was very clearly more worked up at the idea of Sif being considered 'dead' than Sif waking up to see dead flowers, but you promised them that yeah! You'd tell everyone to wait to give Sif flowers until they were able to appreciate them again. Because of course Sif was going to be able to appreciate flowers again.

You didn't want to think about the other possibility any more than Bonnie did.

The four of you were all stuck in a painful limbo. The Housemaidens and townspeople didn't seem to know if they should treat you as heroes to be celebrated or glass vases ready to shatter, and as much as you tried to smile you felt increasingly brittle. It was kind of a relief when a new issue popped up: there was a stranger at the Favor Tree.

So, strangers usually weren't a problem. Most strangers are nice! Accepting the change that strangers may bring is a key part of the Change faith!

…Most strangers, even if they had different ways of dress and custom, still looked…well. People weren't sure if the stranger was even human? According to the scattered descriptions, they had a human-shaped body, but the skin was like the night sky stuck over the House when it was frozen, and on top of the body was not a head, but a spiky orb radiating light. Some people were scared the stranger might not be a person at all, but some new kind of Sadness left over from Vaugarde's ordeal, or even the King's creation, since…well, yeah. He'd pinned the night sky over the House while he was controlling it. And he'd had stars on his armor. And the night-sky stranger was lurking at the tree, hiding, which unnerved people once they noticed the new and unusual presence. One of the kids had gotten bold enough (he'd been dared) to approach the tree anyway, trying to call out the stranger to talk, and had gotten frightened by an inhuman voice snapping at him to go away. So. Even if this was a human stranger who'd done extreme Body Craft beyond what anyone in Dormont knew to be possible, they were a rude human stranger who'd decided to take over a town's Favor Tree.

…That was the best case scenario. At worst, they were something created by the King.

You decided that as an ex-Defender you were probably the most qualified to have a talk with the stranger and try to figure out who (or what) they were, why they'd taken over the Favor Tree, if there was an alternate arrangement you could work out… or to take them on if they proved hostile.

M'dame decided you were under no circumstances to do this alone, regardless of how well you'd been feeling lately, so she was accompanying you to the Tree. Which you had no complaints with! M'dame was good backup. You got to the base of the tree, standing under its crown. You didn't see anything yet, but the small handful of townspeople who'd seen the stranger had said they'd always ducked behind the tree or had already been hiding behind it, allowing only glimpses of them. They must have already hidden. "Hello, stranger?" you called. "I'm Isabeau, a Defender from Jouvente. Well…ex-Defender, but, um! My colleague and I would like to talk with you?"

"So now we're colleagues?" Odile murmured to you, smirking even as she scrutinized the tree ahead of you.

"Well!" You lower your voice, flustered. "That's how I was used to approaching people on the job."

"I'm teasing, Isabeau."

You know, you know. It still flustered you.

…Although the lack of response was quickly growing more concerning. "Stranger?" you called. "Are you there? Can you talk?"

Still nothing, except for the faint sound of grass being stepped on, like someone was shifting their weight. Odile huffed. "You go right around the tree, I'll go left--"

"Go away!"

You jumped at the voice. The kid's description really hadn't done it justice, mostly because it was inhuman, crackling in a way you'd never expect from a human throat. But after the brief shock, you moved to stop Odile from going around the tree. "M'dame, wait."

"What?"

"I think they're scared." The way the kid had described it, the voice had been threatening, but the kid had probably already been scared himself. Underneath the strange crackling, the intonation, the way the pitch had wavered… it sounded like the stranger was panicking. You didn't want to make that worse; you might force a confrontation where none was needed. "Listen," you said, raising your voice again. "You don't have to come out right now if you don't want to, but we still need to talk. Okay?"

"…Fine."

"First things first, are you all right?"

"That's your first concern?" The crackling voice was tight, almost sarcastic.

"Um, yeah?" It was now. "Look, people have been getting worried about you hiding out here, but… it's not like you've been trying to scare anyone, right? You've been keeping to yourself."

"I didn't mean to scare that kid. I haven't scared anyone else, unless people are scared of beautiful stars!"

So the stranger…didn't consider themself a person, but a star? Like in the sky?

"People are, in fact, a bit wary of strange stars after the King," Odile pointed out, which! 100% true!! But not something to point out right now!

The stranger immediately got upset, the crackling in their voice sharpening. "So, what, the King has a monopoly on stars now? Isn't he dead? It's not like you beat him with the power of friendship. Oh, King, I'm sure there's a reason you're doing this! We don't have to fight!" The stranger scoffed. "I know that didn't happen."

"The King is dead," Odile confirmed. "You didn't know?"

"You think I can just walk into town and ask questions looking like this?"

You and Odile looked at each other. Some of the tightness left Odile's posture. "They're acting scared," she said, and you knew from that word choice she hadn't ruled out yet the possibility that it was only an act. But she was willing to give the benefit of the doubt for now. "Isabeau, you're better at this, you talk to them."

…Well. Hm. They didn't seem all right, but they also hadn't answered straight when you asked about that. Maybe they weren't ready to talk about themself yet. "If you've got any other questions, we can try answering?" you offered. "I'm Isabeau, he/him, and M'dame Odile uses she/her."

"…They/them for me."

Odile arched an eyebrow. "But no name?"

"No, my turn for questions!" the strange voice said, but then it fell silent for a moment. Were they still scared, or struggling to think of any? You folded your arms and waited, not wanting to rush them. "You're…two of the Saviors. Is, um, the Housemaiden--Housemaiden Mirabelle okay?"

The question made Odile frown. "Why do you ask?"

"It's a little strange that you came out here to talk to me without her, if you thought I might have anything to do with the King. Not that I do!" the voice said quickly. "Good riddance."

"Three-on-one would be pretty intimidating," you point out. That's exactly the reasoning you would have told Mira if she'd asked to come along, too… but the truth is, she didn't know you were out here. Even though her long quest was done, the stress hadn't disappeared, and Siffrin's condition wasn't helping anyone. You hadn't wanted to toss more on her plate. "We were hoping for a nice talk! Anyway, she's fine." Burnt out, but time would surely help.

Time, and Siffrin getting better.

"And the kid traveling with you? They're fine too?"

They knew about Bonnie? "They're fine too. We kept them away from the fighting."

"I know, but--" The voice stopped abruptly.

"You know?" That…was kind of odd, especially with how quickly they'd shut up, like they hadn't meant to let it slip. You'd reassured more than a couple people that Bonnie didn't actually fight with you, was only tagging along with your group because even if they weren't old enough to fight they were old enough to decide where they wanted to be and they'd made it very clear they'd chase after the group if they were left behind. So the star could have learned that secondhand, but that seemed unlikely if they were afraid to approach people with their appearance. Along with the slip, it made you wonder… "Did you, um. Did we meet you before the Body Craft? …Is that Body Craft?" You cringed a little. "Sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but--"

"It's okay. I, uh, I've been told how I look right now."

You immediately felt a pit open up in your stomach. They hadn't seen for themself how they looked? There was no way this could be Body Craft, then, at least not the way you knew it. No one in their right mind would Body Craft themselves without being able to track the process. But 'right now' implied there had been a Change. Odile had caught that too, her expression torn between wariness and alarm.

[beneathsilverstars]

i still have to draw clothes but FINISHED MY LOOP BODYCRAFT PROGRESSION...!!!!

headcanon explanations under the cut

Metaphorically, Loop is sort of like a piece of the cloak of The Universe (specifically, a Siffrin piece) pulled into the shape of Siffrin with a star on top. They're also sort of like an artificial well of magic, made out of and perpetually refilled by the stream of wish craft that was triggered by their new wishes.

In practice, their body is made out of pure craft, rather than blood and bone. It's proportioned the same as Siffrin's, but with some details evened out and others omitted, sort of like a barbie doll or spandex suit. Except instead of spandex over a human body, it's a layer of tangible starry craft over pure craft energy. The tangible skin feels a little bit staticky-warm, like touching an old CRT screen, and the fritzies that run across it are a stronger static shock. Since it's a field of energy, any parts of it that touch each other sort of meld together, and the longer they're together the harder it is to separate — never difficult, but the moment of separation is noticeable, like pulling apart weak magnets.

Their head is a field of increasing light and force, again similar to a magnet, but one that repels you. You move your hand into the light and it feels warm; closer, and you start to notice resistance and feel static pins and needles; closer, and the force increases until you feel like you're getting zapped by a prank shock pen and you can't push any farther in. This occurs an inch or so away from where their face would actually be. The shape of their face does still exist in there as a pattern of energy, most concretely around their eyes, but blurring out more towards the bottom of their face and back of their head. Loop can even sort of move the rest of their face — cheek muscles are used to squint the eyes, after all — but if they try to focus on what that physically feels like, it's weirdly numb and fuzzy.

Their chest star is the heart of the well from which their magic springs. It doesn't have the same increasing force field as their head, but if you actually touch it, it's not a physical surface, just pure zap. Not super comfortable for Loop, either, like, that's their soul you're touching.

So! Standard body craft won't work on Loop, because they're not made out of body. But they are made out of the ongoing effects of craft, so precise application of more craft can change them. It just takes a lot more trial and error to figure out how to do it!

First they focus on lessening all the inconvenient weird aspects. By looking at the difference between the diffuse glow of the rest of their head vs the more concentrated area of force around their eyes, they're able to figure out how to solidify the rest of their face a bit as well, so you can get closer before feeling any effect and then you meet resistance/zaps more suddenly. This makes it somewhat possible to see the contours of their face! And makes it feel less weird to them, too. Then they can use a similar technique to reduce the static effect of their skin, so it doesn't meld with itself oddly and the fritzies aren't so severe. They have permanently-separate toes again!

With that done, and a better idea now of how to work with their form, they're able to refine their methods and make use of some modified regular body crafting as well. They further solidify their face, and decide on a haircut to coax the rest of their head into approximating — short, so they don't have to worry about the physics of long strands. It can still be a bit hard to make out their features but the features are all there now, and the range of force so narrow that it feels like touching a solid object, though an oddly electric one that doesn't deform in quite the exact way skin should. And then, since Loop is customizing their body anyway, they do some physical transitioning!

As Siffrin, their body was one familiar constant through a foreign world, so any desire to change it was much smaller than their desire to keep it the same. But as Loop, their body was already utterly changed, so why not change it a bit more? Siffrin wasn't super keen on the organic physicality of the human body, but Loop is desperate to feel human again. So they finish refining details, and add a little body fat, and round it out, and do an even weirder and more magical version of weird magic bottom surgery. The chest is actually the hardest part because that's where their soul star is and it would not be a good idea to fuck with it, but they figure out how to carefully mold the area around it and let the pure magic force between just continue to do its thing.

None of their body works or feels the exact same way a human's would, but it's a pretty good approximation at this point. It's a lot easier to get used to the oddities that are left when they were able to change the worst of it, especially since they feel a lot more in-control now, too. And they can always continue to experiment and refine, or even bring back weird aspects if they want!