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goldfades · 1 day ago

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𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 ☆ BUECKERS⁵ (ev's 6k celly!)

free palestine carrd 🇵🇸 decolonize palestine site 🇵🇸 how you can help palestine | FREE PALESTINE!

CELLY MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 4.6k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | dating paige means learning to share her — with fans, cameras, the league. you’re used to being in the background: her pregame text, her airport pickup, the face she looks for in the crowd. but when she finally has a bad game — one that leaves her jaw tight and chest guarded, you’re the one she lets fall apart.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | angst!! hurt to comfort, paige being a little mean, kinda stay at home vibe for reader but not really?? HAPPY ENDING!!

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | yaya!! day 3 of celly, i hope yall are enjoying so far. here's the angsty, hurt to comfort paige fic yall were promised. also i feel like i needed to add that im not trying to hate on the wings at all, this fic is more about the emotional side of things than any real commentary on the team.

also obviously i have no idea what paige is actually feeling or going through (obviously LOL), this is all just fictional and for fun. just wanted to explore a softer, more personal side of what that transition might feel like for someone carrying that much pressure. no harm intended, just feelings & vibes & sapphic yearning <3

You meet her in a grocery store just off of campus, which feels fake even as it’s happening.

She’s in a hoodie too big for her, hood up, cart half-full of protein bars and Smartwater, reading the back of a box like it's a scouting report. You’re standing in front of the oat milk. That’s it. That’s the origin story.

She asks if the oat milk is good. You say it depends on what she’s doing with it. She raises an eyebrow and says, drinking it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world . You tell her it’s fine but the vanilla one is better. And when she reaches for it, your fingers graze. You don’t look away first.

It starts there — two people in the milk aisle, pretending they don’t know who the other is or maybe pretending it doesn’t matter.

It matters.

Now it’s almost two years later. You know which pair of socks she has to wear on game days, how she retapes her fingers during halftime even if the wrap is fine, the way she likes her smoothies: blended twice, don’t ask why and that when she’s tired she gets clingy but insists she’s not.

You also know how to stay out of the frame.

You're the person who picks up her dry cleaning, triple checks her call sheet, drives her to the airport at 5AM with a thermos of coffee you’ll never get thanked for. Not because she’s ungrateful, but because she doesn’t realize she needs to. She’s Paige Bueckers. She gives pieces of herself away all day — photos, autographs, interviews, sideline hugs for kids she’s never met and by the time she gets to you, there’s not always much left.

But she always finds your hand. That counts for something.

You get used to watching her light up arenas from the shadows. You like it, actually. The background is quiet. Safe. You can watch her without worrying about being watched back.

You know she’s yours even if everyone else thinks she belongs to the world. And lately, the world’s been getting greedy.

The apartment still smells like new paint.

Not strong, not offensive, just that faint, chalky scent that clings to the corners of the rooms, reminding you that the place isn’t quite lived-in yet. Boxes line the hallway in uneven stacks, some open, some sealed, all of them with your handwriting scrawled across the sides. Kitchen stuff. Shoes, maybe?? PAIGE DON’T TOUCH.

She did, obviously.

You find the proof in the form of an empty protein bar wrapper tucked into the top of a box marked winter clothes and you roll your eyes as you toss it in the trash.

It’s quiet in the apartment, which is rare lately. For the past few months, everything’s been loud. Not just the literal noise, although there’s been plenty of that: roaring student sections, confetti cannons, draft night applause that rang in your chest like a second heartbeat but the kind of loud that lives under your skin. Constant motion. Constant attention. Eyes on her, hands on her, reporters leaning too close with too many questions, and her answering all of it with that same polished smile that means I’m good, I’m fine, keep moving.

You know what it costs.

Winning the natty should’ve felt like a finish line but it only cracked open another beginning. Draft week came less than a week later. There was barely time to breathe, let alone plan a move to a new city, a new team, a new life. You booked the flights. You signed the lease. You made sure the sheets were washed before she got here.

You haven’t unpacked fully. Neither of you has had time.

Right now, she’s at shootaround — early preseason workouts, a light day, though deemed light by Paige Bueckers standards still means running through plays like it’s the Final Four. You’re not there. She asked if you wanted to come and you said no. She didn’t push. She never does.

You like seeing her on the court but today you needed the silence. Needed to breathe in a room that didn’t buzz with her future. Needed to sit in the kitchen she hasn’t cooked in yet and just be.

You wash two mugs, even though you only used one. You start putting away silverware and get distracted organizing the drawer — forks facing one way, spoons the other, knives stacked like soldiers. You don’t know how long you’re standing there when you hear the door unlock.

“Babe?”

Her voice is hoarse. You glance up, startled by the way your heart still flinches at the sound.

“In the kitchen,” you call back.

She appears a second later, already halfway out of her sneakers, gym bag sliding off her shoulder. Her hair’s tied up in a bun, messy, a few strands stuck to her forehead. She looks tired, which means she probably went too hard, again.

She smiles when she sees you. It’s not a big smile, barely there, really but it’s the one she only gives you. The one that softens all the edges.

“Hey,” she says.

You lift an eyebrow. “Don’t ‘hey’ me. You went for an hour and a half.”

“Sixty-five minutes,” she corrects, coming over to press a kiss to your cheek. Her hand finds your waist without thinking. “I’m being good.”

“You’re being reckless.”

“I’m being prepared.” She grins like she knows you’re already over it and you are. Mostly.

You turn into her, letting her rest her forehead against yours. Her skin is damp. You don’t mind. For a second, neither of you says anything.

“I missed you,” she murmurs.

You hum. “You saw me this morning.”

“Still.”

This is how it’s always been. Paige flies too close to the sun, and you make sure there’s a place for her to land. You’ve never tried to stop her. You just make sure the lights are on when she comes home.

She pulls away slowly, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to memorize it, even though she’s already got it memorized a hundred times over.

“I know I haven’t been around much lately,” she says, quieter.

You could say I know, or It’s okay, or You don’t have to explain.

But you don’t.

Instead, you say, “Sit down. I’ll make you something.”

She blinks, then smiles again — wider this time. “You love bossing me around.”

You shrug, moving toward the fridge. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive.”

She sits. Watches you. You can feel her eyes on your back while you crack eggs into a pan and mumble about how she better not leave her sweaty socks on the kitchen chair again. She laughs.

For a second, the rest of it fades. The expectations, the cameras, the pressure. The whole world outside this apartment.

She’s here. And she’s yours.

The season starts badly.

Not technically — their opener is a loss, narrow but clean. The kind of win that looks okay in a box score even if you know, just by watching, that something’s off. Like the rhythm is a beat behind. Like Paige’s shot is just a little too flat. Like the whole team is waiting for someone else to wake them up.

After that, it’s four straight losses. One at home, three on the road. All of them ugly.

The headlines stay polite at first. Young team still finding chemistry. Bueckers adjusting to WNBA pace. But the subtext is everywhere. In the photos they run — Paige midair, Paige scowling, Paige with her hands on her knees. In the clips they replay: missed threes, turnovers, turnovers, turnovers. Even in the way the commentators say her name, like it used to mean something magical and now they’re not sure what it means anymore.

You try not to read the comments. You still do.

At home, she says she’s fine.

Fine when she’s up at 1:30 in the morning watching film with the volume so low you can barely hear it. Fine when she forgets to eat until noon. Fine when she gets back from practice with red-rimmed eyes and blames it on the wind even though it hasn’t been breezy in days.

You don’t press. Not directly.

You just hover. The way you always do. Fold her laundry. Wrap her knee even when she says it doesn’t hurt. Order in from her favorite Thai place and pretend you were craving it too. Make sure the lamp by her side of the bed is always turned on when she walks in.

You wait for her to let you in.

She doesn’t.

The apartment feels different now.

You don’t realize it until you’re halfway through cleaning out the fridge one day and it hits you: this is what distance feels like. Not loud. Not obvious. Just space. Gaps where the closeness used to live. Little things.

She doesn’t hum when she showers anymore. She texts you from the gym less. She doesn’t ask you to braid her hair before games. She doesn’t lose her phone and call out for you in a half-panic only to find it under a throw pillow. She just… moves quieter.

Sometimes she looks at you like she wants to say something. Like it’s sitting on her tongue, one syllable away from shattering the whole dam. But then she blinks and it’s gone, and she says something like “Did we run out of toothpaste?”

And you nod, and say “Yeah, I’ll grab some tomorrow” and pretend you weren’t holding your breath.

They lose again. Badly.

You watch from the tunnel, same place you always stand. You’ve watched her from this spot more times than you can count but this feels different. Wrong.

The buzzer sounds. 78–61. Another loss. Fifth in a row. You stand in the tunnel like always, heart clenched in that familiar way that used to mean nerves but now mostly means dread.

You watch her shake hands, high-five a couple fans who lean over the railing. The towel around her neck looks like a surrender flag. Her face is set, eyes sharp and far away. You recognize that look - it’s the one she wears when she’s trying not to feel anything. When the disappointment is too deep and too sharp to acknowledge in public.

She doesn’t look up at you.

Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say your name like she usually does, even in passing maybe half a smile, quick reach for your hand if you’re close enough.

She walks straight past.

You wait for her anyway. You text her: I’m in the tunnel, I’ll be at the car.

No response.

She gets home almost an hour later. Drops her bag by the door and kicks her shoes off with more force than necessary. You’re curled up on the couch, pretending to watch a rerun of something, volume too low to actually follow.

You glance over. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter like she’s trying to miss on purpose. “God, what a night. I mean at least I only turned it over, what, six times? That’s practically an improvement.”

You pause. “Seven.”

“Oof.” She winces, exaggerated. “Even better.”

You don’t laugh.

She notices. She walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, stands there like it's a portal to another dimension.

“You hungry?” she asks. “I could burn some toast or reheat something and pretend I made it from scratch.”

“Paige.”

She doesn’t look over. “Or we could do popcorn and call it dinner. Real athlete shit.”

“Paige.”

That lands. She shuts the fridge, too loud and finally turns to face you.

“What?” she says. Light, teasing. Like she already knows what you’re about to say and wants to joke her way out of it. “Don’t tell me you’re mad at me for that disaster.”

You sit up. “I’m not mad at you for losing. I’m upset that you won’t talk to me.”

She blinks. “I am talking to you.”

“No, you’re deflecting. You’ve been doing it for days. You came home last night and made a joke about retiring to become a barista.”

“Hey, that’s a solid fallback plan.”

“Paige.”

She lifts her hands. “Okay. What do you want me to say? That I suck right now? That I’m letting everybody down? That I feel like I made a huge mistake coming here? Would that make you feel better?”

The words cut sharper than they should. Not because she means to hurt you -- Paige never means to hurt you but because you recognize the panic underneath them. The way her voice spikes, too high, too fast. The way she’s trying to outrun the truth before it catches up.

You step into the kitchen, across from her now. Arms folded. Quiet.

“I want you to be honest with me,” you say, low and even. “Not perfect. Not funny. Not brave. Just… honest.”

She leans back against the counter like it might hold her up better than you can. Her arms cross over her chest.

“I can’t do that right now,” she says.

You nod but it’s not agreement. More like acknowledgment.

“Okay.” You back away slowly. “Then I’m gonna go for a drive.”

She frowns. “What? Why?”

“Because if I stay, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.”

She doesn’t try to stop you. That hurts more than it should.

The silence stretches.

A day passes. Then another. The fight doesn’t explode: it simmers. You still talk, technically. You ask if she wants anything when you go to the store. She tells you she refilled your prescription when she picked up her own. You switch the laundry she started. She rewinds the show you missed.

But you don’t touch. You don’t look too long. And she doesn’t say your name like it’s a question anymore.

It feels like standing on a frozen lake, the ice too thin and the water too black and freezing underneath. And you're the only one hearing the cracks.

You find yourself spiraling in stupid ways.

You start overthinking texts that don’t need to be overthought. You stare at her Instagram comments longer than you should. You don’t mean to but you do. All the hearts, all the compliments, all the people who don’t know her but think they do. Who think they love her.

And maybe they do, in that empty, worshipful, social-media way.

But they don’t fold her socks. They don’t know how her voice sounds when she’s half-asleep. They don’t press a cold washcloth to her forehead when she’s sick. They don’t know she triple-knots her laces and tucks the ends in because she’s paranoid about tripping. They don’t know she cries at commercials but hides it by blaming dust.

You do.

And it’s not jealousy, not really. It’s more like… fear. Like maybe all this silence is the beginning of her forgetting that she needs you.

And the worst part? You get it.

You know what she’s feeling even if she won’t say it. You know she’s disappointed, overwhelmed. You know she thinks showing you that will make her seem weak. You know it’s not about you.

But it still feels like it is.

You lie awake beside her that night, staring at the ceiling. You can hear her breathing, slow and even. Either asleep or pretending to be. You don't reach for her. Not this time.

And she doesn't reach for you.

The arena feels different tonight. Not louder. Not quieter. Just heavier. Like even the air is bracing for something it can’t name.

You’re in the tunnel again, where you always are. That same spot, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves, the lanyard around your neck sticking to your skin with the sweat you won’t admit to. You watch the players file in, coaches in tow, heads bowed slightly in that ritual of unspoken hope.

Paige doesn’t look at you when she runs out for warmups. Hasn’t, not since the fight.

Her face is unreadable under the lights, jaw set and mouth tight in that way that means she’s focused, or maybe pretending to be. You’ve seen that look a hundred times before. In college stadiums, back at UConn. But never like this. Never this brittle.

You watch her miss three shots in a row during shootaround. Not by much but by enough. No one else seems to notice or maybe they’ve gotten used to it. You haven’t.

When the game starts, you try to focus on it like you usually do. Not in a fan way but in a quiet way. You keep your eyes on her. Always on her. Not the scoreboard. Not the other players. Just Paige.

She’s off. Again. And this time it’s not the usual, not just missed shots or a slow start or teammates who don’t read her cuts. It’s everything. Her rhythm is gone. Her body’s tight. Her passes are rushed. Her confidence, usually such a steady undercurrent in the way she moves is nowhere to be found.

She fouls early. A dumb reach-in that she wouldn’t normally commit. Then another, chasing a fast break she had no hope of catching. By halftime, she’s on the bench, staring at the floor with a towel over her head and a stat line you know she won’t be able to look at later.

2 points. 1 assist. 4 turnovers.

The team is down by 15.

You don’t know what to do with your hands. You keep rubbing your thumb over your ring finger, a nervous habit you picked up somewhere along the way and never broke. You watch her jog into the tunnel at the half, shoulders tense, mouth pressed into a thin line.

She doesn’t look up.

The second half is worse.

The game slips away before the fourth quarter even starts. Paige goes scoreless the entire third then gets pulled halfway through the fourth when it becomes clear the coaches are calling it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks to the bench, plops down, elbows on her knees, eyes ahead like she’s watching something only she can see.

By the time the buzzer sounds, the final score doesn’t matter.

They lose by 22.

You wait for her in the same spot you always do. Tunnel. Left side. Just past the security guard who now knows your name.

The team walks by slowly. A few nods, a couple brief waves from familiar faces. But Paige isn’t with them.

She comes last.

No towel. No eye contact. Just her, walking like every step hurts.

She sees you — she has to, you’re right in her line of sight but she walks past without a word.

You follow.

The car ride is silent.

She doesn’t play music. Doesn’t reach for your hand at the red light like she usually does. Just keeps her eyes on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. She’s still in her jersey, sweats pulled over her shorts, hair damp from the shower and curled behind her ears.

You want to say something. Anything. But you’ve learned not to touch the wound while it’s still bleeding.

She unlocks the apartment, tosses her keys on the counter and moves straight to the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Closes it. Opens it again. Then just stands there with her hand on the handle, breathing like she’s trying to remember how.

You step inside, gently, quietly like someone trying not to startle a cornered animal.

“Paige,” you say.

She doesn’t move.

“Hey.” You reach out, touch her back lightly, right between the shoulder blades.

She flinches. Not from pain. From everything else.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

You don’t ask what she means.

Instead, you guide her hand off the fridge door and turn her to face you.

Her face crumples.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just… slowly. Like a wall finally giving way after weeks of rain. Her mouth twitches. Her eyes glass over. Her breath catches in her throat.

“I’m trying so hard,” she says, barely audible. “I’m doing everything I can and it’s still not enough.”

You move closer, carefully, and she doesn’t pull away this time.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know you are.”

She shakes her head, eyes rimmed red. “I’m not who they thought I’d be.”

You feel that like a knife. Because you know what she means. Not just the media. Not just the fans. She means everyone. The people who waited for her. The ones who wanted her to be a savior.

“They all thought I’d come in and just… fix it. Like I was some kind of answer.”

You reach up, thumb brushing under her eye. “You were never supposed to fix it all, P.”

She exhales and it sounds like a sob even though there are no tears yet.

“You don’t get it,” she says. “I used to love this. I used to be good at this. And now all I do is mess up and get benched and watch them lose and try not to cry in front of the cameras. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I don’t even feel like me anymore.”

That last part cracks something in you. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? She’s not afraid of losing. She’s afraid of losing herself.

You don’t say anything right away. You just take her face in your hands and hold her like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

“I miss you,” you say.

She blinks. “I’m right here.”

“No, you’re not. You’ve been somewhere else for weeks and I didn’t know how to reach you.” Your voice shakes a little. “But I’m here. I’ve been here the whole time. You can fall apart with me. You have to fall apart with me. That’s the deal.”

And finally, finally, she breaks.

The tears come fast and silent, her body folding into yours like she’s collapsing under her own weight. You hold her through it, arms around her waist, her forehead pressed into your shoulder. You feel every tremble. Every shudder. Every breath she takes like she’s trying to relearn how.

“I don’t want to be strong right now,” she mumbles against your collarbone. “I’m so tired of being strong.”

“You don’t have to be,” you whisper. “Not with me.”

So she lets go. And for the first time in weeks, so do you.

Later, when the storm inside her has quieted, when her eyes are puffy and red and her breathing has slowed to something human again, you lead her to the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before. Like it’s ritual.

She lets you.

Still silent. Still raw. But softer now, like the sharp edges have dulled. Her hand lingers in yours longer than it has in weeks. She curls into you without asking, tucks her knees up under her and presses her cheek to your chest like she did during last year at UConn, after that Final Four game where she swore she’d never play that badly again.

You’d found her in her dorm that night, still in her travel sweats, hoodie pulled up like armor. She hadn’t said anything, just climbed into your lap, quiet and bruised and seventeen kinds of exhausted.

You held her then like you’re holding her now. Careful, steady, for as long as she needed.

You grab the fuzzy blanket from the arm of the couch, the one she pretends she hates because it’s “obnoxiously pink” but always ends up buried under after tough nights. You drape it over the two of you, then kiss her hair once, gently, where it parts at her crown.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs after a long stretch of silence.

You shake your head. “Don’t be.”

“I’ve been such a dick.”

You smile faintly into her hair. “Maybe. But you’re my dick.”

That gets the tiniest huff of a laugh out of her, muffled against your collarbone. It’s the first real sound of her in days.

You reach for the remote and scroll mindlessly until you land on the dumb baking show you always used to put on after her bad games. She pretends to hate it: “They’re just cakes, babe, why are they all crying?” but you know it makes her feel safe. Like the world is a little slower and a little sweeter.

You set the volume low, just enough to fill the room with chatter and clinking bowls and the gentle pressure of lives that have nothing to do with yours.

“I forgot how good this show is,” she mumbles after a few minutes.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers drift through her hair, light and rhythmic. Her breathing evens out, one hand fisting lightly in your hoodie.

This is the version of her you’ve missed. Not perfect. Not polished. Just herself. Soft, sleepy, safe.

“You remember that night in Hartford,” you say eventually, voice quiet, “when you missed that game-winner and locked yourself in the locker room for an hour?”

She groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“You wouldn’t come out. I had to sneak in with that nasty gas station hot chocolate.”

She shifts a little, her smile pressing into your skin. “You bribed me.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

She hums. “Barely. I only opened the door ‘cause I thought you were gonna start sobbing outside it.”

You feign offense. “I was being dramatic for effect.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You let the silence settle again. It’s warm this time. Companionable.

“I used to think you only loved me when I was winning,” she says quietly, like it’s something she’s only just realized she believed.

You tilt your head down. “Do you still think that?”

She shrugs against you. “I don’t know. I think I forgot how to be loved when I wasn’t.”

You exhale slowly and tip her chin up with two fingers, just enough to see her face. Her eyes are tired, but clear.

“Paige,” you say, soft but sure, “you are loved when you lose. When you miss. When you fall apart. When you’re stubborn and snappy and full of doubt. There is no version of you I wouldn’t love.”

Her throat works around the lump there, eyes glistening again, but the tears don’t fall this time. She just nods.

Then she pulls you in and kisses you.

Not desperate. Not needy. Just real. Quiet and slow and full of apology and promise.

When she pulls back, she leans her forehead to yours.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not walking away.”

You shake your head. “I’ll always be here. Even when you’re not ready. Even when you push. I’ll wait. That’s the job.”

She smiles again, and this time it reaches her eyes. It’s not big. Not flashy. But it’s real.

“You’re too good to me,” she says.

“Mm. Probably,” you tease, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “But I like the work.”

She laughs, and it bubbles out of her like it’s the first time she’s remembered how. The tension breaks. The ache loosens.

The couch holds you both.

Outside, Dallas hums on �� noisier than it should be, traffic always loud and lights always spilling in through the windows. But the room you’re in is soft. Dim. Full of the kind of peace that only comes after a storm.

She nestles back into your chest, tugs the blanket up to her chin.

And you think; this is enough.

Not the win streak. Not the headlines. Not the perfect stat lines.

Just this.

Her body folded into yours. Her heart safe in your hands. Her breath warm on your neck. The worst of it behind you.

Finally, finally — home.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#evangeline's 6k celly!#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers uconn #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers x oc #wbb x reader #wbb edits #wbb imagine #wbb fic #wbb smut #dallas wings #wnba #womens basketball #wnba x reader #wnba imagine #wnba basketball #ncaa wbb

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rotagnus · 2 days ago

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intuitive messages for the rest of may 🏙️

(and june). wow. it's been a while, hasn't it? sorry for not being as active. i have a lot of finishing up high school issues, but those are all slowly falling away. i feel like i'm starting a new phase of life and there's so many unknowns and it's kinda freaking me out 😭😭

this pac will give you some insight on a couple of things you should know. it's gonna be more specific (not too much) for each pile, so one may be about romance, the other can be about something totally else. please don't try to force yourself to pick one that doesn't resonate.

pile 1.

i think a lot of u will be reflecting on your life right now, especially about being alone. a lot of you developed this raw fear of being alone as a child, and you coped with it through various methods (for some always socializing even though at heart you loveee the nourishment that comes from solitude, for others through addictions (substances or anything else)). i think a lot of you had a falling out with something that was deeply central to all aspects of your life, and this kinda ran a crack through your vision of life was. more layers were discovered, and you're kind of like 'wow the world is way bigger and more complex than i thought' and soon, you'll be feeling a lot of emotions and seeing a lot of things you've NEVERRR seen before. like finding a new good song, y'know what i mean? but in order for this to happen, you're gonna have to truly let go of those things.

let yourself mourn. many of you just use escapism to get over trauma and heartbreaks because it was something you didn't allow yourself to feel as a younger person because it'd completely break you. you didn't learn how to cope with pain, and as a result, sought it out as an adult because it was a sweet taste compared to the unknown. stop finding people who remind you of the worst parts of life, and trust that there are good ones out there. sometimes, you don't meet them, because your current version would be unable to handle it. sometimes, to keep something forever, you have to be a bit patient in order to get it.

and another message for this pile; be careful with your negative emotions. you guys are a powerhouse, and that energy...it can really be used to better the earth, or as a weapon you wield. now, don't get me wrong; a lot of people deserve your anger and if i was you i would be bitter and hurt too. but you have to be careful who you aim it at. there are a few genuine people in your life and if you start to hurt them because of this deep-set dagger you've had in your back for the past years, you can scare them. channel all of those feelings into something that won't slowly destroy you, deep inside.

pile 2.

a lot of you have been in this patient, slow, steady kind of mood recently. a lot of you doubt your own tenderness and capability to be soft because you think that your loudness or some aspect of you cancels those out. all you want is to be able to be vulnerable and soft but a lot of the time, you feel like you tend to push people away, particularly in romantic prospects due to the fact that you are unable to change things about yourself or are simply unwilling to. there are parts of you that are deeply integral to who you are as a person, as a soul, and while you understand that you can't remove them simply for the sake of another person, you wish that you'd find someone who'd hold all these parts of you and be gentle with them instead of trying to make you fit into a box.

a message i have is that you CAN be loved for who you are, WITH that steady and soft love, without having to change things about yourself. stop painting yourself into a picture of what people 'want'. this is such a self-destructive quality you have and i think some of you have had relationships (platonic, romantic, EVEN W THE SELF) that required you to change something about yourself. sure, maybe you fit in better--but in your head, it was a storm. you guys really gotta stop trying to fit in. you weren't made for that life. think of all the famous artists, singers, whatever celebrity calls to you; did they fit in? nahhh. they paved their own road with their own hands instead of comparing themselves to others. you were meant to be unique. you were meant to SHINE as who you TRULY are instead of a mimic, instead of a two-dimensional copy of other people.

a lot of you look at people and go guessing what you have in store for yourself, or what you deserve. guess what? there's NOBODY out there like you. and i know it's hard because you're left worrying about the future, but this is the path you've chosen. you're blessed enough to be wise and deeply caring, and you've been blessed TO HAVE THIS RETURNED TO YOU IN THIS LIFE. but that is gonna be WASTED if you try to be loved by the wrong people who can only love those who fit a neat checklist. you really think that those people are gonna have true love for you if they only love you when you're a certain person? nahhh. stop trying to wither away just to be loved, pile 2. you guys have a deep fear of being unlovable, but you must fix it. there's a lot of people who are attracted to you, and you have to weed those with ill intentions out, BY BEING YOURSELF. be authentic. heal that wound.

pile 3.

a lot of you seem like you're grieving something rn. 'grieving your whole life'. moon river by frank ocean started playing. a lot of self-reflection has been going on, and for this pile, i think most of you really do love life for what it is; it's an art to you. existence is a beauty that is so tangible to you, you guys are really in tune with it, more than out of all these piles. you see people for their souls, not the roles they play in your life, which makes it hard for you to see any of them as 'villains' or 'heroes'. this can make you frustrating to deal with to some, but trust, you're gonna find someone who likes that deep justice inside of you. you just have to be patient. you guys feel like there's something good coming. it's true. you're the typa spiritual person who wakes up and lists off things you're grateful for. sometimes you doubt your goodness, but my message to you is that everyone can see it. even good people stumble, but that doesn't suddenly remove their goodness, y'know?

don't sink down to people's levels. i think a lot of you have experienced a betrayal of some sorts and now you think that the only way you'll ever be happy is by joining the crowd and running away from your depth, which feels like a burden sometimes. you feel like friends are fake and life is low, and you feel like the only way you'll ever be happy is if you turn to what makes other people happy...drugs, sex, money, etc. you guys fail to understand you're not meant for that. YOU'RE NOT MEANT FOR THAT. you guys are pure souls with pure hearts and the universe will shove you away from that path WITH FORCE if you ever go down it. i know you've been thinking about a certain decision; don't do itttt don't stoop down girl. you'll find joy but not in that. stop being scared that you're never ever gonna be happy, this is just a transition period, and god is testing you to make sure you're really willing to wait before giving all that to you.

connections will be very important for you in the next phase of your life. right now it's important to nurture yourself. have some tea, talk with someone who brings you light. i know that you feel like a burden and that you're complex, alone even in a crowd. that's not the way people see YOUUU. they see you as this bright, unique person, this SOUL that glows and leads people to light. you see yourself as this broken, chipped thing. you don't even see yourself as someone worth saving. you don't have to do everything yourself. trust, there will come a time in your life where you'll wake up by the love of your life with the golden sun in your face, and you'll feel truly happy. just because all of the people u met before were fucked in the head doesn't mean that the future holds the same thing. you have to stop giving yourself away FULLY. if your whole life revolves around one person that's a sign that something's seriously wrong. find other things to do that make you happy babycakes. you're the master of this reality; anyone would be lucky to have you. you're sweet, absolutely beautiful in the way that morning light is, honest, truthful, GOOD. you're a GOOD PERSON, dumdum. i know a lot of you don't wanna believe it but you are.

#pac reading #love reading #pick a picture #tarotblr #divine guidance #intuitive reading #tarot reading #pick a card #pick a pile #rotagnus

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aceecee · 1 day ago

Text

Insatiable - Chapter Eleven

TW/Tags: mentions of death, possessive behaviour, obsession, angst, hurt/comfort, guilt manifesting as hallucinations, child death (not explicit), focuses on how Lemurians are hunted and sold in game, murder, gore, gunshot wound, unhinged removal of said gunshot wound, stabbing, small implication of possible non-con situation taking place (but nothing happens since you kill them, yayyy murderrr!!!)

Synopsis: Rafayel meets you for the first(?) time, you and Sylus finally have a heart to heart and then you traumatise Rafayel!

WC: 5.2K

Masterlist

Rafayel was the last one to meet you.

He was the first to seek you out.

You never fell for his act and yet you still let him into your life. You’ve forced him into this, it’s all your fault.

It only exists in those moments he feels pain.

When he has angered his god and must suffer in return.

As the ice pierces his chest, adjusting its pain so he can never get used to it.

It’ll appear then.

But it never reaches out. It never comforts him.

For some reason he knows it's because it can’t. It can’t interfere. It can’t make it all better, no matter how much it wants to.

But in those moments, he feels it’s grief, it’s guilt and sometimes he can see it cry and it’s enough. To know that someone cares for him, that someone is crying for him. It’s all he needs.

Until one day, it’s gone.

He cries then. The pain he felt unlike any other, not even the punishments from his god could compare. It died and it left him behind.

Many years pass.

Though he no longer remembers it all, his curse still follows him. Though he no longer remembers, his presence comes back to life.

This time it’s in a warm body, blood pumping through its veins.

He wastes no time in claiming her.

You can’t play a fool any longer.

You’ve tried for years to be apathetic to it all and you had succeeded. But you can’t do it anymore. You can’t pretend you don’t notice how they look at you, the way they touch you and the hidden meaning their words hold. You have many words to describe yourself and oblivious was never one of them.

Mara’s possessive streak had been a constant through your entire childhood with every adult around you dismissing it and even though you pretend otherwise, you knew. When she would sneak into your room in the middle of the night, making herself comfortable next to you and spending hours just watching you, you knew. When her gentle hold would tighten into a bruising grip as your attention slipped elsewhere, you knew the reasons why. You ignored it all and you never told her that you liked when she left those bruises on you, you liked that she was marking you as hers and that you felt safe in those nights as she watched over you.

You took care of Caleb because you thought he would be safe. He wasn’t a love interest and he hated you yet he too changed just as quick. When he had kissed you that day, you didn’t ignore him after because you thought he was simply confused, no you were aware of his feelings. Telling him not to do it again might just be one of the hardest things you’ve ever done. You noticed every time he held himself back from touching you, the way his eyes would dim when he would call you a friend. Now, he’s gone and you can’t take those words back. You can’t tell him that you still think about the kiss, that you remember how it felt and that you dream about a future with him that’ll never come to pass.

Zayne was different. He deemed you only as a friend. Maybe, that's why you let go around him, thinking you could indulge in his presence without worry. Then you saved him from himself and he wasn’t just a friend anymore. The look in his eyes was mesmerising when he visited you in the hospital the next day. Like it was the first time he saw you, in a way he’d never considered before. You didn’t have to delve on it much since he left after. Now, he’s back and you don’t tell him how much you missed him, how you remember every detail of that night with him and how much you want to do it again.

Sylus was confusing to understand. One week he would treat you like you meant nothing and the next like you were everything, sometimes you find him watching you, like he didn’t know the answer either. It took you nearly slipping out his fingers for him to conclude and the marks on your neck speak of his choice. He’s softer now, hands reaching to you whenever you’re close, kisses placed lightly on your head all with his gaze electric from the storms brewing inside. You lose yourself in these little moments, only to regret them in the next as you remember the hurt he has pressed deep into you. It stings more than your scars ever did.

You could brush them all off. Rationalise their odd behaviours and reason to yourself. Of course things are different, you’ve known them for years now, relationships are bound to change and develop!

So, then why did Xavier have to look at you like that?

As if you’d hung the night stars yourself, so the moon wouldn’t be lonely. Like the colours of the night had been personally chosen and painted by you.

What did you do to deserve this? You’re a disgrace of a human being. The epitome of the word selfish. You knew of their yearning and happily indulged in their affections while making them think otherwise. Caleb…

He died thinking the girl he loved was also gone and she’d never see him that way.

How could you even begin to atone for such a sin?

You tell Zayne you don’t want anything more but you never stop him from stealing a kiss. You tell Sylus you can’t forgive him yet you sang his name on command. You tell yourself over and over again that it’s the last time, that things will be different next time. It never is.

You’ve become addicted to them. You can no longer let them go. But have they ever been yours? How selfish can you be to want all of them? How much more until you’re satisfied?

Your heavy thoughts lead you to the beach. The sand digs into you, it’ll be a pain to clean up but the sounds of the waves clashing are too peaceful to pass up. In your first life, you had a raging fear of the ocean, particularly the undiscovered parts of it. Yet for some reason, it calls to you here. It’s soothing and paired with the rays of the sun hitting your face, it ends up being heaven.

Several noises ring around you. You watch as kids run around, happy and smiling, they build their sandcastles and get into competitions. Their parents watch them, the smiles on their faces so serene that you can’t help the tiny one you’re growing. You’re so lost in other people, you don’t realise the set of eyes staring at you.

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.

I know you, the look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.

Miss Bodyguard:

Something came up. I’m so sorry Rafayel :( I promise I’ll make it up to you!

Rafayel:

dun worry about it cutie needed some time to paint anyway

A sick part of him doesn’t want to be understanding. She feels bad about ditching him, it’s the perfect opportunity to make her feel worse but he stops himself. To her, their friendship is new but to him…it’s been too long. He has to be careful. He can always pout a little in their next meeting, it’ll get the message across.

He could also tell her that he’s already at the beach, that he’s set out a cute picnic for them and he’s about to but a smell stops him. It has too many notes for him to decipher but there’s an underlying one that’s strong. It smells like the aftereffects of rain, when the soil has soaked in all the liquid, as little droplets fall off leaves and the sky grows a rainbow. Nature at its best.

It’s enticing. The smell is so tempting that he’s already making his way towards it, picnic long forgotten.

He wishes he could say he doesn’t know what he’s feeling but he’s all too familiar with how his heart starts beating so fast, his fingers twitching with the need to touch, his face flushing when he sees the small smile on her face.

Rafayel doesn’t know you. He’s never seen you before, he’s sure because he would never forget a face like yours.

So, then why does it feel like he does?

Why do his fingers remember the sensation of your threading through them? Why has he memorised the feel of your lips against his? Why does every fibre of his being want to sit next to you and ask why you’re so sad? Because even with that smile on your face, he can’t ignore the years of pain your eyes have accumulated.

He’s so consumed by his confusion that by the time his eyes sweep over yours, you’re already walking away.

And his heart burns at the image, like you’ve done it before.

Like you’ve left him before.

Forever.

But if I know you. I know what you’ll do.

You’ll love me at once.

The way you did once upon a dream.

Sylus has been different.

It should come with no surprise to the twins. His personality changes recently come as a result from you. Yet, they can’t shake off this new one.

It occurred the day after he took you into his bedroom. The twins don’t know what happened, they don’t want to know what happened. But whatever it was had left the man dejected. They’ve never seen him so depressed.

He’s had his moments, the twins are thankful for it even, it’s a reminder that he’s human. But Sylus never shows it on his face. It’ll show through his hands, if he’s angry then he’ll tear enemies apart, if he’s sad then his fingers will rub the rims of whatever glass he’s holding, if he’s distracted then his hands twitch and he usually goes on a long ride to clear his head.

This time, he shows it all through his eyes. They follow you whenever you’re around, twinged with regret and yearning. Sulking, they realise, he’s sulking. And he’s certainly not telling them why, so they’ll just have to go straight to the source.

You’re suspicious when the twins surprise you with a chocolate lava cake one day, made by them - they had claimed - way too happy and eager for you to eat. [“What’s the occasion?”] you eye them. You’re sure they grin at you behind their masks. “Things have been so entertaining with you here, [Name],” Luke slides the plate towards you. “You deserve something sweet in return,” Kieran finishes off.

With a sigh, you pick up the spoon and taste the cake. It’s slightly undercooked but for a first attempt, it’s amazing. Your hum of approval has them patting the other on the back.

“Say [Name]. What have you done to the boss?”

[“I don’t know what you mean.”]

“He’s been moping about for a couple of days now. C’mon just tell us,” Luke whines, shaking you slightly.

You swat his hands away but their question has you thinking back on that day.

You wake up and even with your eyes bleary, you can tell you were sleeping on someone’s chest.

Then the remnants of last night make their way back to you. Your body flushes as you remember Sylus hovering above you, attacking you with kisses. That you initiated. The feeling of his body pressed atop yours had brought an odd sense of comfort, not at all suffocating like you thought it would be.

He didn’t take it any further than that. “This is enough, for now,” he had said, pressing one last deep kiss against your mouth before disappearing to change. He wasted no time pulling you on top of him and settling down in the bed, his eyes already closed as he dozed off. And even though you had just gotten up, you found yourself following as you breathed in his scent and relished in his arms around you.

You tilt your head up and watch the man sleep. It’s a rare moment to examine his features closely. You never realised how white his eyelashes were, you want to trace the shape of his lips but the man looks so peaceful and you don’t want to ruin it. A dopey smile makes itself on your face.

For now, he had said. Which meant he wanted more.

Your gaze moves around his room, your eyes meet purple ones.

Caleb is sitting in an armchair. He’s wearing his school uniform. Just like he had been the last time you saw him.

He looks so heartbroken. So disappointed. In you.

“You’ll accept his kisses but not mine?” he whispers, eyes glazing with tears. “The man who caused you so much pain? Have you forgotten it already [Name]?”

You open your mouth to speak but you can’t do that anymore. No! You panic, Caleb has no idea about this.

Thinking your silence is your answer, Caleb starts to disappear but not before tearing your heart out. “I wish I had been enough for you,” he gives you a broken smile and he’s gone. Again.

You pull yourself off Sylus, making your way to the balcony. The tears fall then, your mouth opening as you gasp in as much as you can. You can’t rely on yourself to breathe. Caleb was right. How could you forget the suffering you had endured at the hands of the man you laid with last night?

“Name?”

The way he speaks your name with so much concern has you gripping tightly on the railings. Your hand raises in a stop motion when he tries to come near you. He listens but the worry in his eyes makes you nauseous.

[“Do you remember that time you tried to teach me sparring?”]

The man looks confused at your sudden question or why you’re bringing it up in the first place. “Yes,” he responds.

[“Did you know I couldn’t handle your touch in those moments? But I was so sure you’d dispose of me that I kept it to myself?”]

Sylus breaks. You want to stop it there but neither of you can move on until you let him know everything.

[“You scared me so much at that time, that I wished I was back in my cage. It felt like the safer choice.”] You blink away the tears. You’re still not finished.

[“You left me on that mat and I was so desperate for your approval that I thought of ending it all since in your eyes I was a failure.”]

“You…I have never seen you as a failure,” Sylus tries to desperately explain.

[“I thought I would be okay with it. Just being a pawn, a tool to you. But did you have to be so cruel? I planned to leave. No, I desperately wanted to leave. I was counting down the days until two years would pass and then I would pack my bags and just go. I didn’t even care what you would have done if you found out.”] Now you’re finished. When you finally get the courage to look at him, your jaw nearly drops.

Sylus is crying. In a way that seems just like him.

His eyes are filled with tears but only two roll down.

You can’t let it break your resolve.

[“I’m not saying this to hurt you nor do I regret what happened yesterday but you need to know the part you have played in my anguish. We needed to have this conversation and it’s better to do it before anything else happens.”]

You walk past him. He makes no move to stop you.

That had been three days ago.

The ball was in Sylus’s court now. He hasn’t tried to hide how his eyes follow you but you don’t do a thing. It’ll have to be him who makes the first move.

As the twins stare at you in hopes you’ll spill, you give them a teasing smile.

[“$500,000 and I’ll tell you.”]

They simultaneously groan at your response. “You’re too cruel, [Name]”, Kieran fake cries into Luke’s shoulder. Said man rubs Kieran’s back, “There, there, [Name]’s just a big meanie.”

You just laugh and walk to your room.

An hour later, a knock interrupts the silence.

You don’t even get up from your bed. He’ll have to make himself known first.

“It’s Sylus.”

Sylus tries to calm his heart which is adamant on furiously beating itself out of his chest. His hands are shaking from nerves. Nerves! He can’t even remember the last time he has ever felt this nervous.

When you open the door, you steal his breath away. It’s been years living with you yet the sight of your face never fails to catch him off guard. He searches your eyes and face for anything to tell how you’re feeling but you give nothing away. You step aside and give him space to enter. He’s hit with your scent and he contemplates turning it into a perfume, one he’ll spray into his clothes, pillows and anything else he can come up with. The roles have reversed, he thinks, now it’s his first time in your room.

He’s seen it plenty through the cameras that used to be put in your room but he has never entered it.

You walk to the fireplace and sit down in front of it. Not in the chair but on the floor, you pat the space next to you and he listens to the silent command.

“I…,” he tries to speak but his throat feels so dry. He licks his lips and calms down. “I wanted to punish you. Because of the way you made me feel.”

The baffled look on your face should not be that cute. You raise an eyebrow, as if saying ‘Really? That’s your explanation?’

He chuckles. “Do you believe in past lives?”

You nod.

Then he tells you. Of his past and you listen to each word he speaks and every expression he wears. You should feel jealousy at how softly he speaks of his sorceress, of Mara but you don’t. You mimic that softness when it comes to her. It’s the first you’ve heard of their history together, it must have come out after you stopped playing the game.

Your heart clenches at their end. Why must each story end in tragedy? Why won’t fate let them, let her be happy?

I tried…

I’m still trying.

You’re my last hope.

“It doesn’t justify me treating you in that way or does it excuse it,” Sylus stares at you with such intensity.

You look away. Your mind trails off as you try to put yourself in Sylus’s position. If you had such a beautiful love story crafted out and found yourself falling for a stranger in the same way, how would you have reacted?

Worse, you think, I would’ve been worse. The guilt and the realisation that I was betraying the one I love would kill me. It would have slowly eaten me up inside.

He’s right, it doesn’t excuse anything but it does explain a lot. He’s a lot like you in that regard. Neither of you are normal, your lives have shaped you into the disasters you’ve become and as a result no one around you is truly safe. You think of all the people you’ve hurt and you don’t doubt that the list will continue to get longer.

For the first time in all the years you’ve known him, you think you’re finally starting to understand him. When you look back, he’s still staring at you.

[“What’ll you do when you see her again?”] He hears the silent question, will you still feel the same for me?

“I want you both,” he answers. “But it’s different with you. With you I’m more selfish,” his hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I want to keep you chained here with me, I never want you to leave. I love her, yes, but I would be fine if she didn’t want me.” His forehead rests against yours. “I’ll die if you no longer want me. I’m nothing without you.”

Oh.

It’s the first someone has been so raw with you. You buzz at the exhilaration. It should be the normal thing to be jealous that he loves her too, right? Except your mind flashes with scenarios of all the three of you together. Then it shifts until four others join and it feels so right.

Sylus pulls his forehead away. He doesn’t meet your gaze. “Nothing I do or say will make up for what I’ve done,” he closes his eyes. He does not want to finish what he’s saying, you can tell and looking at you won’t help. “Tell me you want to leave and I won’t do a thing. I’ll continue to investigate those scum but you don’t have to stay here anymore. After you get your revenge, we can go our separate ways. I won’t seek you out, I promise. You’ll never see me again. It’s all your choice, now. The choices you should have had from the beginning.”

You think of his earlier confession. In other words, he’ll die. He’s willing to die to atone.

You reach for his hand. Sylus opens his eyes at the contact and he’s greeted by the sight of you playing with his long fingers as you gently smile. It’s not the reaction he was expecting but it’s a small domestic bliss you’ve gifted him. When you notice the awe on his face, you let go of the hand.

[“I’m not leaving. Not now or ever.”]

You don’t get to continue signing when he hunches over in relief. “I could kiss the ground right now,” he mutters. A laugh escapes you, this time it’s actually heard. Red eyes stare in wonder at the noise. It’s everything he wanted and more. Would it be weird for him to save it as a ringtone? No, he thinks, then others will hear it. That can’t happen.

[“I had no idea you could be such an idiot,”] you smile at him. [“I’m not ready to kiss you again. I need some time to process.”] Sylus looks slightly on edge and you think of this conversation, of the honesty shared with you. You can’t deny that he’s trying, which is better than anything you’ve ever done. [“But I don’t think it’ll be long. Just stay like this, let’s be honest with each other.”]

“You the girl?” The man before asks in a gruff voice.

You nod.

He gestures for you to follow him. You can practically see the gears shifting in his head. The deal is taking place in some abandoned warehouse in the outskirts of Linkon City. No one else is around for miles. To him, you’re just some weak girl. To him it’s an opportunity.

There are two other men waiting inside when you enter. Your ears pick up the sounds of two others, in another room, sounds of camera whirring, they’re watching you through them.

Another mission was assigned to you. This was a team of thieves. They were known to cater to a wide variety of the needs that one might have. In other words, they deal with black market goods. Why are you here? Turns out they’ve been using Onychinus’ name to close deals. Considering so much of their “goods” are fakes or in the words Sylus had given you “utterly distasteful”, it wasn’t what he wanted linked to him. You don’t blame him as you look over in barely concealed disgust at the item for sale.

You recognise the odd shape, it closely resembled what you had first thought was a statue in the beginning of the main story. The one in Raymond’s mansion. The man who went insane. At first you had been so confused but as you read online theories and why it happened to him, he deserved it all.

A skeleton of a Lemurian. That was what lay before you. You remember how large the one in Raymond’s mansion had been. This one wasn’t as big. A child. This is a child. They have a child’s dead body crudely crushed into a box.

Even in different worlds, humanities evil will always be constant. Rafayel was right to do what he did.

The man who escorted you scoffs at the look on your face. “You knew what you were getting into,” his hand flicks at your head. “What gives you the right to judge us, missy?”

He falters a little at the deadpan expression you give in response but he looks around and sees that you’re outnumbered and gains the confidence back. He slams down the lid back on the box. “Deals off. But we’ll still collect payment,” he gives you a smile and his eyes flicker down to your chest. You know exactly where he’s going and you’re never going to entertain this.

Blood spatters on your face as the man chokes at the vines around his throat, as numerous pierce right out of him. You don’t even bat an eye as he drops dead. The other two men react surprisingly quickly and rush at you but are stopped in place by vines around their legs. You contemplate on how to end their lives but ultimately decide they don’t deserve your genius and you kill them just like you killed their friend.

A loud clap rings through the now silent room.

You had heard him a while ago. He had been waiting outside with you. Watching your every move.

He looks even more beautiful in person. You understand why he was labelled the face of the game. Wavy indigo hair framing his face, his eyes a mix of blue and pink, unblemished face and skin just begging to be marked.

The developers had done such a good job of making him harmless that you along with many others had fallen for it. Even now as he stands before you, you know you should be a little afraid but all you see is his carefree nature.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here?” he asks. His hand comes up to gently wipe the blood on your face. The heat from the contact has you both gasping, eyes simultaneously widening.

The hold on your face seems to tighten. “Who are you?” his voice deepens in a way you didn’t know was possible. His eyes furrow. “Have we met before?”

You shake your head at him. To be truthful, you don’t know how you should behave around him.

He seems to consider you for a moment but then his eyes flicker around the room, to all the dead bodies. “Seems like you’ve done my job for me, pretty.” They narrow at you. “Why is that?”

You lick your lips, unsure how to respond. Rafayel watches it with an intensity. He was implied to be very old in the game, having lived countless lives you think. But would he know how to sign?

Your hand reaches to clutch the fabric of his sleeve, careful to not touch the skin there. You don’t want a repeat of the earlier electrifying reaction. You tug him towards the box not sure why he follows.

You open the box and show him the contents. He tries to hide his expression but it’s a child. The realisation alone had the contents of your lunch resurfacing, you can’t even begin to think what it must be like for him, to see his people hunted. “I didn’t think it would be this bad,” he whispers. “Did you know?”

You shake your head. Taking a gamble, you sign.

[“I’m just here to kill them.”]

“Can’t speak, huh?” he asks. His eyes narrow at your neck. His hands reach out to grab your neck and even though his face is filled with anger, his touch on your scar is ever so gentle. “I suppose this is the cause.”

Of all people, Rafayel hadn’t been expecting you to be the buyer. He couldn’t even begin to explain the devastation he felt. He went unnoticed as he oversaw the exchange. He won’t admit it but relief flooded his system at the shock on your face at the item for sale, the disgust that followed left him with a sense of elation.

The sight of you covered in the blood of the men you had slaughtered should not be so ethereal. He wants nothing more than to paint it. A painting just for him.

He’s so lost in the anger at the scar around your neck, he fails to notice the bullet heading for him but you do.

You easily manoeuvre yourself so it’ll hit you because you’ll survive but he won’t. It lodges itself right into your abdomen. Rafayel is quick to move towards the assailants, ending the last two men in an instant.

When he returns to your figure, you’ve collapsed on the floor. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how much blood the human body can store. It’s painting the entire floor red. Rafayel places a hand to your pale face, he’s just found and he’s already losing you. “Shit!,” he curses, pulling out his phone, no doubt phoning an ambulance. “Just hold on for me, okay? You still need to tell me your name.”

Given how panicked he is, it’s easy to grasp the phone in his hands and throw it at the wall, shattering it to pieces. You raise a hand to stop his questions. You can feel yourself paralysing, the bullet never made its way out of you, so you’ll have to find it yourself. You reach for the knife tugged into your boot and stab into the gunshot wound. There's no time to inform the man before you, you hold him down with your evol.

Rafayel watches helplessly as you practically tear open your stomach. Every synapse in his brain is screaming to do something. You dig your hand into the wound, looking everywhere for the bullet but you don’t even flinch. He doesn’t know that the pain is excruciating, that even after years of torture you’ve never gotten used to it, you’ve just learnt to live with it.

With a sense of triumph, you finally dig it out. It was stuck inside your intestines, a fatal wound. For anyone not you. But it’ll be a bitch to heal. You’ll be out for a couple of days. Your eyes meet his horror stricken ones. This was not how you wanted a first meeting with him. God, did you traumatise the poor man? He’s the only one who can help you. Black spots have already made their way into your vision, you’re not going to hold on much longer.

[“No hospital. Will heal on…own.”]

As you slump over, your hold on him disappears. He moves quickly and picks you up, not caring as your blood coats him.

He’s going to believe you, just this once.

You can heal at his place.

On his bed.

AN: Hehe, forgive me for the late update. I was going through writer's block for this fic and then my brain came up with two other fic ideas and I couldn't function until I wrote them. Speaking of which please check them out, I'll give you my love in return. Please do not expect me to be reliable when it comes to updates, I try for once a week but I can go weeks without an ounce of creativity :(

I was listening to Once Upon a Dream and the lyrics seemed perfect for the lore I have planned so I had to include them.

I have yet to finish the new story update so please no spoilers! Are we ready for MC reunion next chapter?

Tag List: @serenity-loves-red @crimsonmarabou @reni502 @r0ckb1n @queenkymmie @plzdonutpercieveme @perqbeth @mephisto-with-a-knife @tumblingdevils @angelwhizpers @eolivy @yuurisfavblog @miuangel @young-adult-summer

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sixxels · 1 day ago

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sketch me ~ s.geto

you glance up at suguru. he’s shirtless, only in those loose plaid pajama pants he always wore when you two were alone after art classes, cooped up in his dorm. his hair’s down, messy from how many times he’s run a hand through it.

he looks like something pulled out of a dream, like if you blinked too long he might disappear. your pencil keeps moving anyway. sketching the slope of his collarbone, the way his body folds so easily into the shape of the night. each and every tattoo and piercing drawn with precision.

“sit still,” you mutter, and go back to sketching, shading in the edges of his jaw.

he hums, deep and content, lets his head fall to the side as he watches you. “you always draw me better than i look.”

“you flatter me.”

“you love it.”

…

“you ever think we’ll get out of here?” he asks quietly, suddenly.

“college?”

“yeah. or maybe just… this phase. being stuck between shit. too young to have it figured out, too old to not care.”

‘being stuck here in love with you?’ he thought.

you glance at him. he looks tired in the way only people who think too much can be. the weed’s made his voice softer, but not sleepy. there’s always something awake in him. some part that doesn’t know how to rest. some part that’s always thinking of you.

“i think i’ll miss it,” you say.

he looks at you now. properly.

“the classes?”

“the being stuck with you,” you say, and it slips out too fast.

his eyes darken. not in a scary way. in a quiet way. a heavy way. the silence stretches between you, thick and intimate, too full of things neither of you is ready to say.

you reach for your sketchbook, close it gently.

“done?”

“yeah.”

“can i see?”

you hesitate. then hand it over.

he studies it, eyes moving slow over every line, every detail. he doesn’t speak at first. just keeps looking, fingers brushing the edge of the page like he’s afraid to smudge it.

“you see me too well,” he says.

“someone has to.”

he sets the sketchbook down, reaches over and taps ash into the tray beside the bed. the joint’s almost out. he takes one last drag and stubs it out. then he leans back, arms resting behind his head, eyes on the ceiling.

“i’m gonna sketch you now,” he says.

“i’m not high enough for that.”

“good. you’ll hold still better.”

you roll your eyes but settle in, shifting to sit at the edge of his bed, knees tucked under you, arms wrapped around your legs. the music shifts, ‘ivy’ bleeding into the haze, sweet and sharp.

he watches you for a moment. not drawing yet. just looking.

“what?”

“nothing,” he says. “just figuring out how to do this without making it obvious.”

“obvious?”

“that i’m in love with this view.”

your chest tightens. he doesn’t look at you when he says it. just finally picks up the pencil and starts sketching.

you don’t answer. can’t. because he says things like that all the time. careless, weightless, probably high. and you let him. because you’re scared of what might happen if you ask whether he means it.

you sit still, let him draw. his pencil scratches soft against the page. frank ocean keeps playing. the lights keep flickering. and the space between you stays filled with everything you won’t say.

not yet.

~ sixxels

#just a little drabble to tide us over until my next long fic for geto comes out >~<#sixxels bookshelf !! >~<#suguru geto x reader #geto suguru #suguru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #geto x reader

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riqomi · 24 hours ago

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RAMEN DATES ──── 西村力

西村力 ˖ 𝑓em!r .. g. fluff. suggestive ──── BOOKSHELF ( O.832 ) tw: kissing. lmk if there's more.

7:03 p.m. – ramen shop ⠀ the booth is cramped. cozy. you’re sitting across from each other, knees bumping under the table, and he’s messing with his chopsticks like he's been nervous since you walked in. ⠀ you were late. he didn’t mind. said “you’re lucky you’re cute” instead of teasing you for it. he’s not shy, not exactly — but tonight he’s a little different. calmer. still funny, still himself, but it feels like he’s trying to say something without saying it. ⠀ he nudges his bowl toward you. “try mine.” “i already have my own.” “but mine’s better,” he insists, lifting some noodles to your mouth like it’s a challenge. you lean in. take a bite. he watches you the entire time, like he’s waiting to see your reaction and memorize it. ⠀ “okay,” you admit, swallowing. “yours is better.” “told you.” ⠀ he grins, but doesn’t pull the bowl back right away. you’re still leaning in, and he’s still watching you — this time longer, quieter. you blink. “what?” “nothing.” he finally looks away. “just… i like seeing you like this.” ⠀ you pause. “like what?” “in real life.” he says it like it’s a secret. “with me.” your heart stutters. then you smile. “you’re ridiculous.” ⠀ “maybe,” he shrugs, “but i’ve been thinking about this date since the second i asked you out.” and just like that — the night starts to change. ⠀ 9:11 p.m. – wandering the city ⠀ after dinner, neither of you suggests going home. you just… keep walking. the city’s quieter now. streets wet from a passing drizzle, neon signs reflecting in puddles. he keeps glancing over at you, like he can’t quite believe you’re still beside him. “cold?” he asks as you shiver. you nod a little. he shrugs off his hoodie without hesitation and drapes it over your shoulders. ⠀ “but—” ⠀ “i’m fine,” he says, even though his t-shirt’s paper-thin. “you look cuter in it anyway.” you roll your eyes. “you’re so annoying.” he grins. “but you’re smiling.” ⠀ you walk in step after that. not talking much. just taking it in — the lights, the breeze, the way his hand brushes yours more and more deliberately until finally, finally, he laces his fingers through yours. when you look up at him, he’s already looking down at you. ⠀ “stop staring,” you murmur. “can’t help it.” Your heart’s doing something weird in your chest. something big. something terrifying. you don’t let go of his hand. ⠀ ⠀ 12:02 a.m. – his car, outside your apartment ⠀ the windows are fogged slightly from the heat still in the air. the radio’s low, playing some quiet r&b track you don’t recognize, and riki’s parked under the streetlight, arms resting on the steering wheel. neither of you’s moved in five minutes. ⠀ “i should go up,” you finally say. “yeah,” he replies. but doesn’t unbuckle. doesn’t even blink. you hesitate. then glance at him. “what?” he’s already looking at you. you raise an eyebrow. “i just don’t want tonight to end yet.” your voice softens. “it doesn’t have to. walk me up?” he’s out of the car before you even finish the sentence. ⠀ ⠀ 12:07 a.m. – your hallway

you lead him up the stairs, keys clutched loosely in your hand.

outside your door, the hallway’s quiet. dimly lit. he stops behind you, close — too close — and you can feel the heat of him before he even touches you.

you unlock the door. don’t open it yet. just stand there.

waiting.

he steps closer. “you gonna kiss me goodnight?”you turn around, breath caught somewhere between your throat and your chest. “i was waiting for you to do it.” his hand finds your waist. gently. pulls you toward him until you’re back against your apartment door, chest to chest. he tilts his head, gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips.

and then he kisses you.

slow at first — like he’s still asking if it’s okay. still savoring. still feeling it all.

but then it deepens.

your hands slide up under his hoodie, resting against his sides. his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt. the kiss turns open-mouthed, breathy, like goodbye tastes a little too much like don’t go. you sigh into it. he groans — soft, low, like you’re pulling something out of him he wasn’t ready to give. when he pulls back — barely, lips still brushing yours — he whispers, “that’s gonna keep me up all night.”

you smile. “good.” he laughs against your mouth. “you’re evil.”

you kiss him once more, gently. “i know.”he backs away slowly, reluctantly, like leaving you feels wrong. “you gonna be okay getting inside?” “i might need one more kiss for strength.”he smirks. “you’re dangerous.” you wink. “and you love it.”

then — finally — you slip inside, heart racing, fingers tingling, breath still uneven.

and outside, riki stands there for a long, long moment, smiling like a complete idiot at your closed door. he whispers, to no one in particular,

“i’m so screwed.”

lmfao i feel like ashton hall, puttin all these timestamps in here. likes, feedback and reblogs much appreciated. remember requests are open !!

#enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen x female reader #enhypen scenarios #enhypen x black reader #enhypen suggestive #niki x reader #ni ki #enhypen niki #riki nishimura x reader #niki nishimura

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fridgemissionmaster · 3 days ago

Note

I just want to say how much I loove your writing despite having found your blog only recently. The way you write the characters just makes them feel so real somehow

If I may make a request then maybe a little domestic Solomon fluff? I was rereading Nightbringer story recently and the way he's with MC in the begining just feels so cozy and warm and he's so fucking cute

I wish you a nice day!!

Ancient bones creaking, rigor mortis losing it’s grip, numbness faded away a dull and sharp pang of pain shooting through the back and neck, a deep trembling breath of life filling those collapsing lungs.

Slowly the wizard sat up. He kept forgetting how awful he felt after sleeping on his workbench. Slowly he stood, his muscles too stiff for comfort.

What time was it anyway?

Meandering across the room he paused for a moment, standing on his tiptoes, back arched, a great big yawn escaped him, sleepy dewy tears formed in the corners of his eyes, hands held high above his head as he stretched getting some of those air bubbles to make that satisfying pop sound before he continued.

Smacking face first into the wall and falling to the floor with a loud thud.

He didn’t bother to get up.

At least he was awake now, but that meant he could think again. And all that did, was make him miss you.

Even now after, what? Months? Or was it weeks? He couldn’t bother to keep track any more. Every last day at Cocytus Hall he cherished, marked down into his memory, chiseled into his heart. Although even stone eroded over time, at least he tried something to make sure that time stayed with him as long as his mind would allow.

His half hazy body still moved as if he were back there, the layout of that place, he could recall it, make a detailed map of it without a second thought, down to where you usually left your book bag or where you tended to lose your phone.

Not that he didn’t like being here with Simeon and Luke but… it just felt too sudden, leaving that paradise.

Who was he kidding, it always would have been.

He learned long ago how easy it was to simply let go and move on, but not this. He never could, nor did he ever want too. But the price was this wretched heartache.

He couldn’t help laughing.

It was so odd, to REALLY feel like he was human again. Or perhaps STILL human was a more apt wording. How could a man love such a pain so much.

Slowly he made his way out of his room and down the hall for the kitchen and living area. And since he was still dressed from last night, all he had to do was smooth out his shirt. Hopefully nobody would notice the wrinkles that had gotten pressed in from his awkward sleeping position, he didn’t want to needlessly worry his roommates over his nonexistent health… again.

Well, he heard the scrapes of a spatula or something against the pan, now all he had was to hope the scraping was for a breakfast and not a lunch or even worse dinner.

But judging by the delectable smells, it had to be breakfa

Cautiously he drew closer. Wrapping his arms around from behind, squeezing you close, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. He almost couldn’t believe the feeling of your warmth seeping through his clothes.

“Hey, enough of that, I don’t need you getting a crick in your neck if you haven’t gotten one already.”

And that playful tone. “Ah, sorry. But I’m still so tired.”

He had to be dreaming, your chuckle. “Come on, now you’re sounding like Belphegor.” Turning you head to better face him, he could melt from how soft your skin was against his, your cheeks pressed together. “Now shoo, get to the table. I promised Simeon and Luke I wouldn’t let you blow up the kitchen while they were away.”

“Away?”

“You poor man, you’re still out of it, aren’t you?” No, he very well knew why, he just didn’t think they’d have left this early. But he’d take any excuse to hear your voice just a little more. “They’ve left for some sort of business in the Celestial Realm, they must have told you about it.”

“uh-huh”

You’re really here? Right now? Just the two of you, no one to interrupt, no one for you to want to leave his side for? No one else who need you?

“But they started getting worried about you, and your recent stint of late-night experimenting.” You looked to him, brow raised getting him to shrink a little on the spot.

“Well, maybe I need someone around to remind me how late it is?”

You scoffed, no bite to it, a delicate smile playing across your lips as you flipped over another pancake. “I’m your apprentice, not your assistant.”

‘your apprentice’

A giddiness came trembling through his whole body. “Yes you are!”

“And I’m also your babysitter.”

“Eh?”

“Dude. Ever since we got back I’ve been hearing nothing but about how you’ve been working yourself down to the bone, staying up late. It’s just… a lot more than before…”

“I see.” Perhaps so.

“And here I thought you might have broken the habit, but apparently you’ve been skipping out on dinner for instant noodles near midnight again.”

“…” He couldn’t. He didn’t need to act afool in front of you again. At least then he had the excuse of alcohol making him loose lipped last time he spilled his guts.

“That depressed without me?” Not that his feelings weren’t obvious without it apparently. “Well, they asked me to keep an eye on you while they’re away.”

He couldn’t help smirking, resting his chin on your shoulder. “So, you’ll be staying the night?” Or was that too hopeful, knowing how possessive Lucifer was, especially over your ‘curfew’.

“The whole time. How else am I to make sure you actually get to bed on time? Now, go take a shower and put on new clothes. I know your tricks.”

“… Maybe I need help showering?”

“HAH! Nice try, but I already took one.”

“I can tell, this bodywash is so nice.”

“Right? I… wanted to find something similar to the one I used… in the past, but they don’t make it anymore… Anyway, get going,” You lightly shook him off, and the man reluctantly letting go. “-breakfast and coffee will be ready once you’re back. Oh,” With the spatula you pointed to the fridge. “I’ve kinda used the last of everything so we’ll need to do some shopping.”

“Alright, I’ll be back in a minuet!” And so he ran off, like some excited child about to go on a trip to the candy store.

“wait, N-NOT A LITERAL MINUET, RIGHT!? NO MAGIC, ACTUALLY SHOWER!”

…

Only because you insist. Besides maybe you’d notice he got the same bodywash too.

And when go shopping, you’d have to hold hands, after all, in this time the streets are much more crowded, it wouldn’t do for him to get separated from his adorable apprentice.

Not again.

A VERY quick, little something. Hope you like it, but if you want something little bigger you can always ask again, it'd just take a lot more time.

#obey me #obey me x reader #obey me fic #obey me ficlet #obey me imagines #obey me solomon #obey me solomon x reader #obey me solomon x mc #obey me x mc

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emeraldscript · 2 days ago

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1.1k of alien max. maxiel. daniel confronts some of his shit and massively catastrophizes (all of alien max verse here)

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck is all Daniel can think when it dawns on him what he'd just done. Of course he managed to fuck up the one thing that's made him feel good and positive and nice for the first time in months. And Max was being so sweet about it, apparently taking it slow on Daniel's behalf.

Daniel covers his face with his hands and muffles a frustrated groan with his palms. He's such a fucking idiot.

It's okay. He can fix it. He can be an adult about this and speak to Max. He should. He can explain his position in this whole thing better and they can move on from there. Daniel drags himself up from the sofa and walks towards the kitchen.

"Max!" he says. He finds the kitchen empty. Maybe upstairs.

Daniel walks up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. Knocks on Max's room door, even though he hasn't stayed in there in days. No response. Daniel peeks inside, no sign of Max. He's also not in the bathroom or Daniel's bedroom.

Right. Okay, that's fine. Daniel can feel his heart rate spiking uncomfortably. Doesn't like how it feels not knowing where Max is or if he's okay. Daniel half sprints down the stairs, out towards the barn, calling Max's name. No response. Max is also not by his aircraft. He's not in it. Or in the other outbuilding.

Daniel feels his pulse hammer in his ears, feels his jugular pulsing in his neck. Through ragged breaths Daniel continues calling Max's name in the dark.

"Max! Max, please respond. I'm sorry, I-" Daniel says, stumbling over a misplaced stone on the path towards the back of the house.

The pool. Yes, maybe Max is in the pool! Daniel picks up the pace, crouching down by the edge of the pool to see if Max is on the bottom. He can't really see with only faint light spilling over from the other side of the house with the living room lights on.

He's not here. Max is gone.

No, no, no, no.

No. What if he gets lost in the desert without any water? What if a weirdo takes advantage of Max?

Fuck. Fuck, he's fucked this up so royally. He feels panic spread in his chest, feels his throat close up, feels his vision start to blur.

He croaks out another broken "Max," while stumbling his way towards the backdoor of the house.

The lock won't fucking turn, when he tries to open the door. Eventually the door flies open with force and Daniel stumbles inside onto his carpet. Car keys, he needs to get to his keys and go out to find Max and bring him back. He won't make it out in the desert sun. Daniel reckons he has a couple hours until sun-up to find him. What if he gets bitten by some fucking snake. Daniel tries to breathe through his nose as he stumbles towards his hallway sideboard with his key bowl. He rummages through his key pile, looking for the key for his truck.

"Fuck," Daniel mutters out. He can't see much, why is his vision so blurry? His hands won't stop fucking shaking.

"Fuck's sake," Daniel says to no one in particular.

"Daniel?" Daniel hears from behind him.

When he turns around, he sees Max standing there in only his underwear, drenched wet, dripping onto his carpet, looking confused or concerned, Daniel can't quite tell.

"Max?" Daniel hears himself say before taking two strides over to him and throwing his arms around Max. "Oh, thank fucking god," Daniel mutters into Max's shoulder.

"Daniel, are you okay?" he hears Max say.

"Don't ever do that again, okay?" Daniel says.

"Go in the pool?" Max asks.

"The pool?" Daniel asks, "I checked in there, you weren't there. I was so fucking worried you ran away, Max."

"Why would I do that?" Max asks.

"Because I was being a cunt," Daniel says, voice wet.

"You're not a cunt, Daniel," Max says, matter of factly. "Your heart rate is way too high, c'mon we should sit down," Max says, slowly guiding Daniel downwards.

Max spreads his legs out and Daniel settles between them, still holding onto Max, sniffling into his neck.

"Daniel," Max starts.

"No, Max, let me explain. I-" Daniel begins, pressing air out of his lungs with a heavy exhale. "I'm a mess, Maxy. Like a real walking catastrophe. I used to. Well, I'm not a farmer. I used to do something else and I loved it. I loved it so much but then it got complicated and I got injured and one thing led to another and now I'm not doing that thing anymore. And I'm really fucking- I can't really sleep. You know that. Before you arrived I barely got two hours in at a time and I was only out driving when you crashed because of my insomnia. And that doesn't help with all the rest of it. I can't even go to a shop without freaking out. And earlier, I was suddenly so convinced you were gone or something terrible had happened or will happen to you. Fuck."

Daniel felt Max's hand rub slow circles over his back.

"And well. I like you a lot Max. You're weird and funny and so, so lovely. And I'm afraid I'm going to fuck it all up. And you're not even human. And you don't know how any of this works and I don't want to make you do anything you're not comfortable with," Daniel finishes.

"Daniel, you also don't really know how any of this works. We've clearly been talking past each other about a lot of things. It's okay. We don't have to solve all of it now. But for the record, I have been trying and apparently failing to court you this whole time," Max says.

"I don't know about failing. You're pretty smooth for an alien," Daniel snorts into Max's damp shoulder. He feels Max's shoulder shake against his cheek.

"And the rest is of course okay, Daniel. You should take your time. I don't know how humans work but is there a sort of treatment you could get for what you're dealing with?" Max asks.

"There is. Kind of," Daniel says.

"That's good. We can do it together if it's scary," Max suggests.

Daniel nods against his shoulder and mumbles a quiet "okay".

#i'm back!!#things got busy but have a little bit of alien au #f1 fanfic #maxiel #maxiel fic #maxiel fanfic #maxiel rpf #f1 rpf #f1 writing #max verstappen #max verstappen fic #daniel ricciardo #f1 #maxiel au #alien max au

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screamingintotheneverendingvoid · 3 days ago

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John Carter x nurse!reader

Warnings: none really, it’s cute fluffy, a little suggestive, takes place around season 5 episode 5, reader can be picked up and has hair that can be moved out of face

A/N: This is very short and sweet, just asking Carter to move in together mostly cause I thought the hilarity of Carter x nurse!reader living together in Weaver’s basement could not be ignored so this is like a build up to it. Also I need to come up with titles to tell these apart but that’s a tomorrow me problem because it’s 2 am.

—

“You know….” You casually flipped the pages of a medical book that you had just put in a box, seeing John in your peripheral taking some of the pictures of the two of you he had down off the cork board they hung on, “… I don’t have to say again how sorry I am you lost this RA job.”

“Eh, just remind me not to rely on med students.” He scoffed it out half heartedly and he placed the pictures on his desk for the moment.

You closed the book and moved behind him to wrap your arms around his waist, nuzzling your face into his back, “They might be med students but they’re still young adults that can make dumb mistakes. They got very lucky, hopefully it will be a lesson for all of them. They also have to live without the best RA, which I think is the biggest thing they’ll come to regret.” You smiled as he slid his hands down your arms to your hands and interconnected them together. He brought the palm of one of your hands up to his lips to lay a series of light kisses across it.

“I’m sure they’ll have just as much fun torturing the next RA as they did me.” He mumbled against your palm.

You stood in silence for a few moments, trying to build the courage to ask what you wanted to, “So… now that you are moving out, and you’re getting paid at the hospital because that was an issue before.. and you know my lease is almost up… maybe we should, if it’s not too crazy to you, I mean we’re practically together here all the time anyway? Right? So maybe we should move in together. Find a place together. Me and you. You and I.”

You wanted to throw yourself into a pit from the absolute word vomit that made its way out of your mouth, but you had never done this before. Sure you had offered for John to come live with you instead of getting the RA job and living in the dorms, but this felt different. It felt more real. This was a rejection you genuinely feared, maybe you were ready and he wasn’t.

The silence that followed made you want to vomit. “It’s too soon, isn’t it? I’m so-“ your words cut off when you nearly lost your balance when he turned in your arms so he could face you, the warmest smile on his lips as he brought his hands up to cup your face,

“You’re preemptively deciding for me?”

“What? No! I just… didn’t want…” you tried looking anywhere but those damn brown eyes. They always saw right through you, there was not a thing you could hide from John Carter.

“Hey…” he gently caressed your face with his thumb, coaxing you to directly look up at him, “I know I’ve been stressed out lately but that’s not because of you or because of us. You’re the one thing in my life that I know for certain is going right.” He leaned forward to plant a soft kiss on your lips, resting his forehead against yours, “All that to say, yes. Let’s look for a place together. I can’t think of a better idea than officially waking up by your side.”

You know your eyes had to light up like the fourth of July as you kissed him with the force of a hurricane. Pulling back you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into a hug, he wrapped his arms around your waist, “And just think about it, no more med students interrupting our alone time to ask you to unclog a toilet.” You jest, playfully poking at his back.

“You know what? That might just be the sexiest thing you've ever said.” As he said it you started to pull back to look at him like he had two heads, but he had already picked you up, causing you to let out of joyful squeal as he took you to the bed and threw you down on it. Crawling on top of you, he brushed aside the hair that had gotten in your face,

“Might as well give this place one last memory, don’t you think?”

—

(gif credit!!)

#er #er 1994 #dr john carter #john truman carter iii #john carter #john carter x reader #nurse!reader x john carter #my writing #john carter x nurse!reader #also this would be beard Carter BUT I CANT FIND A friggin gif!!!#sigh

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pbxaf4life · 3 days ago

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The Long Game: First Quarter, Chapter 9

Paige x Azzi

Masterlist

As promised :) Chapter 10 will be out either within the hour or in the morning

Summary: Paige has put some of everything out on the table. But there's more. There's so much more. She still can't place all of it, but she can try. She can say brave things.

Word count: 1116

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Chapter 9: Call Me Yours - Paige

Paige was trying to play it cool. She really was. As cool as she could be after telling Azzi that she knew what she wanted. And she meant it.

Well, mostly. She definitely knew she wanted Azzi. But she didn't know what exactly she wanted from her. Plus, she wanted a lot of other things too.

Paige wanted to get better. She wanted a national championship. She wanted to go first in the WNBA draft. She wanted to make history. She also wanted all of those things for Azzi. Maybe even more than for herself. She wanted Azzi to have the world.

It had been a few hours since Paige left Azzi in the ice bath when Azzi texted. Paige practically leaped for her phone without even trying to pretend she wasn't waiting on something.

Azzi: Wanna go for a walk?

It was late. Dark outside. The hours when everything felt too honest. Paige didn't hesitate.

Paige: Headed down now.

When Paige stepped off the elevator, Azzi was standing by the front doors, scrolling on her phone, waiting. She wore a thin hoodie. Paige's hoodie. Paige couldn't help but smile.

Azzi looked up, and her face softened.

"Hi," Azzi said with a big exhale. It felt heavy.

"Hey," Paige said.

Without saying anything, they walked outside and started down the sidewalk. They didn't talk for a little bit. Just enjoyed each other's company.

After a few minutes, without looking at Paige and without breaking their stride, Azzi broke the silence.

"What are we doing Paige?" she asked quietly.

Paige sighed. "I wish I could tell you."

Azzi let out a small breathy laugh. "I just... I didn't mean for things to get like this."

Paige looked down at the ground. "Me neither."

Paige thought about what Azzi said the night before. I'll let you ruin everything. The truth was Paige didn't want to ruin anything. They were two of the best basketball players in the country and the best of friends. Complicating that felt scary.

"Do you remember what you said last night?" Paige asked.

Azzi cocked an eyebrow. "Which part?"

"Right before you went to sleep, you said, 'I'll let you ruin everything.'"

Azzi got quiet. She inhaled sharply. "Yeah, I remember that."

Paige added, "You also said to ask you again when you're sober. You said you'd have the same answer."

Azzi looked down playing with the hem of her hoodie sleeve. "So ask me again," she mumbled.

Paige bit her lip. Her heart pounded at the inside of her chest. "Do you want me?"

Azzi turned her head to look Paige in the eye. "Yeah, I think I do."

The words hit Paige in her gut. The palms of her hands got sweaty and her legs started to feel like jelly. Azzi wanted her.

It felt good. Really good. Maybe too good. Like Azzi just gave her the green light to claim what's hers.

Paige nodded. "I think I want you too."

Azzi smiled and let out a shaky breath. "You think?"

Paige shook her head immediately. "No. I know it. I know. I just... don't really know what that entails."

Azzi nodded slowly, not pressing.

Paige kept going. "I don't want to rush into something or put pressure on us to be anything. But I also don't want to lie to myself. Because I think about you all the time. And I'm so tired of acting like I don't want you."

Azzi reached for her hand, almost absentmindedly, like her body knew what to do before her mind caught up.

"We don't have to be anything yet," she said. "We just have to be honest."

Paige looked down at their joined hands. "Okay. I can get down with that."

They walked a little more. The silence felt easier now, like they'd both unclenched something that had been held too tight for too long.

"I kept checking my phone today," Azzi said suddenly. "I was trying not to, but I did anyway. Every five minutes like a crazy person."

Paige smiled. "I kept writing texts and deleting them."

Azzi laughed under her breath. "Coward."

"No, just... I didn't want to say the wrong thing," Paige said.

"You didn't," Azzi said. "You just didn't say enough."

Paige nodded slowly. "Fair."

They kept walking until the path looped back toward the dorms. The air felt heavier again, like something unsaid had caught up to them.

Paige broke the silence this time. "I was scared it would change everything between us."

Azzi looked over. "And now?"

"Now I'm scared it won't."

Azzi stopped walking. Paige did too.

"I don't know how to do this," Paige said. "Like, I know how to lead a team. I know how to handle pressure. But this? You have me so lost."

Azzi tilted her head. "Are you afraid of me?"

Paige paused. "Terrified."

"Why?" Azzi said, half-laughing.

They stood in the middle of the path, dorms glowing softly in the distance. Neither of them moved.

Paige looked at her. Really looked at her. "I think you have me in a position where you could do a lot of damage. I don't know where your head is at, but I can't let myself get too deep if this won't end well."

Azzi didn't say anything. Just listened. Nodded. Processed.

"I've been trying to play it cool," Paige added. "Like this isn't that deep. But I think you've been in my head since we met. It's just taken me this long to recognize it."

Azzi blinked. "That's a long time."

"I know."

Azzi breathed deeply. "I don't want you to think this is just you. It's not, just to be clear."

Paige nodded silently. But slowly like she was still learning to trust Azzi when she said that.

"But I don't think either of us are in a space where we can be running around calling each other girlfriend."

Paige raised her eyebrows. It stung a little bit to hear Azzi say that. But she understood. "Yeah," she said a little shorter than she intended.

Azzi caught it. "Not that like that's off the table–I mean not never–I just think this is something that needs a lot of figuring out before we worry about calling it anything."

Paige silently agreed. She knew Azzi was right. She knew how she got when things got to be too much. When people--girls--got to be too clingy. She got the urge to run and nothing was other there to stop her. Azzi would stop her. She was sure. But still, she wanted to play it safe. Play it right.

"So, what do I call you?" Paige asked curiously.

Azzi shot her a confused look. "What do you mean?"

Paige stepped closer to her. They were still standing on the path outside of the dorms. They weren't close enough to kiss, but close enough to look intimate.

"I mean, you're not just my friend anymore. So what do I call you?" Paige clarified.

Azzi looked down at the ground. Then back up at Paige.

"Call me yours."

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #paige x azzi #azzi x paige #pazzi fics #pazzi series #wbb #uconn wbb

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brainmaggotzzzz · 2 days ago

Text

♡Lucky

hwang inho x fem!reader

cw: age gap, daddy issues, injury, pet death, toxic themes, manipulation, death, Inho isn't a good person but he thinks he is 💀,amnesia,kind of shit

requests?yes!

word count: 15k

Trust.

A currency, your mother used to say—more fragile than coins, and far more costly when lost.

You had always been rich in it, perhaps too rich. You let the other kids copy your homework, trading equations and essay paragraphs for a sliver of friendship that never quite materialized. You trusted your father when he promised you a summer at a five-star resort, even as he missed child support payments month after month. You clung to the sound of his voice through static phone lines, believing he’d call back when the line went dead—for one month, then two, then three.

Your mother tried to teach you better. “Only trust yourself,” she’d whisper over late-night tea, exhaustion clinging to her like perfume. “Trust your gut. Trust your instincts. If something feels too good to be true, it probably is.”

So where did it all go wrong?

Those warnings were carved into your conscience like ancient scripture, echoing since the moment you slipped into the world. And yet, maybe it was because she herself never quite followed her own doctrine. You watched her place trust in trembling hands—sleazy salesmen with shark smiles, bosses who promised promotions but handed her pink slips instead. Trust, misplaced again and again, until it left her buried beneath bills and IOUs.

But you never blamed her. How could you?

She tried. She gave up her youth to raise you, a child she hadn't planned for, but loved all the same. You grew up close, bound by something tender and unspoken. She wrapped you in affection when the world didn’t. Supported you through every stumble, every scraped knee, every dream you dared to speak aloud.

You noticed the way other mothers whispered behind French-manicured hands, their eyes lingering on your young mom as she arrived at school in secondhand clothes and tired eyes. But it never mattered—not when you had her. She was your fortress. Your best friend wrapped in the shape of a mother.

You didn’t have much, but you had enough.

Money was always tight—tight like the threadbare coats you wore each winter. She worked two jobs to keep the lights on, scrubbing floors by day, babysitting by night. You spent long evenings alone, your homework illuminated by a flickering kitchen bulb. And then, one day, she brought home a dog.

A beagle, born without an eye.

Free, because no one else wanted him.

But to you, he was perfect. Loyal. Silly. Gentle. He filled the empty spaces in your evenings, warmed your feet as you fell asleep on the worn-out couch, his missing eye never making him any less whole to you.

But soon, the world began to fray at the seams.

Your grandfather—the same man who never lifted a finger to help your mother—died, leaving behind not an inheritance but a heap of debt. Prices soared. Groceries became luxuries. Your mom still begged you to go to college, to chase a better life.

But instead, you packed your things and left for Seoul.

You promised to send money back. To help.

You found work at a restaurant where the manager skimmed tips like it was his God-given right. Your second job involved caring for an elderly woman who hurled curses with more strength than her frail body should’ve allowed.

Life was exhausting. Unfair.

You started to wonder if trust had ever been a currency at all—

or just a cruel joke passed down like a family heirloom.

That was, of course,

until In-ho came along.

◇

The way you met him was almost laughable in hindsight—one of those moments that feels insignificant at first, but in time, you realize was the beginning of everything.

It was late—far past the hour when the streets of Seoul begin to quiet, but this avenue still pulsed with life. Neon signs flickered overhead like electric stars, casting the pavement in a kaleidoscope of color. Cars honked. Strangers brushed past. Somewhere, a street performer strummed a sad tune on a cracked guitar. And under the silver gleam of the moonlight, he was running.

You barely noticed him at first. You were too tired to notice much of anything.

Your body was bone-heavy, sagging under the weight of exhaustion. You shuffled forward with the sluggish grace of someone who hadn’t truly rested in weeks. Fried chicken grease clung to your clothes, the scent so deeply soaked into your skin that it felt permanent. A pale stain spread across your chest��milk, from earlier that evening, when the elderly woman you cared for hurled her breakfast at you in a fit of unprovoked rage. You hadn’t changed, hadn't eaten, barely even spoken since.

You felt invisible.

But then, something sharp caught your eye—a flicker of leather tumbling from his coat pocket as he weaved through the crowd toward a waiting taxi.

A wallet.

You blinked, suddenly alert.

The crowd was too thick, the street too loud. If you didn’t act, someone else would see it—or worse, he’d drive away and never know it was gone.

So you ran.

Your legs protested, sore from hours of standing. But you pushed forward, dodging pedestrians, weaving past tired workers and chatty students. The night air was cool and smelled faintly of exhaust and roasted chestnuts from a vendor nearby. The city buzzed around you—alive and uncaring.

“Sir! Sir!” you called, breathless as you neared him.

He had one foot in the cab when he finally turned.

The taxi’s interior light illuminated his face. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, a hard jawline. His hair was neatly combed back, though a strand had fallen loose over his brow. He wore a long black coat that looked expensive, tailored, precise—everything you weren’t.

His eyes met yours—cold, assessing.

You held up the wallet like a peace offering, your fingers smudged with oil and sweat. “Your wallet,” you said, voice hoarse from fatigue, but clear.

His gaze lingered.

Not with gratitude—more like suspicion.

He looked you over, eyes flicking down to your stained blouse, your fraying coat, your worn shoes. Then back up again. And still, that expression didn’t change. He took the wallet slowly, fingers brushing yours for a brief second. You could feel it—his surprise. Not in his eyes, not in his words—but in that stillness.

He hadn’t expected to get it back.

Not from someone like you.

Then, without a word, he reached into the wallet and pulled out a few crisp bills.

You laughed softly and shook your head, waving your hand. “I’m fine,” you said, lying through your teeth. “I’ve got money.”

He studied you a second longer, unreadable. You couldn’t tell if he believed you or just didn’t care.

“Take it,” he said flatly, his voice low, refined—too calm, too empty.

But you only smiled, tired and genuine. “Keep it,” you replied.

The taxi driver rolled his eyes, impatient. “We going or not?” he snapped, glancing at the rearview mirror.

Without another word, the man stepped inside and shut the door behind him. The cab pulled away, merging into traffic and disappearing under the blur of neon and night.

You stood still for a moment, the city moving around you again like a tide. Then you turned and kept walking, tugging your jacket tighter around yourself.

You didn’t see it—but from the backseat, he glanced at you through the rear window.

Not with curiosity.

Not with warmth.

But with something unreadable. A flicker of thought.

Like you’d unsettled something in him.

◇

You were crouched behind the fried chicken restaurant, tucked between the dumpster and the back door, a half-smoked cigarette dangling between your fingers. Your knees ached. Your apron smelled like grease and soy sauce. There were stains on your jeans you didn't even remember getting. The buzzing neon sign above you cast a pale pink glow across your tired face. Your eyes were rimmed with fatigue, but they softened when you looked down at your phone.

“Yeah, Mom… I’m eating well,” you said with a small, practiced smile, your voice hushed and warm. You took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled slowly, and turned your face up to the cool night air. “Yes, I stopped smoking.”

You looked off to the side, smiling a little at your own lie.

“Are you eating well? Did I send enough this week? Did you get the rice? Did you feed the doggo?” Your tone shifted—tender, anxious. “He’s not limping again, is he?”

Your fingers pinched the cigarette out, and you dropped the butt beside your foot, grinding it into the concrete.

“I have lots of new friends and everything’s working out beautifully.”

Another lie. A softer one.

You didn’t want her to worry. She’d given you everything. She’d never let you see her cry, even when the fridge was empty. Even when the power got cut off. You wouldn’t let her feel the weight of your struggle—not if you could help it.

“I love you, Mom. Please rest, okay? Eat well. Don’t stress yourself out. And if you need anything, anything, just tell me. I’ll make it work. I promise.”

Your voice broke just a little on that last line. You pressed your forehead to your knee, closing your eyes, holding the phone close even after she hung up.

You didn’t see him at first. But he saw you.

In-ho hadn’t meant to be there. When he wasn’t overseeing death and depravity in the Games, he lived like a shadow. A rented room in a crumbling workers’ building. Cheap meals in plastic containers. No luxury, no attention. It was a strange habit—immersing himself in poverty when he had access to opulence. But perhaps it made him feel in control. Maybe it reminded him that he was different from the people he manipulated.

He had just picked up dinner—a sad little paper bag of soup and rice—and was heading back when he noticed you. Crouched beside the dumpster. Phone pressed to your ear. Laughing quietly through your exhaustion.

He stopped.

There was something about you. Something that didn’t fit.

He remembered your face instantly. The girl from the street. The one who’d returned his wallet without blinking, who refused his money with a crooked smile and tired eyes. He had written you off in a moment as another poor girl on the edge. But now... now he found himself watching.

He heard you speak, gentle and full of care. Saw the way you talked about food, warmth, small comforts like they were luxury goods. The way you lied so easily—but not for yourself. For someone you loved.

For years, In-ho had lived in a world carved from extremes. The rich were monsters in tailored suits, bored and cruel. The poor were desperate and dangerous, willing to trade loyalty, humanity, even blood for the faintest whiff of salvation. He’d seen it with his own eyes—how debt warped people into animals. How quickly they'd betray, steal, kill. In his world, everyone had a price.

And yet... here you were.

Wearing a threadbare sweater, with a stain on your collar and dirt on your shoes. And still, you'd said no to money. You gave more than you took.

What was it? Pride? Stubbornness? Or something rarer—something real?

Then you noticed him.

You turned your head slowly, eyebrows raised, but not startled. Just curious. When your eyes met his, you smiled. Soft and amused.

“You’re the wallet guy,” you said, rising slightly to stretch your legs, your voice teasing but gentle.

He didn’t smile, not really. His face was still, unreadable. But something in his posture shifted—less rigid, less distant.

“You’re too young to be smoking,” he said, stepping forward a little, eyeing the burnt-out cigarette near your foot.

You laughed, eyes crinkling. “And you’re… well, I don’t have a comeback yet. I’m tired.” You stretched your arms, then dropped them. “But you’re right. I should quit.”

He didn’t reply. But the corner of his mouth lifted—barely. Almost like the idea of smiling passed through him, but didn’t stick.

“Thank you,” he said after a moment, voice quiet. “For giving me my wallet back.”

You waved it off. “It’s fine,” you said, already gathering your bag. “I’ve got to go. My second job’s waiting.”

You were already walking past him when he spoke again.

“Wait.”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder.

“You didn’t take the money earlier,” he said, adjusting the takeout bag in his hands. His voice was lower now, almost hesitant.

You shrugged. “Didn’t feel right.”

He nodded slowly. Then, after a beat, added, “You seem like someone who stands her ground.”

That caught you off guard. You tilted your head.

“So… let me at least treat you to dinner sometime,” he said, and for the first time, he actually looked at you—not just through you.

There was no charm in his tone, no flirtation. Just quiet sincerity. An offering.

◇

And that’s how it began.

Your… what was it, exactly? A friendship? A connection? A slow-burning tangle of something unnamed with Hwang In-ho.

He never called it anything.

Neither did you.

Maybe because words felt too heavy, too defined for something that crept in so gently.

At first, it felt simple. Two lonely people orbiting each other’s silence, drawn in by the shared ache of being unseen. You weren’t trying to fix each other—you just existed near one another, and that alone brought a strange kind of relief.

He seemed untouchable on the outside, but when you were together, he softened. Not with big gestures—he wasn’t the type—but in small things. The way he listened. The way he asked about your day and actually waited for the answer. The way he offered you his jacket without a word when the night air got too sharp.

You started seeing each other more. Quiet, aimless walks after your shifts, when the streets were half-asleep and the city didn’t ask much of either of you. He wasn’t much of a talker, but with a bottle of soju between you and no one else around, his words loosened. You’d talk for hours—about life, about regret, about the absurd meals you threw together when all you had was rice, eggs, and ketchup.

You told him how you used to make up stories to keep yourself company as a kid, how you wanted a dog sanctuary one day, how you sometimes cried in the shower just to let it out. He told you strange things, too—like how he could only fall asleep if there was white noise, how he hated his own birthday, how sometimes he didn’t feel real.

You were sun, he was shadow.

You were warm chaos, he was cold precision.

And yet, somehow, you fit.

Soon, the quiet moments multiplied. A text after work:

Are you okay?

Did you eat?

Come over.

Late-night calls. A shared playlist. You’d send him memes you knew he wouldn’t laugh at, but he’d reply with a “…” or a dry “cute” anyway. He never used emojis. You never stopped sending them.

Then one day, he moved. You didn’t even know he was looking for a new place. But not long after he asked where your late shift was, he ended up in a high-end apartment just two blocks from the restaurant.

You never questioned it.

And somehow, your toothbrush found a home in his bathroom. Your hair ties scattered across his sink. He always had your favorite snack in the kitchen. You had a key—but he never said the words “this is yours.” He didn’t need to.

Sometimes, you’d crawl into bed after a 12-hour day, too exhausted to speak. He’d already be there, reading some article on his phone, the room dim and still. You’d fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, his breath steady beside you. There was no sex—not at first. It was intimacy of a different kind. Quiet. Earned.

It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense. There were no grand confessions, no candlelit dinners. But there was care. Real, aching care.

He let you in, bit by bit.

And in return, you let him see you in ways no one else had.

You never talked about what you were. Maybe because naming it would break the spell. Maybe because neither of you believed you deserved something so tender.

But still—you kept showing up.

And so did he.

And somewhere in the middle of all those unsaid things, something like love began to grow.

◇

“What did you plan for yourself, Y/N?” he asked quietly, his voice a low hum against the hush of the night.

You lay with your head on his chest, your damp hair cooling against his bare skin, freshly washed from the shower you’d just taken. The scent of his laundry detergent clung faintly to the sheets—clean, crisp, unfamiliar, but comforting now in a way that felt like safety. Outside, the city murmured in distant traffic and faint neon. But inside, wrapped in his arms, it was still.

You were exhausted. Bone-deep tired, the kind that lived in your spine and under your eyes. But in his arms, your muscles finally stopped bracing for the next blow. You let yourself breathe.

“What?” you asked, your voice a little groggy, softened by fatigue and the haze of warmth from his body.

“What would you be doing—what path would you have taken—if life hadn’t... cornered you?” he asked, one hand absently tracing small patterns against your arm.

You paused, blinking up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be etched there. “I’d be a nurse,” you said after a moment.

He stilled slightly beneath you. “Why?”

“I’d want to help people, I guess,” you murmured, your fingers playing with a thread on the blanket. “It always felt right. Real. Like maybe I could make a difference, even a small one.”

You let out a soft laugh, a little self-conscious. “I’m not smart enough to be a doctor anyway.”

“Don’t say that,” he said quickly, gently, like a reflex. His tone was steady, but something in it carried a quiet weight, like he hated hearing you speak about yourself that way.

You smiled faintly. “I’m going to see my mom soon,” you added, a touch of brightness lighting up your tired voice. “And my dog.”

“Are you happy about it?” he asked, turning his head slightly to look at you more directly.

“Yeah… I mean, she’s been begging me to visit for months. And finally, I scraped together enough hours to take two days off,” you said, your voice warm but tinged with guilt.

“You’re overworking yourself,” he murmured. “You know I could help. Financially, I mean.”

“Stop it,” you replied gently, not unkind, just firm. You’d had this conversation before.

He exhaled slowly. “Your mom should be proud of you,” he said after a pause. “You’re working yourself to the bone for her sake.”

“She is proud,” you whispered. “She tells me all the time… but she’s also ashamed. Embarrassed that I have to work this hard. She shouldn’t feel that way. Helping her—it’s just what I’m supposed to do.”

“It’s not,” he said, more sharply than usual, a rare flicker of conviction in his tone. “Yet you still chose to. That’s... noble.”

“It is my job,” you insisted softly. “She gave up everything for me. Her twenties. Her dreams. It’s only fair I return the favor.”

“You didn’t ask to be born, Y/N,” he said, staring up at the ceiling like he was trying to reason with the stars. “A parent’s duty is to give their child the world. The child doesn’t owe them anything.”

You smirked, nudging his side. “Didn’t you just finish that book on Confucius? Isn’t he all about honoring your parents?”

He let out a soft laugh, deep and a little amused. “What a beautiful way to misinterpret a lifetime of philosophy,” he said. “But yes. He is.”

You smiled and shifted closer to him, your leg brushing his under the sheets. “Also… I don’t feel like I’m wasting my youth,” you said quietly. “I’m just living it a little differently. Not the way the world says I should, but… my own way.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “So you don’t feel like you’re wasting it… being here? With me?” His voice was quieter now, uncertain in a way you rarely heard. “I’m older. You could be spending this time with someone closer to your age, someone who… fits more easily into your life.”

You looked up at him, really looked. His sharp edges, the weariness behind his eyes, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

“I don’t feel like I’m wasting anything,” you said, voice steady. “Especially not with you.”

◇

Sometimes, late at night, when your breath came in soft little huffs against his skin, when you mumbled nonsense in your sleep and shifted closer to him with childlike trust—In-ho would remain still. Wide awake. Fully conscious.

There was something narcotic about being near you. Of course there was.

You were young. Bright. Pretty in that quietly natural way that made the world seem softer. You laughed easily, made bad puns over soju, and had a kind of gentle clumsiness that made him want to steady you by the elbow. But you were also surprisingly mature. Rooted. You carried yourself with a grace you didn’t seem to notice, a strength buried under layers of exhaustion and selflessness.

You were a breath of fresh air. No—more than that. You were an escape.

An escape from the filth. From the perversion and the power games. From the grotesque indulgence he was submerged in for too long. And even though you had tasted bitterness, were scraping your knuckles on the grind of life—you remained intact. Not untouched. But uncorrupted.

Because you were still hopeful.

Because despite it all, something in you still looked for the light.

The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. The way your lashes cast long shadows on your cheeks when the sunlight filtered through the window. The way your fingers, soft and small in his, held without demand, without expectation. You didn’t want anything from him. Not really. Not money, not gifts. You refused every offer, waved away every bill with a guilty smile and a sheepish apology for letting him pay again.

So he’d lie there and wonder—what was it that drew you to him?

He knew you were lonely. That much was obvious. The city had swallowed you whole and you were still trying to find your voice in its cold machinery. But if it was just loneliness, you’d have found someone else. Anyone else. Someone closer to your age. Someone easier.

Not a man like him. Not a man twice your age with far too many secrets and blood on his hands.

That’s when he realized.

You never talked about your father. Not really. Just the offhand jokes, the little stabs you disguised as humor—“He went to get milk and forgot the way back.” You laughed when you said it.

He never did.

Because underneath the sarcasm, he saw it. The crack.

You were still waiting for someone to choose you. Someone who didn’t leave. Someone to provide—not in the financial sense, but emotionally. Someone to stand still while the world pulled everything else away. You didn’t even know it yourself. Wouldn’t admit it even if you did.

But he knew.

And when he saw it—when he finally, fully understood—he felt fear. A kind he hadn’t felt in decades. A quiet, ice-in-the-veins kind of dread.

Because what if one day, you saw it too?

What if you realized that the affection you gave so freely was also a quiet cry for something you lost long ago?

And what if—when you figured it out—you left?

He couldn’t stand the thought. Couldn’t bear it. Not when you were the one clean thing left in his life. The one untouched note in a symphony of corruption. The one person who looked at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

So the thoughts started to whisper. Slowly. Seductively.

I know her better than she knows herself.

I know what’s best for her.

And it wasn’t long before he accepted the role he felt he had to take.

To protect you.

To guide you.

To love you—in the only way he knew how.

◇

That day, you were tending to the woman who—on most days—seemed to hate the world simply for spinning. The sun hung low in the sky, slanting rays across the room. But the blinds were shut, pulled halfway down at her demand. “Too much light,” she’d muttered earlier, her tired eyes glued to the flickering screen playing some daytime soap.

You’d learned to move carefully around her. No sudden gestures, no cheerful tone that might come off as patronizing. You knew the phrases that worked, how to ask without asking, how to shift her weight when helping her up without making her feel small. She wasn’t kind, not exactly, and most of your days with her were a test of patience. But still, somewhere along the way, she stopped being just another shift. Something in you softened toward her.

A week ago, you’d overheard her daughter—the one who paid your wages—muttering over the phone. It slipped out casually, in a breath between frustrations. “He died in the war,” she said. “She still thinks he’s coming home some days.” The Korean War. That meant she'd waited a long time—for someone who never came back.

And maybe that’s why, despite the sharpness of her words, you started to see her not just as a bitter old woman, but as someone who’d been left behind.

“Make me tea,” she snapped, her voice dry and command-like, but quieter than usual.

You offered a small smile and nodded, rising to your feet and stepping lightly to the kitchen. “Would you like some sugar in it?” you asked gently, knowing she’d say no. She always said no.

“No,” she replied flatly.

The apartment smelled faintly of dust and old wood. The furniture was heavy, dark mahogany with threadbare cushions. The wallpaper, once floral, had yellowed over time, and the only sound besides the television was the faint whistle of the kettle coming to life. You poured the water with care, letting the tea steep just long enough, then carried it back to her with both hands, walking slowly, carefully.

“Careful, it’s hot,” you warned softly, setting it on the little tray table in front of her.

She grumbled, lifting it with shaking fingers. Her skin was paper-thin, her hands dotted with age spots. Her hair was grey, sparse and pinned back in a messy bun. She took a sip, grimaced slightly—maybe the tea was too strong, maybe everything was just wrong today.

Then her eyes drifted toward the small wooden shelf in the corner. A black-and-white photo sat framed behind glass—faded now, the edges curling a little. A young man in uniform, smiling stiffly.

“Who’s this?” you asked gently, not expecting much of a response.

Her eyes snapped to the photo. She blinked once, twice. Her mouth dropped open as her hand lifted, trembling, to cover it.

“Oh my,” she gasped. “Oh no… I forgot. He’s coming back home soon, and I haven’t made dinner—”

You stiffened. Her eyes darted frantically, her breath coming quicker. “Rice… fish… where is everything?! Where are the spices?!” Her voice was rising, panicked. She pushed herself up with surprising strength and shuffled to the kitchen, throwing open cabinets and drawers. Utensils clattered. A dish broke.

“Ma’am—please, it’s okay—”

“Who are you?!” she snapped suddenly, eyes wild, teeth clenched. “Are you his mistress?! Is he doing this again?!”

You took a step back, startled. “No, no, please—let’s sit down, alright?” you pleaded, hands out like you were soothing a frightened animal. You tried to guide her gently back to her armchair.

But she jerked away.

“Liar!”

The tea cup flew before you had time to react.

It shattered against your stomach, hot liquid searing your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. You cried out instinctively, stumbling back. The heat was sharp, immediate. Without thinking, you ripped the shirt over your head and bolted to the bathroom, fumbling to get cold water running. The mirror caught a glimpse of your flushed, reddened skin. Angry welts were already forming.

Your heart was pounding. Not from the burn—but from the chaos. From the ache of being hurt by someone who didn’t know where or when she was.

Once the pain dulled a little under the cold stream, you returned to the living room. She was sitting still again, mumbling to herself. Her eyes glassy. The photo still perched behind her, untouched.

You grabbed your phone with shaking fingers and called her family.

They were… uninterested. Dismissive. “Just do your job,” the daughter said, clearly annoyed. No pause. No concern.

So you called an ambulance.For her. No dramatics. You gave them the address, reported the confusion and the outburst, and waited.

She didn’t know what was happening. Not really.

◇

The tears came before you could stop them. They welled up and spilled over, burning tracks down your cheeks as you walked, your steps uneven and mechanical. You had your puffer coat on—the expensive one In-ho had gotten you. A gift you'd tried to refuse, but he’d been so persistent, gently pressing it into your arms with that quiet firmness you never quite knew how to argue with.

Underneath it, you wore only your bra.

You didn’t cry because of the old woman—not really. She didn’t know what she was doing. If anything, the guilt sat squarely on her family’s shoulders. They cut corners, hired you—a girl with zero professional experience in elder care—because you were cheap, desperate, and easy to mold.

No, you cried because you were tired. Bone-deep tired. Tired of being kicked around by the world, of being treated like a disposable thing. Of swallowing pain without acknowledgment, of having your tips stolen, of smiling politely through mistreatment just to get by. You missed your mom. You missed your dog. You missed the version of yourself that never got to exist—the college girl who might’ve been complaining about finals, stumbling home drunk from frat parties, kissing people without thinking about consequences.

Instead, you had this.

Then the guilt came. A fresh wave of it. Because what kind of daughter thinks like that? You had to do this. For your mom. For your life. For survival. And yet, deep down, you felt selfish. Like something inside you was broken.

In-ho was the only one left.

He had seeped into your life slowly, like warmth filling the cracks, until he was the only constant. The only one you could run to.

You unlocked his door with the key he’d given you and stepped inside. Your face was blotchy, your cheeks damp and red. He was there, in his massive living room, seated on the velvet couch, a book in hand. As soon as he looked up, he was on his feet.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low but urgent, brows pulling together.

“I’m just so tired,” you whispered, voice crumbling.

He approached, carefully, raising a hand to unzip your coat.

“Don’t,” you said quickly, stopping him.

Confused, he took a step back, watching silently as you unzipped it yourself.

His eyes fell. He froze. “Why don’t you have anything under—did someone…?”

Then he saw the burn.

His face went dark. “What happened, Y/N?”

You sniffled. “That old lady—I swear, she went completely psycho. She started talking about her dead husband and thought I was his mistress or something, and then… then she threw a cup of hot tea at me.” Your words came in a frantic tumble, cracked with disbelief. “She burned me, In-ho. I—I don’t even know what happened. I tried to help her.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said, your voice quivering. “I just can’t.”

He didn’t interrupt. He listened in silence, his expression unreadable. Then he took your hand and gently guided you to the couch.

“Sit,” he said softly.

He disappeared briefly into the kitchen, returning with cold towels. He knelt beside you, pressing them gently against the angry red marks on your stomach. He didn’t baby you. He didn’t scold. He didn’t flinch away from your pain.

He just stayed. Present. Solid.

“I’m just so tired,” you sobbed again, clinging to him now, wrapping your arms around his neck. “And God, I’m horrible.”

“Horrible?” His voice was gentle, but there was a sting to it. Like your words had insulted him.

“Don’t say that.”

You weren’t trash. You weren’t like the others. Not to him.

“Sometimes I think… I’m angry at my mom,” you whispered, shame heavy in your throat. “Even though she didn’t do anything wrong.”

He said nothing.

“I wonder what life would’ve been like if I was born into money. But then I feel like such a piece of shit, because she loved me so much. She gave up everything for me.”

Your voice cracked. “And sometimes—God—sometimes I wonder what she could’ve been if she never got pregnant with me. What she lost because of me.”

He stilled. Listening.

“Maybe this is my punishment,” you said bitterly. “Me suffering like this. It’s karma. For taking her life away.”

He pulled you tighter into his chest.

“If she never had me, maybe she could’ve gone to college, had fun, found someone rich to love her. She could’ve lived. But she had me. And now I have to carry that weight too.”

“Punishment for being born?” he said softly.

“Punishment for being a fucking leech,” you said.

“Is that how you see yourself?” His voice was tight now. Controlled. “As a parasite?”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him, eyes hollow.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmured. “You’re a good girl. A sweet girl. You tried your best. That’s more than most.”

He adjusted the towel gently, brushing a kiss to your jaw.

“Let me take care of you.”

His voice was a balm, steady, certain.

“They don’t appreciate you like I do,” he whispered between kisses. “They don’t see you like I do.”

“I just… I feel so useless,” you cried softly. “I’m trying to help. I really am. But I just end up making things worse.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Don’t say that.”

“Let me help you,” he murmured, hands steady on your body.

“For the thousandth time, I won’t take your money,” you said, wiping your eyes.

“I know,” he smiled faintly. “You stubborn girl.”

“What if I employed you?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “We’ve known each other for a year now and you still haven’t told me what it is you actually do.”

“You never asked,” he replied smoothly, settling the book on his lap. “You’re smart, Y/N. Charming. The job is easy. And it pays very, very well.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, exactly, is this mystery job?”

He leaned back slightly, expression unreadable. “I help run an organization. We give people a second chance.”

You laughed, dryly. “Hwang In-ho, the humanitarian. Who would’ve thought?”

He didn’t laugh. His smile dropped. He didn’t even meet your gaze.

“Come to think of it,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, “you’d be a perfect candidate.”

“A candidate for what?”

“I digress,” he waved it off. “You wouldn’t be playing. Just… recruiting.”

You blinked. “Recruiting for what?”

He walked to the window, looking out at the glowing skyline. His voice dropped.

“It’s a game. A competition. People play children’s games. The winner gets enough money to change their life.”

“And the players?” you asked carefully. “What kind of people are they?”

“Desperate,” he said simply. “Like you. Like your mom. It’s fair. Everyone starts with the same rules.”

You frowned. “And my job?”

“All you’d do is approach people. Offer them a game. Something simple. If they win, you give them cash. If they lose…” he trailed off.

“If they lose?” you echoed.

“They get slapped.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Just a slap,” he said, as if it were nothing. “It’s symbolic. You’d be perfect. You have that presence. People trust you.”

“And after that? The ones who join—what happens if they lose?”

He hesitated. “They’re eliminated.”

“Like… they go home?”

You poor thing.

You didn’t know.

And he couldn’t tell you—not yet. Not when your innocence was the only light he had left in this wretched, bloodstained world.

"Yes, Y/N, they go home"

◇

When you came to visit your mom—those two precious days you scraped and clawed to make happen—she ran into your arms the second you stood in the doorway. Your dog came limping after her, a little slower than he used to, his face like a powdered donut, all frosted gray around the muzzle.

“Mom!” you grinned, hugging her tightly as she buried her face into your neck.

“I missed you,” she murmured, squeezing you. “Come, come inside already.”

She ushered you in quickly, her hands still on your shoulders, as if afraid you might disappear again.

“You look thinner,” she said with concern, eyeing you up and down. “You said you’ve been eating well.”

“Oh, I am! Just been doing a lot of cardio lately, you know,” you replied with a soft laugh, brushing off the lie with practiced ease.

She didn’t press further—just guided you to the small kitchen table like she always did. The table was the same, chipped at the edges. There was still a dent in the corner where you once dropped a pan as a kid. The old magnets clung to the fridge, holding up crayon drawings you barely remembered making—one of a sun with a face, one of a stick figure you claimed was her. You ran your fingers over one of them without realizing. The clutter made your chest ache with nostalgia.

Your dog pawed gently at your knee, trying to climb into your lap. He didn’t quite make it. You smiled and gently scooped him up. He settled in with a tired groan, resting his chin on your arm.

“Mama,” you said softly, “I found a new job. A well-paying one.”

Her eyes lit up instantly. “You did? Oh, my Y/N, I knew you would. You’re smart. I’ve never known where you got it from—surely not from me or your daddy,” she said with a chuckle, brushing your hair back with that motherly tenderness that always made you feel five years old again.

You watched her closely now, though, her features a little more worn than you remembered. She looked tired. Not just sleepy—tired.

“And you, Mom?” your voice lowered. “How are you holding up?”

She gave you a wobbly smile. “I’m just… trying to make it work, baby.”

You saw it then—behind the smile, the weight she carried. The strain in her shoulders. The quiet sadness in her eyes.

“I found a third job,” she said lightly, as if that wasn’t a devastating sentence.

“A third job?” you repeated, stunned. “God, Mom… you need to rest.”

“But the debt collectors don’t,” she said with a humorless chuckle, pointing at the empty space in the living room. “They took the damn TV.”

You both laughed, but it was the kind of laughter that hurt in your ribs.

“The TV? It was old as hell. Why the hell would they want that junk?” you said through your laughter.

“I know, right? Maybe they needed a vintage exhibit,” she smiled. Then her expression softened. “Anyway… I found something the other day. And I’m sorry, baby, for reading it. I really couldn’t help myself.”

She walked over to the shelf and pulled something out with a sheepish look on her face. You recognized it instantly—your old diary, the one with Disney princesses on the cover, covered in glitter and peeling stickers.

“Mama… no,” you groaned, covering your face as you cringed at the memories.

Your dog barked, startled by your outburst.

Your mom cleared her throat, shushing him. Then, in her most performative voice, she began to read:

“Dear diary. Today I tried to flush my math book down the school toilet. It clogged it, of course. The school went under maintenance and we got to go home early. I’m a hero.”

She burst out laughing.

“I take back everything I said about you being smart,” she teased, and you reached out to snatch the diary from her.

“No, give it back—!”

She danced away, still reading:

“Second entry. Dear diary. I met my mom’s fifth new boyfriend. I like him. He took me to McDonald’s. Every time she gets a new one, I hope the next one will be my actual dad.”

Her voice trailed off as the weight of that entry settled over the room like dust. Quiet. Guilty.

She gently closed the diary.

“Anyway, baby… tell me more about that new job,” she said softly.

You hesitated. “My… friend employed me. I’ll be helping recruit people for a charity. Well, it’s more like games, where people can win money. A lot of it.”

She frowned, confused. “So… gambling? Y/N…”

“No, no! Of course not.” You sat up straighter, trying to reassure her. “It’s not like that. They don’t bet money or anything. It’s to help people. To give them a chance.”

Her expression softened, her worry fading just enough.

“Oh… okay, baby.” She reached out and kissed the top of your forehead. “I’m proud of you. My helpful, sweet girl.”

◇

Being with your mother was sweet, nostalgic, and quietly heartbreaking all at once. There was a warmth to it, but it clung to your ribs with a kind of sadness you couldn’t quite shake.

You kept messaging In-ho when you could, short little updates, photos of the house, your dog, the rice your mom made. You missed him, oddly enough—though you’d only been apart a day, the quiet had started to ache in the spaces he usually filled.

Now, you sat on the floor, legs tucked under you, your dog curled across your lap. One hand scratched him gently behind the ear as he snored, his head warm and heavy on your thigh. His fur was mostly gray now, coarse and thinning. He used to be so full of life, bounding through the hallway like a blur of energy. Now, he just lay there, tired. Like he’d run his race and was waiting for the signal that it was okay to rest.

Looking at him hurt. He wasn’t just your dog. He was your childhood. Your innocence. He was the last familiar thing in a world that kept changing.

“My good boy,” you whispered softly, watching his chest rise and fall. He snored lightly, his paws twitching in some distant dream.

Your mom stepped into the room, cradling a mug of tea in both hands. She looked down at you with a quiet smile, worn around the edges.

“He really loves you, you know?” she said, voice low, almost reverent.

You looked up at her. The amber lamp behind her softened the lines on her face, made her look almost like a memory herself.

“When you first left,” she said, easing down to sit on the couch behind you, “he kept sleeping in your bed. Wouldn’t move for hours.”

She paused, taking a sip of her tea.

“But then he couldn’t jump up anymore, poor guy. So he started sleeping on the floor, right beside it. Same spot, every night.” She looked at the dog, her smile turning wistful. “I tried getting him to come to my room, but he’s stubborn. Just like you.”

She laughed softly, more breath than sound. “And then… I guess I got it. I started sleeping in your room too. I missed you. We both did.”

“I missed you too,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “All of you.”

Your mom lowered herself down to the floor beside you, legs creaking slightly, tea now forgotten.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she murmured, eyes on the dog but words aimed at you. “I’m sorry you feel like you can’t live your life—that all you can do is work yourself to the bone just to stay afloat.”

“Feel like it?” You let out a soft laugh. “It kind of is the reality.”

She looked at you, face full of something that bordered between guilt and admiration.

“It didn’t have to be. You could’ve gone off to college, gotten a scholarship, started your life—left me with all of this. But you didn’t. Not you.”

She paused, swallowing.

“I wish you were more selfish, Y/N. I wish you weren’t so goddamn… good,” she said, her voice cracking. “All I ever wanted was to make sure you didn’t end up like me. I kept you away from repeating my mistakes, but I couldn’t keep you away from… this.”

She blinked fast, as if tears would make it real.

“I just wish you were happy.”

“Mom, don’t say that.” You took her hand in yours. “Everything’s going to be better now. I’ve got that new job starting soon. It pays enough that I can quit the other two. Things will be okay.”

You smiled a little. “And I’ll get you a new TV, one of those flat ones you can hang on the wall.”

She let out a sigh and shook her head. “Stop. Just hearing you talk about giving me more—God, it makes me feel so guilty,” she said, voice thin.

She kissed the top of your head gently, then got up, heading to her room with slow steps.

You stayed there, on the floor, not ready to move yet. The dog shifted a little, licking your hand, then stilled again, content. The lamp hummed softly. Outside, you could hear distant traffic, and the creak of branches swaying in the wind. The air was warm and still.

You must’ve dozed off like that—your hand on his fur, his head in your lap.

When you woke, stretching your arms, something felt wrong.

He didn’t move.

You frowned and looked down.

“Lucky?” you whispered, reaching to nudge him gently. He was stiff. His body cool. His one eye slightly open, but unfocused.

“Lucky?” you repeated, a little louder, panic starting to climb up your throat.

“Wake up,” you whispered again, shaking him softly, gently. “Come on, my good boy. Wake up.”

But you knew. The moment your hand touched his still side, you knew.

“Wake up, my good boy… please.” Your voice cracked as the tears started to well. You ran your hands over his fur like you could warm him back to life. “Please…”

Your chest ached as you bent down, hugging him gently. “I love you, I love you so much… please.”

You didn’t know how long you sat like that, whispering into his fur, your tears soaking into it.

Your mom came into the living room, still groggy, rubbing her eyes—then she saw you, and the way you held him.

She froze.

“He was waiting for you,” she said softly, her voice breaking. “He waited for you to come home.”

She crouched down beside you, and without a word, wrapped her arms around you.

You both cried quietly, surrounded by the warmth of the lamp, the old drawings on the fridge, the absence of a TV—and the presence of something far more important that had just slipped away.

◇

A day later, with your bag slung over your shoulder and your coat pulled tightly around you, you stepped onto the early morning bus back to Seoul. The windows were foggy from the warmth of the bodies inside, and you sat by one, staring out as the countryside slowly gave way to the hard lines of the city. The trees blurred past like old memories. It rained lightly—drizzles slipping down the glass like fingers reaching backward. You kept your forehead pressed against the cool surface, earbuds in, the music too low to drown anything out. Just low enough to keep your thoughts company.

By the time the bus pulled up near In-ho’s apartment, you felt hollow, held together more by motion than will. But when he opened the door and looked at you—really looked—you felt like you could breathe again.

“Y/N,” he said, eyes scanning you as if trying to figure out what had changed since you’d last stood there.

Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly.

“I missed you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt.

He held you firmly, his voice gentle. “How was it?”

You didn’t answer right away. He helped you inside instead, took your bag from your shoulder, and waited patiently as you kicked off your shoes. The apartment smelled like cedar and the faint scent of soy sauce from whatever takeout he’d ordered. Familiar. Safe.

He walked with you to the bedroom, and you both knelt by the bed to start unpacking. It was a quiet act, almost reverent. Then, as he reached into the bag, his hand froze.

His fingers closed around a worn leather collar, still warm from being tucked away. The little metal bone clinked softly against his knuckles. Lucky, it read, engraved in small, careful letters.

“What’s this?” he asked, though his tone was already laced with realization. His eyes met yours.

“My dog…” you said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “He passed away.”

In-ho walked toward you and gently squeezed your shoulder, grounding you.

“No, no—stop it,” you said quickly, forcing a shaky laugh. “If you say anything about it, I’m gonna cry again. And lately, all I seem to do when I’m around you is cry.”

Your eyes shimmered again, bloodshot and heavy. The pain in your chest hadn’t dulled—it had simply quieted, waiting for the right moment to speak again.

But what you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was how, in that moment, something in In-ho lit up. Not out of joy, not from seeing you broken, no. It was the intimacy of it. The unfiltered truth of your sadness, and that you trusted him enough to bring it here. That he was the one you came to when the world turned its back. That your grief didn’t seek solitude, but him.

And that made him feel irreplaceable.

“It’s okay, Y/N,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You leaned into him, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in like a place you hadn’t visited in years.

“It’s... strange,” you whispered. “That dog’s been in my life since I was a kid. He was there when I used to watch cartoons and make him wear pirate hats—because he didn’t have one eye.” You laughed softly through the tears.

“He was there when I snuck out to drink with classmates. He never barked when I came back in, like he understood.” You smiled, small and tired.

“So, on top of being a great companion, he was a symbol of your childhood,” In-ho said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “A reminder of all the things you once were.”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “He died in his sleep… surrounded by love. Old age.”

You looked down at the collar in your lap and chuckled, eyes glassy again. “I want to die that way, too.”

“Don’t we all,” he said softly, rubbing your back.

◇

Later, you sat at the table across from him, chewing slowly on your favorite sushi—salmon nigiri, shrimp tempura rolls, miso soup cooling at your side. You barely tasted anything. Your mouth moved like a machine, mechanical and tired. You stared down at your plate, eyes vacant, your hand still curled around your chopsticks like it might drop them at any moment.

In-ho watched you, his own appetite gone. He hated seeing you like this—dulled, quiet. It wasn’t something he could fix with money, or power, or presence. No gifts. No control. No easy solution.

This pain was real. Personal. And the only thing you would accept from him right now was emotional closeness. That made it sacred.

“Eat up, Y/N,” he said gently, nudging the soy sauce closer to you.

You nodded absently, eyes not lifting.

He hesitated. “Did you already quit the two other jobs?”

You gave the smallest nod.

“I think you should rest. Maybe wait a week before starting with me,” he offered carefully. “I won’t dock anything from your pay.”

At that, your head lifted, brows knitting in immediate disapproval.

“No.”

“Y/N—”

“I said no.”

Your voice wasn’t raised, but it was firm. Steady.

“If anything, I want to work. It’ll take my mind off of it. And I want to be a part of something… good.” You met his eyes. “I don’t want to feel useless anymore.”

In-ho didn’t push. He just nodded, accepting your resolve.

Here, he could only be someone who sat with you in the quiet, who passed you napkins when your hands trembled, who listened.

And strangely, that made him feel more important than ever.

◇

“Your posture is completely off,” In-ho murmured, then nudged your foot with the side of his own, repositioning you.

You huffed, holding up the red ddakji tile with a sigh of defeat. “Oh for—how could my foot placement possibly matter when it’s just paper slamming onto paper?” You looked at him, brows raised in exasperation.

He chuckled softly, hands resting in his coat pockets. “Try again.”

This was your tenth—maybe twelfth—attempt. You’d long lost count. But he remained there beside you, patient, steady. He had this way about him—quiet, composed, almost fatherly in how he guided. Never once mocking. Never once annoyed. Just... there. A presence you could lean into. One that didn’t vanish when you faltered.

You bent down again and struck the tile onto the one on the ground. It didn’t flip. Again.

Groaning, you dropped your arms. “I really suck at this.”

In-ho tilted his head, a flicker of something fond in his eyes. “What if…” he said, walking over and crouching down to retrieve the tile, “…you could play another game? One you’re actually good at. One you’re confident in?”

You shook your head, firm. “No. I committed to this.”

You glanced at him as he stood beside you, tall and composed, the late afternoon light making shadows dance across his features. You were close—close enough to feel his warmth, close enough to smell that familiar scent of pine and leather that always clung to him. There was something intimate about moments like this, something soft. Unspoken.

“Loyal,” he said quietly, almost like a compliment. His gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary.

He offered you the tile again, holding it out in his palm like an invitation. “Try again.”

You took it, fingers brushing his as you did. His hands were colder than yours.

“This time…” he said, his voice low, deliberate, “be confident.”

You raised a brow and stepped toward him, just an inch closer than polite. A teasing grin pulled at your lips. “What makes you think I’m not confident?”

He didn’t smile, but there was something in his eyes. Something amused. “You throw it like you’re expecting to fail. Throw it like you’re expecting it to flip.”

You drew in a breath. His words rang louder than they should have.

Then you dropped your gaze to the tiles, focused. This time, you slammed the ddakji down with every ounce of certainty you could summon.

It flipped.

You gasped, eyes wide, then broke into a grin. “It flipped! It flipped!” You jumped once, then twice, unable to contain it, your joy bubbling over. You reached for his shoulders without thinking, gripping him, shaking him lightly as you bounced.

He stiffened at first—out of habit—but then his hands moved to steady you, and for a moment, something cracked through his usual reserve. His cold expression warmed, just barely. A softness flickered in his eyes.

You were so sweet. So pure. So painfully oblivious.

You thought you were training to recruit people for a program that would help them rebuild their lives. That you were part of something good. That you were helping.

And in a way, you were. But not in the way you thought.

Only one of those hundreds you’d soon face would get back on their feet. The rest... never would again.

A sliver of guilt lodged in his chest. But stronger than guilt was the conviction that this—this—was for your good.

You needed the money. Desperately. And you’d never accept it straight from his hands. Not In-ho’s money. You had too much pride for that. Too much integrity. So this was his way of giving you what you needed without wounding that pride.

You wouldn’t let him protect you overtly, so he had to lie—just a little. Bend the truth. Shape the reality.

He told himself it wasn’t wrong. It couldn’t be. He was taking care of you. Protecting your innocence, your wellbeing.

Wasn’t that noble?

Wasn’t that love?

◇

You stood at the edge of the quiet, empty metro station, heels clicking faintly on the cold tile floor. The distant hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a pale sheen over the otherwise still platform. There was no one in sight—except him.

The man.

You recognized him instantly. You’d studied his photo, his financial records, his criminal record, his hospital visits. His face was bruised, mottled with fading purples and fresh red. Probably a debt collector’s doing. His clothes hung loose over his frame, stained and riddled with holes, his eyes sunken like he hadn’t slept in days.

You approached, one careful step at a time, your legs stiff in the heels that In-ho insisted you wear. Your hair was pinned up, your blouse tucked neatly into your slacks. You were supposed to look sharp. Professional. Like someone important. Someone who could change a life.

You clutched your purse tight. Inside was a stack of crisp bills and two red and blue ddakji tiles. The purse was heavy. So was the weight of what you were about to do.

“E-Excuse me, sir,” you said, offering your most polite smile as he looked up, blinking hard under the harsh lighting.

He squinted at you, frowning. “Fuck off. I’m not interested in some pyramid scheme,” he spat, lip curled.

You blinked, a breath of a laugh leaving your lips. How funny. He didn’t even realize it yet—this was probably the best day of his life. You were giving him a chance. A golden ticket.

“I assure you, sir,” you said lightly, “it’s no pyramid scheme. Actually, this might be the best day of your life.”

He groaned and waved you off again. “Fuck off. I'm not joining your Jehovah's Witness cult either.”

You kept your voice pleasant. “All I want is a simple game of ddakji. If you win, I’ll give you 10,000 won. If you lose... you give me the same amount.” You held up the tile, watching how his gaze finally snapped to it. Then to your face.

The gambling spark lit behind his tired eyes.

“You up for it?”

You already knew he would be. You’d seen his records—he gambled everything away, from his apartment to his ex-wife’s last ounce of patience.

He picked up the blue tile, rolled his shoulders back like it mattered, then flung it at the red one. It bounced. Landed. Didn’t flip.

“Shit!” he growled.

You looked at him with real sympathy. “You don’t have the money, do you?”

He stiffened, jaw clenching. “Well… fuck,” he muttered, spitting to the side.

“Then pay with your body,” you said softly, stepping closer.

His eyebrows shot up—and his lips twisted into something disgusting. His eyes raked over you with open lechery.

“Shit,” he chuckled. “And I thought I was the loser tonight.”

He reached forward, fingers twitching toward your waist. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you raised your hand and slapped him—hard.

The sound echoed off the station walls. He staggered back a step, touching his cheek in shock.

“You crazy bitch!” he barked, face twisted in rage.

“You paid with your body,” you said coldly, wiping your palm on your pants. “Shall we carry on, sir?”

He glared, but he picked up the tile again. Gritted his teeth. This time, he threw it with a growl.

It flipped.

You didn’t say anything. Just opened your purse, counted out 10,000 won, and handed it to him neatly. He snatched it like a starving man would grab bread.

“If you'd like more opportunities like this—where you can win a handsome cash prize, enough to free yourself from all your debts—give us a call,” you said, handing him a sleek business card.

He stared at it for a long time, then slipped it into his pocket, eyes not meeting yours.

As you turned and walked away, the heel of your shoes clicking against the tile, you felt something swell in your chest. A kind of pride.

You’d helped him.

You’d pulled someone from the gutter and given them a real chance. Sure, it wasn’t a typical job opportunity. But this wasn’t a typical world. People like him didn’t get second chances. And you—you—were giving them one.

You were doing something good. Noble, even.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

◇

You rested on the couch, head in In-ho’s lap, your body curled up comfortably like a cat basking in sunlight. The soft hum of the city outside filtered through the window, but in here, the world felt muted, like time had decided to slow just for the two of you.

He watched you silently.

You looked… happy.

Not the haunted kind of happy that flickers through a nervous laugh or through trembling lips stretched too wide—but truly content. Your mouth held a soft, natural curve. Your eyes blinked slowly, sleepily. You looked tired, yes, but not like before. Not the kind of tired that came from burning yourself to the bone. Not the kind that came with burns on your skin or tear tracks on your cheeks.

No, this was peace.

Peace in the illusion he built for you.

"I think God sent you in my path," you murmured, voice drowsy with comfort.

“God?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes,” you nodded, eyes half-lidded. “It’s no coincidence you were there when I was struggling. When I was so low I could barely get out of bed. When I felt like I wasn’t contributing anything… like I didn’t matter."

You stretched slightly, shifting against him like you were trying to melt into his warmth.

“But now I’m doing good. I’m helping people. Helping society,” you said, a gentle pride in your voice.

In-ho smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Yes, you were helping society… in your own way. But not in the way you thought.

Those people you recruited—people drowning in debt, addiction, crime—they weren’t people to him. They were filth. Dead weight. Rotten limbs of society in need of amputation. And through your hands, they were being removed.

He wanted you to see it the way he did. He wished you could. But maybe you were too young. Too soft. Still holding on to that desperate belief that everyone deserved saving.

So he let you believe in the fantasy. The noble mission. The shining cause.

He let you believe you were a hero.

Because if you opened your eyes too soon, the guilt might crush you. And he wouldn’t let that happen. Not to you.

"Actually,” you sat up a little, propping yourself on your elbow to face him better, “this guy I recruited today—he said some real creepy stuff. But before he could try anything… bam!” You grinned, smacking your palm against the air. “I slapped him. Like, hard. It actually felt kinda good. Is that… wrong?”

Your eyes searched his, filled with a strange mix of shame and pride.

“That it felt good?” he asked softly.

“Yes...” You laughed awkwardly, cheeks a little flushed. “I don’t know, it was just instinct, and my literal job, but also... satisfying.”

“No,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s not wrong. You just felt powerful. You put a creep in his place. You reminded him he wasn’t in control.”

You blinked slowly. “Powerful…”

The word hung in the air, foreign in your mouth but intriguing.

In-ho stood up quietly, walked over to a nearby shelf, and pulled down a small, black box. He returned to you and placed it in your hands.

“I thought about this,” he said, his voice unusually soft. “You should have something… for protection.”

Curious, you opened the box.

Inside was a sleek hairpin, metallic and delicate, its design elegant and intricate—almost like jewelry. But as you turned it in your fingers, you felt the mechanism and pulled. A thin, sharp blade slid out with a faint click.

“Oh wow…” you whispered, eyes wide. “It’s actually really pretty.”

“And deadly,” he added, kneeling before you, his eyes locked on yours. “Just like you. Pretty and deadly.”

You laughed, unaware of the double edge in his words. Oblivious to the world you were slowly becoming a part of. Oblivious to what he was turning you into.

But In-ho just smiled.

Because he had you where he wanted you—safe, protected, dangerous when needed… and still innocent enough to think this was all good.

All love.

All right.

And he would keep it that way. For as long as he could.

◇

For weeks now, you worked under In-ho, fully immersed in your new purpose. You showed up every day without fail, submitting reports, studying files, memorizing faces, approaching strangers in metro stations, alleyways, and abandoned plazas with your red tile in hand and your heart swelling with strange, misplaced pride.

You had recruited… what now felt like an uncountable number of players. And with every one, you felt lighter. Giddy. Important. For the first time in your life, it felt like you mattered.

You looked into the eyes of the struggling—the deeply, gut-wrenchingly desperate—and you felt something burst open in your chest. Sympathy. A desire to save. A beautiful, aching compassion. When you told them they had a chance, you watched those broken eyes flicker with something so raw and fragile… hope.

It became narcotic.

You remembered each one. The pregnant woman who hid her belly behind her coat, trembling as she confessed she had nowhere to go. The man whose child was dying of leukemia. The mother who couldn’t sleep at night knowing loan sharks would beat her son if she didn’t pay soon.

Their stories imprinted on you. Their grief, their burdens, became yours. You read their files late at night and cried sometimes, quietly. But then you'd wipe your eyes, and tell yourself: I'm helping them. I'm giving them a chance. I'm doing good.

And then… the money.

God, the money.

For the first time in your life, you didn’t have to hesitate. You walked into stores with your head held high, swiping cards without flinching. You bought your mother the fanciest TV available. You paid off her debt like it was nothing. You started researching college, browsing weekend classes. You were building a future, brick by brick, on top of something solid and real.

The thought that In-ho might be lying to you?

Absurd.

So abstract it didn’t even register as a possibility.

Not In-ho. Not the man who sat with you in silence when words failed. Not the man who rubbed circles into your back when grief tore you apart. Not the man who remembered how you took your coffee, who let you fall asleep on him mid-ramble, who made sure you ate, who took in your messiness and chaos with a calm patience you had never known before.

No. He was yours. And he would never lie.

Right?

◇

“I’m sponsoring my mom to come over to Seoul,” you said cheerfully, kicking your legs playfully from where you sat on the counter, coffee mug warming your hands. “I got her the nicest hotel ever, five stars. I’ll take her to a spa, shopping, museums, maybe a fancy restaurant or two.”

You were beaming, practically glowing. Your skin caught the morning light just right, dewy and warm. Your bed hair was still mussed, but perfectly so—chaotic curls haloed around your face, giving you a dreamy, sunlit charm.

In-ho stood next to you, coffee in hand, his expression unreadable.

“You are?” he said, the corner of his mouth tilting up faintly. “When is she coming?”

“This weekend,” you grinned. “Don’t worry, boss.” You bumped his shoulder lightly with yours. “I’ll put in extra hours on Friday, promise.”

He smiled more fully, and stepped closer. You stilled as his hand reached up, brushing a rogue lock of hair from your face. He tucked it gently behind your ear, fingers grazing your cheek just a moment too long.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, voice soft. “You’re doing your best anyway.”

And God help him… maybe that was the worst part.

You were doing your best.

Your heart was in the right place.

And that was what made the lie so cruel—and so easy to justify.

Because if he told you the truth, it would break something inside of you. And he wouldn’t let that happen.

Not to you.

Not the one pure thing he still had left.

◇

Saturday.

The sun had risen into the perfect day.

You and your mother had spent it in an indulgent, glittering blur. She had barely stepped out of her hotel suite before you whisked her away—first to an upscale boutique where you insisted she pick anything she liked (and she, of course, insisted she needed nothing), then to a spa where you both lounged in robes and let yourself melt under warm oils and skilled hands. You visited a contemporary art museum next, the kind she always used to admire in brochures but never had the time or money to visit. She held your hand as you wandered room to room, eyes shining with pride and quiet awe.

By dinner, the two of you were seated beneath a crystal chandelier, dining on five-star cuisine that looked almost too beautiful to eat. Your mother muttered, “You’re spoiling me too much, sweetheart,” but her smile betrayed her enjoyment.

Now it was late, your legs tired but your heart impossibly full. You were both glowing from the wine and the joy, leaning into each other like old friends as you walked arm-in-arm through the Seoul night.

“Mom, let’s go to a bar,” you said with a grin, playfully bumping her shoulder.

“A bar?” she laughed, her voice light. “I’m too old for drinking!”

“Oh, come on, it’s not like we’re getting blackout drunk. Let’s go somewhere classy—martinis and live music, like a real sophisticated family.”

She rolled her eyes dramatically, but gave in. “Fine, but you’re ordering. I don’t know what’s trendy anymore.”

◇

The bar was moody and elegant, tucked away from the bustle of the street. Jazz played softly in the corner, a smoky tune curling around the clink of glasses and low laughter. You and your mom were seated at a table far from the main bar, right next to the stage where a small jazz trio played under warm amber lights.

You walked up to the bar to order, already thinking about which cocktail she’d enjoy the most, when you spotted two men at the corner of the bar.

One of them you knew in an instant.

“Inho!” you smiled, waving brightly.

He stiffened—subtle, but you caught it. Like he'd been caught mid-act.

Still, you walked over to him. “Hey,” you greeted gently, your tone casual, warm.

The second man beside him turned slightly, a sharp glint in his eye and a faint curl of mischief on his lips. He was tall, sharply dressed in a suit that looked expensive but effortless. His smile was the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes—polished, but just a little too amused.

“Oh?” he said, tone teasing. “And who might this be? A secret daughter?”

You laughed at the absurdity. “That’s… my second recruiter, L/N Y/N,” Inho answered. His voice was flat, guarded. He then added stiffly, “And that’s... Gong Yoo.”

“Second recruiter? That’s so amazing!” you beamed, completely oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. You extended your hand to Gong Yoo with genuine excitement. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“My pleasure,” Gong Yoo said, grasping your hand lightly. His grip was firm but performative, the kind of man who could charm and disarm all at once, though you sensed something… off. His smile was polite, but too polished. Too knowing.

“Wasn’t your mother supposed to visit?” Inho asked, his voice cold, barely masking his discomfort.

“Yeah, she’s sitting over there,” you said, gesturing toward your table. “I should get back to her—it was great to meet you!” You smiled at Gong Yoo and gave Inho a sweet look before turning away.

But Gong Yoo wasn’t done. He smelled Inho’s unease, and he thrived on it.

“Oh, I’d love to meet your mother,” he said smoothly, tilting his head with mock innocence. “Wouldn’t you, boss?”

Inho’s jaw clenched.

Still, you nodded enthusiastically, completely unaware of the undertow. You picked up the drinks, carefully balancing them in your hands, and returned to the table with a bright smile.

“Hey, Mom!” you said, placing a martini in front of her. “That’s Hwang Inho, my boss—and that’s Gong Yoo, my fellow recruiter!”

Your mom looked up with a warm, welcoming smile. “Now I know where you got the beauty from,” Gong Yoo purred with a wink, and Inho shot him a glare that could’ve cracked glass.

“It’s so nice to meet you, gentlemen,” your mom said kindly, clearly pleased to put faces to the names you’d spoken of. “My daughter’s been over the moon since she started working at your charity.”

“She has?” Gong Yoo asked, his grin widening just slightly—an amused, prying thing. “Ah yes… the charity.”

You smiled, utterly guileless.

He could’ve assumed that’s just the version you told your mother. But no—there was a depth to your innocence. A kind of unknowing that couldn’t be faked.

“Just recently I recruited a pregnant girl,” you said, sipping your drink. “And a dad whose child is really sick. I’m really rooting for them. It’s not perfect, I know—not all players win—but I figured… worst case, they go home, right?”

Your mother nodded, thoughtful. “You’ve always had a big heart,” she said quietly.

Inho nearly choked on his drink.

Gong Yoo didn’t miss a beat.

“Ah yes,” he echoed, eyes glinting. “Exactly. Go home.”

◇

The day had been perfect.

After dropping your mom off at the hotel, you watched her disappear through the grand glass doors with a smile on your face. You were so happy—she was glowing. And even though it was late, she couldn’t resist going out again. It was just like her, taking a solo walk through the city center before bed. A lifelong habit, one she always said cleared her mind and helped her sleep better.

She sent you short videos as she wandered: one of a fancy bakery still open late, another of a busker singing near the square, and a final one of her mimicking a statue's pose like a tourist. You giggled under the covers, the sheets pulled up to your chin, your phone held just above your face.

Inho lay beside you, still in his clothes, his eyes fixed on the ceiling like he wasn’t even in the same room.

You glanced over at him, amused. “Look, Inho,” you said, turning the phone toward him, showing a selfie of your mom throwing up a peace sign at a streetlight.

He didn’t look.

His jaw was locked. His eyes distant.

“What’s wrong?” you asked finally, your voice soft.

There was a pause. Then, quietly, with a tired edge:

“I didn’t want you to meet him.”

You blinked. “Why? He seemed like a nice guy.”

His head rolled slowly to the side, eyes finally meeting yours, sharp and full of something dark.

“Well, he’s not, Y/N. He’s ruthless. Sadistic. He’s a sociopath who completely lacks empathy.”

The disgust in his voice was pure, like the taste of iron. It wasn’t just dislike—it was loathing. To Inho, Gong Yoo was a disease masquerading as civility. A man who wore charm like a mask, but behind it? Rot.

Gong Yoo didn’t believe in mercy. Didn’t believe in betterment. He believed in power. And he believed the people in debt—those desperate, crumbling souls—were beneath him. Not flawed, not lost. Just… trash. And it gave him pleasure to watch them squirm.

Inho was different, or so he believed. His morality was warped, yes—but he saw himself as merciful. Ending their suffering was a kindness. The game was, to him, an escape. A chance. Or a euthanasia, if they failed. He could sleep at night, because he believed what he did was noble. Efficient. Humane. That he was helping society. Trash in misery, but trash nonetheless.

Gong Yoo? He enjoyed the kill. And that's what made him so effective. He was a necessary evil.

You frowned. “What are you talking about? Why would a sadist work in a system that helps people?”

You didn’t get it. Of course you didn’t. Because you were good. And young. And he didn’t want to be the one to rip that innocence away.

Inho sighed, deeply, like the weight of everything was pressing into his chest.

“It’s just how his messed-up brain works, Y/N,” he said finally, his tone rougher now. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re young. And good—”

“Don’t patronize me.”

Your voice came sharper than you intended.

He looked at you. Really looked. And for a moment, you saw it—that flicker of surprise behind his eyes. Like he’d forgotten you could bite, too.

“I’m not,” he said. “I just know who’s good for you. And who’s bad. I only want what’s best for you.”

His hand reached for yours under the blanket, his grip gentle but firm. Possessive.

You studied him, unsure now. The man who held you while you cried, who made you breakfast, who called you powerful after you slapped a creep.

And yet, right now, he felt distant. As if he were holding something back. Something enormous.

Your phone lit up. A picture from your mom. She was waiting for the metro, her smile wide, her thumbs up.

Your heart warmed. You smiled at the screen.

But beside you, Inho was still staring at the ceiling—his hand around yours, holding tight.

◇

shop tucked away on a quiet Seoul street. It had the kind of ambiance you liked—low jazz playing from the speakers, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air, bookshelves lined with novels no one ever read, and warm-toned wood that made the place feel like a hideaway.

Your hands were wrapped around a latte, slowly growing cold between your palms.

Inho was gone. He’d left two days ago to supervise the Games. You wanted to go, insisted even, but he shut it down quickly—too quickly. "Recruiters aren’t allowed during the Games," he said, his tone clipped, final.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t ask. And maybe it wasn’t because you believed him, but because you didn’t want to believe anything else. Some part of you… didn’t want to know.

The chair across from you slid back with the sound of wood scraping tile.

“Mind if I join you?”

You looked up, startled. It was him—Gong Yoo. That same amused smile playing at his lips, like he knew something you didn’t. Like he always did.

He wasn’t dressed like a man at leisure. He wore a pristine suit.. And not a hair out of place.

Your body tensed. But you forced a smile. “No, not at all,” you said, gesturing to the empty chair. It felt oddly reassuring to see him, actually. If he was here, in the city, then maybe Inho really had told the truth. Maybe recruiters weren’t allowed during the Games.

He sat down with grace, folding his gloves and placing them neatly on the table.

“I see the job is treating you well,” he said, eyes trailing your face with a look that wasn’t quite intrusive, but not entirely polite either. “You look good.”

You smiled, cheeks warming faintly. “Thank you. I could say the same about you, I guess. I mean—doing the good thing must make people glow.”

You laughed at your own remark, shrugging as you sipped your coffee. It was such an obvious truth to you, so sincere.

But Gong Yoo’s smile widened, just enough to show teeth. “The good thing?” he echoed, eyes narrowing slightly in amusement.

“Uh, yes. Helping people. Obviously,” you replied, giving him a look like duh. “We’re giving them a second chance. What could be better than that?”

“Ah, of course,” he said, voice velvety. His tone held no malice, but it also held no sincerity. “The noble crusade.”

You tilted your head slightly, uncertain if he was mocking you.

Then, smoothly, casually, he changed the subject.

“Y/N, how has your mother been lately?”

The question caught you off guard, but you didn’t let it show. “She loved the trip to Seoul,” you said, relaxing into the warmth of the memory. “Now, she’s probably too busy catching up with TV shows on the new TV I got her. We haven’t talked much this week, but she’s fine.”

You laughed softly, swirling your spoon in the now-lukewarm latte.

Gong Yoo nodded, his smile still intact—but something in his eyes shifted. Just a flicker. A flash of thought.

And yet he said nothing. Just leaned back slightly in his chair, as if settling in for a longer conversation than you expected.

The jazz music played on. People came and went. And outside, clouds began to gather in the sky.

◇

One thing Inho had never lied about was Gong Yoo’s character.

He was a textbook sociopath—void of empathy, unfeeling, controlled only by his thirst for chaos. Gong didn’t just tolerate disorder; he fed on it. Thrived in it. His smile was his weapon, and his words were razors laced in silk. When he saw you and Inho together, he immediately understood everything. The softness in Inho’s eyes when he looked at you, the way his shoulders relaxed in your presence. Gong saw it all. And just one comment—“Is she your secret daughter?”—was enough to strike a crack in Inho’s composure. That was all he needed.

At first, Gong didn’t understand why Inho chose you. Why involve someone so… good? So unspoiled?

But eventually, he figured it out. Logically. Emotions weren’t something Gong could feel, but he understood them. Feelings were unpredictable, explosive. And where there’s emotion, there’s opportunity for chaos.

Now, Inho was back.

The two of you were enjoying the golden hour sun spilling across the balcony, painting the sky in hues of fading orange. You were curled up with him on a lounge chair, legs tangled, a quiet breeze brushing past.

He looked tired. Not just tired—haunted. Gaunt. Like something vital had been drained from him. The Games always left a mark on him. It was the same haunted look he wore when you met.

When he thought about it now, the irony wasn’t lost on him—that you once called yourself a parasite. But it was him. He was the one feeding off your warmth, your light, your innocence. You were the sun. He was a black hole, pulling everything into himself.

You smiled softly, straddling his lap, kissing the side of his neck. His hands rested firmly at your hips, grounding himself in the softness of you.

“You seem so tired,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “I missed you.”

He blinked, as if your words pulled him out of a trance. “You did?” he said, like it was the highest compliment he could ever receive.

“Of course,” you smiled. “You’ve been away too long.”

He exhaled, the corners of his lips tugging upward. “Were you good while I was gone?” he asked, voice low.

You pouted, playful. “I don’t know… you left me all alone.”

He chuckled under his breath, the closest thing to genuine peace he'd felt in days.

Then—ding.

Your phone buzzed on the table beside you. “That must be Mom,” you said as you reached for it. “She didn’t text me back all week.”

But it wasn’t your mom.

Your brows furrowed.

It was a strange email. No sender name. Just a title: The Truth. Two videos attached. Marked to self-delete after viewing. Your stomach twisted, instinct screaming at you to not click it. But your curiosity—a deadly thing—won.

You clicked the first video.

Inho watched you silently, brow creasing.

The screen lit up. It was your mom. She was at a metro station. Laughing. Filming herself. But the frame shifted—and then he appeared. His voice, unmistakable. Gong Yoo.

“Ma’am, would you be up for a small game?” His voice was smooth, coaxing.

“Oh, you’re the gentleman I met earlier!” she smiled politely. “What kind of game?”

“I’m sure your dear Y/N told you all about it.”

“Oh… the charity? But I don’t want to take the place of someone who really needs help. I’m doing well now.”

“It’s not like that. It’s a chance. Wouldn’t you like to pay your daughter back for all the sacrifices she’s made for you? The money she gave you?”

Your mother hesitated.

“I just feel so… guilty for her being so good,” she said softly, wiping under her eyes.

“I have to pay her back. I’m her mom, for Christ’s sake.”

And then: “Let’s play.”

“No…” you whispered. “No, Mom… it’s fine…” Your voice broke as you stared at the screen. “You didn’t have to…”

“What are you watching?” Inho’s voice was low, tight.

You stepped back. The second video was already auto-playing.

Your mom. Kneeling. Holding up a shattered dalgona cookie. Her hands trembling. Bloodshot eyes wide in terror. Behind her—bodies. Dozens of them.

“Please, no—I have a daughter—” her voice cracked.

Bang.

Her body fell like a ragdoll from her crouching position, lifeless.

Your phone slipped from your hand.

“No. No…” You couldn’t breathe. “What is this… what is this?!”

You staggered back, gasping. The weight of realization slammed into your chest like concrete. You had sent people here. To a slaughterhouse. And your mother… your sweet, gentle mother…

“Y/N, what did you see?” Inho stood, took a step toward you.

“Don’t touch me!” you shrieked, flinching violently.

“They die, Inho. The losers, they don’t go home. They die!” You hit his chest weakly, fists shaking. “You lied! You LIED!”

He didn’t fight back. He just stood there, as your fists hit his chest like falling rain.

“My mom… oh God… my poor mom,” you sobbed. “Why? WHY?!”

“She wasn’t supposed to be there,” he said finally, voice hollow. “That sick bastard—he did this to hurt me. I swear to you—”

“You’re sicker! You're fucking sicker!” You stepped back, pointing a trembling finger at him. “You let it happen! You let them DIE!”

“I only lied because I love you,” he said. His voice broke.

“Love me? Love me?!” you screamed. “Stop it. Fuck. I hate you!”

You collapsed to your knees, your chest caving under the weight of grief and betrayal. And that was the moment—the moment the bubble popped. Your blissful ignorance. Your innocence. Gone.

Inho dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes frantic, face twisted in something that looked almost like pain.

But you weren’t done.

Your fingers reached into your hair, trembling. The pin. The one he gave you. The elegant silver one with a hidden blade, for protection, he said.

“Stay away,” you whispered, pointing it at him.

His eyes widened—but he didn’t move back. He reached toward you.

You slashed his arm.

A gasp tore from his throat as blood spilled over his sleeve, but you didn’t wait to see his reaction. You turned and ran.

Out the balcony. Down the stairs. Not sparing a second for the elevator.

“Y/N! WAIT!” he shouted behind you, holding his bleeding arm, chasing you.

“I’ll go to the police!” you screamed as you hit the street. “You’ll be locked up, you psycho!”

He didn’t respond.

Because the police never mattered. The evidence was gone. The videos, deleted. And even if you had them—it wouldn’t matter. He had people on the inside. He always did.

You didn’t stop.

You ran. Ran through red lights, through horns and traffic and screams. You clutched the blade in your hand like your life depended on it. The world around you blurred—buildings, signs, people—just streaks of color and noise.

And then—a car.

The impact was instant. Bone. Glass. Screams.

Your body hit the ground hard, blood pooling beneath you.

Everything turned fuzzy. Cold. Silent.

Faces leaned over you, blurred shadows. Distant voices. But one broke through clearer than the rest.

“Y/N!” It was him.

Inho dropped to his knees beside your shattered form, blood on his hands, in his hair, in his mouth as he whispered your name like a prayer.

◇

You woke up slowly, as if surfacing from the bottom of a deep, black sea.

A dull, throbbing pain pulsed through your skull. Your eyelids fluttered open but were assaulted by the sterile white light above. The hospital room was quiet, too quiet, except for the faint rhythmic beeping of machines around you. The sheets felt cold against your skin. Your limbs were heavy, unfamiliar. You didn’t know where you were. You didn’t know… anything.

“You’re awake.”

A nurse stood over you with a soft, relieved smile, already reaching to check your vitals. Her touch was gentle, clinical.

“W-What happened?” you rasped, your voice hoarse and dry, like it hadn’t been used in years.

“You… had a psychotic break,” she said carefully, tightening the strap on your blood pressure cuff. “You were seen running with a blade in the middle of the street. A car hit you. You were unconscious when the paramedics arrived.”

You blinked at her. The words made sense, but they didn’t feel real.

“I… I don’t remember this. I don’t remember anything.”

Her expression softened further. “You have amnesia. The trauma to your head was significant. The doctors say your memory should come back, little by little.”

“How long… how long have I been here?” you asked, eyes wide.

“It’s hard to say exactly how long your recovery will take,” she replied, wrapping her stethoscope around her neck. “But one thing’s for sure—your fiancé will take good care of you. He really loves you.”

Your eyebrows drew together. Fiancé?

“He comes here every day,” she continued with a knowing smile. “Hasn’t missed a single one.”

“How long…?” your voice trembled.

“Two months,” she said. “You’ve been unconscious for two months. We notified him the moment your vitals improved. He should be here any moment.”

Later that day, after a round of brief neurological checks and routine physical exams, you sat propped up against crisp pillows, dazed, the hospital gown slightly crumpled against your skin. You were still trying to piece the world together when the door opened.

He came in like a gust of wind.

Inho.

With flowers in his arms and a look of absolute devotion on his face.

“My love,” he breathed, like he’d been holding those words in for weeks.

You stared at him.

Brows furrowed.

There was nothing. No recognition. No flutter. Just… confusion.

“Who are you?” you asked, almost apologetically.

He paused, and then gave you a smile so warm it could melt mountains. “I’m your fiancé.”

“��Do I love you?” you asked, hesitant, like a child asking about a bedtime story.

“You do,” he said, stepping closer, placing the flowers on your bedside. “Very much.”

You stared at him, your voice barely a whisper. “What happened?”

“You’re unwell, my sweet Y/N,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from your forehead. “But I’ll take care of everything. You’ll be okay. You’ll feel better before the wedding.”

“…Married?” your voice was smaller now, like you were shrinking into yourself.

“Of course,” he said, his tone bright but measured. “You were so happy when I proposed to you, Y/N.”

You blinked. “Who… who is Y/N?”

He paused only a second too long before giving you a small smile.

“It’s you,” he said gently, pulling a notebook from his coat. “And I have this for you.”

The cover was soft, pastel pink with Disney princesses on it. A child’s journal. You took it with trembling hands, running your fingers across the cover.

“What is this?” you asked.

“Your childhood diary,” he said with a tender smile. “I thought it might help. You can learn more about yourself.”

You opened it slowly. The pages smelled old and worn. Some of them were scribbled with crooked handwriting. Drawings. Innocent dreams. But you noticed many pages were gone. Ripped out. Like whole chapters of your life had been rewritten or erased.

But you didn’t know that.

The accident… it was divine intervention for Inho.

Now he could preserve the version of you he so desperately clung to—the untouched, untainted you. The one he fell in love with. The one unburdened by truth. No more questions. No more doubt. He could write the narrative now. From scratch.

You were completely his.

And you could be that sweet couple. Sweet you and your devoted, adoring fiancé.

Just like it was always meant to be.

“I think…” you said softly, looking up at him. “I think I do love you. I feel it.”

Inho smiled.

And behind that smile, there was triumph.

tag list: @sylviavf @astronomicalastro-blog1 @copixx1 @colorwastaken @warlabels @stylesofheart

#squid game #frontman x you #hwang in ho #001 squid game #lee byung hun #squid game 001 #squid game netflix #the front man #frontman x reader #hwang inho #squid game s2 #squid game fanfiction #squid game x y/n #front man x reader #front man #fanfic #need a lobotomy

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alexanderlightweight · 2 days ago

Note

Since I'm such a sucker for your universes in which Magnus "steals" Alec away from the Clave to make Alec his consort. Could I please have something where Alec is now shown off as treasured gift? Rubbing it in the Clave's face?

OR...in the same-ish vein...

All certain people know or remember of Alec is that he is a Magnus' consort, treasured, pampered - perhaps something further down the line about people forgetting just how deadly Alec is in his own right?

SFW/NSFW - though NSFW could be really interesting...

Please? Thank you! I appreciate all of your writing!

okay so I hope this goes along with the plot enough? it's kind of what I got when I tried to think of how to maybe tie the two together. so while it's not the Clave specifically, since it's tethers of fate (the last posted part is NSFW) it I think falls in the middle? Alec's still stolen? but you can send me a new prompt if it doesn't! I had quite a bit of fun with this idea and where to take it. I hope you enjoy <3

lumine

tethers of fate

*a sprinkle of cannibalism? for flavor?

Alexander’s chuckle is like the ripples of a deep pond, gentle and quiet and fading before disappearing as if never there.

His consorts face is hidden behind a veil of mithril and platinum chains with jade and pearl and opal beads. While Magnus would prefer Alexander wear a warlock mask or veil, his darling refuses, preferring the tiered antler crown from his father. It wreathes his skull in deadly bone and velvet, willingly and purposefully shed by Arawn’s most fearsome mount.

The small bells, trinkets and chains have always intertwined the tips, but it is his place as Magnus’ consort that has added the veil of metals. Alexander’s face is known to few in this realm and even fewer have truly seen it.

It pleases Magnus, to have Alexander seated next to him, wreathed in power — though he would prefer it without Arawn’s flair. Alas, as much as Alexander adores him, his lover will not further spurn his kin by going out unadorned by the masterpiece his family crafted him to wear.

It is a declaration of their protection and regardless of if he needs that protection, it is a statement.

Unfortunately, sometimes it means that the misunderstanding that Magnus and Arawn do not hate each other grows.

Like now, with an unseelie trying to win favor from both Magnus and his boy.

As if they are so easily won over.

Especially because this fae has made a mistake. No matter how long someone has been from court, they should know better than to play nice with Magnus. They should especially know better than to address him first and with obeisance rather than directing that to Alexander and ignoring Magnus.

This fae has made a terrible error.

For while Magnus simply will ignore them, Alexander will tell his father and ensure the traitor — because despite how Alexander feels about the cause, the fae is a traitor — is executed.

Or execute them himself.

Magnus sighs and flicks his fingers, settling blue fire to wreathe and settle into the veil. No matter how delicious Alexander is covered in blood, the veil is finicky about cleaning magic and he’d rather save himself the time and the trouble.

While Alexander is happy to kneel at Magnus’ side or sit prettily, most forget that he is indeed a son of Arawn. Most don’t even know that he is a stolen child and yet still make the mistake of thinking him nothing more than a pretty trinket.

As if Arawn’s children — even the stolen ones — are anything but the most deadly of beings, while displaying themselves in the most beautiful and elegant and wild of ways.

“Try not to make too much of a mess, darling.” He asks, not because he actually cares but because to his court it will be seen as clear permission.

Alexander laughs, the court and even the fae entranced by the wildness of it. The magic that Alexander’s voice holds echoes throughout his court and Magnus hates to share it, even though he knows it’s a hidden blade.

“None who claim allegiance to my father are allowed to interact with Magnus Bane, regardless that I am his consort. Magnus Bane is an anathema to any of Arawn’s courts. None who pay him homage or ask his aid are loyal.”

There’s a whisper of sadness in his voice that only Magnus can tell, yet still, he sometimes hates the position Alexander is in, even if he delights in being the one who put him there.

Alexander is on the fae with the next whisper of air, as if time stilled for a moment for him to move, yet the only sign that he’s moved is the gentle chime of his metal veil and the thud of a body as it falls.

Devoid of a heart.

Alexander sighs, long and loud as if exasperated rather than satisfied.

The court turns frenzied, though they stay away from Alexander, moving away from him rather than towards him.

They’ve forgotten that the shiny trinket by Magnus’ side is as sharp and deadly as the crown he wears and more worthy than the priceless metal and gems adorning him.

“What am I supposed to do with another heart?” Alexander mutters under his breath, yet by the way several beings react, they hear and fear. “I’m not hungry.” A shudder passes through another few and then Alexander is finally back to his side with a sigh. Magnus’ eyes are the only ones that can penetrate the magic woven into the veil. Not even Arawn’s sight can pierce the magical shield protecting Alexander’s visage from the world, not when he wears the veil.

It means the rest of the world will never see how truly bewildered Alexander is, or how annoyed he is. Alexander tends to react on instinct and while he’d probably intended to simply snap the man’s neck, Alexander has been rather stressed lately. It’s understandable that he leaned into something that would be stress-relief rather than his more logical thoughts.

It’s why Magnus used magick.

He knows his boy after all.

“Do you want it?” Alexander finally asks, offering it to him despite the fact that the very offense the heart’s owner made was being cordial with Magnus. It’s cruel, in a way. To not only further disgrace the fae, but also it’s a way to annoy Arawn. Whether Alexander means it that way or not. Truthfully, Magnus wouldn’t be surprised if Alexander simply doesn’t want to deal with it.

Already his darling has other plots, such as Magnus’ cleaning Alexander’s calloused fingers with his mouth, probably.

Magnus takes the gift, not as a potion ingredient as Alexander probably intended, but as a treat to be consumed. Magnus bites into the warm organ and lets rich and supposedly tainted angelic blood dance over his tongue.

Alexander’s eyes darken with lust and jealousy, the two emotions fighting as he watches Magnus with longing, as if upset it’s not his own heart being devoured.

AN:

People seeing alec and being like ‘wow a really shiny tree, beautiful craftsmanship’. So pretty.

Magnus: yes, it’s specifically a warning to everyone. About how deadly he is.

Everyone else: he’s so shiny and shy and quiet and well-behaved.

Magnus: ... shy? well-behaved? My Alexander? He’s just bored and not even paying attention to anything and thinks talking to my court is beneath him as a son of Arawn!!!!! He’s a snob! he's only here because of me!

Alec: people think they’re allowed to think about me? And have perceptions? About me? I’m not here to be perceived, i'm here to admire Magnus.

Also Alec: — okay so i feel better about the last three weeks... but my hand is now a mess and i don’t have any elk or little siblings to feed this heart to and i’m full and i shouldn’t just throw it. That’s fine in the forest, not in the club. My lover it is!

Magnus: this is a little cruel, even for you but i love you all the more for it

Alec: *very intently ignoring all the political and other implications because those aren’t his priorities*

Alec: — I thought you would throw it in a jar or a cauldron. Why are you kissing someone else's heart? Why are you sinking your teeth into flesh that isn’t mine???? Excuse you i’m right here and very biteable?

Magnus: *very pleased with his life choices right now, a jealous Alexander is a very aggressive Alexander*

Magnus at one point having to explain to Alexander that ‘darling you cannot just litter body parts all over the place. At least tell me so i can take care of it. This isn’t the forest, the floors dont eat things like that here’.

Alec hates concrete and asphalt and they have a giant pocket dimension on their roof that’s basically a large park sized space. Magnus has to deal with so many plants in his house but he also gets to pull out all his bone and insect and taxidermy collections. Alec’s sense of style is a bite macabre.

#lumine writes #writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #tethers of fate #malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadowhunters

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stillbothered · 3 days ago

Text

Some music for the road

My take, I think that marinette is immediately just a less interesting character than adrien by default and the writers just gave her a much bigger role and pushed adrien down for favourites sake, the show would be so much more interesting if chat was just in it more. Eg why the hell was adrien in a different country when the final battle against the villain they been battling for 5 SEASONS who also happens to be HIS DAD aiming to bring HIS MUM back to life... why was his girlfriend there but not him like what... and it's forever gonna irk me that gabriel NEVER finds out that CHAT NOIR IS AND ALWAYS HAS BEEN HIS SON... ONE OF THE GREATEST REVEALS AND YOU JUST DIDNT USE IT. Not including the fact adrien/chat doesn't even know his FATHER was MONARCH, this one is a little more forgivable since it's an ongoing plot line but the fact that his ex and his cousin know fsr but not him, they don't even use the fact they know they just do... and THEM AND HIS GF AND HIS ASSISTANT/ACTING MOTHER KNOW HES A SENTI BUT NOT HIM

.. kill me now.

Maybe its just my fomo but the way I would acc crash out if I was him rn like idc if mari get hers GIVE THIS MAN A VILLAIN ARC I BEGG. This is also just half of my rant.

Everything would be so much better if they just let Adrichat fight his own battles, fight his father, fight his COUSIN. literally emotion would be so good if after ladybug cast her lucky charm it was a ring telling her holdup imma let chat deal with this one (cuz tikki would know their cousins) and pretend felix never snapped adrien, chat has a fight with him and reveals he is adrien and they can just talk in an empty paris and we could get to know their relationship and MAYBE HE COULD FIND OUT HES A SENTI PLSSSSSSSS. Kagami could also fit there somewhere I honestly have nothing bad to say about her tbh.

My (probably) last point is Chat blanc, it was one of the breaking points where LB starts to leave CN cuz she can't trust him. In the mlb uni getting akumatized is a weakness and gives off a lack of control. YET IT HAPPENED TO CN 3 times without a fail like I get his dad can control him but he couldn't have borrowed one of Mari's 8 failed akumatizations??

Chat should've fought Cat blanc cuz it gives him a good reason to finally stop being in love with Ladybug if thats how u want the story to go. Cuz in s4, when he stopped loving her, it felt weird he was so smitten one episode then rejecting her the next?? It was too sudden. Chat blanc could be him realizing, my love for her is too dangerous and yada yada his feelings hath changed, then he can focus on smth else (LIKE BEING THE MAIN CHARACTER IN HIS OWN DAMN SHOW) also s4 him was not it he was too pushy and honestly both mari and chat need to learn to back up cuz can this show not convey boundaries properly? Like spending your parents savings to follow ur CRUSH across the globe is crazy work, and trying to destroy a sub in for ur partner out of jealous rage is no better. I hate how sometimes chats whole thing is needing ladybug I wish they just explored what HE needs not just his one sided love cuz it gets to a point

Anyw thanks for still listening to my half asleep poorly written rant and babyeeeeeee

#chatnoir #mlb #hot take #miraculous fanart #miraculous #rant #rant post #cat noir #ladybug and chat noir #Spotify

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linkons-most-wanted · 2 days ago

Note

Love your high school AU! How would you rank the LIs with respect to their overall academic performance and considering how much they actually care about it? (I feel like Zayne would be first place but Sylus is kinda competitive so...)

Oooh I love this question!

Smarts-wise, Sylus and Zayne are neck-and-neck. They have different kinds of genius. Sylus is intuitive and Zayne is methodical.

I think Sylus is simply too ADHD to care enough about grades to have his GPA reflect his intelligence, though. 😂 Teachers that vibe with him (by having reasonable and non-shitty policies) would be giving him A+ across the board, whereas in other classes if he thinks the homework is stupid he's just not going to do it. So he'd be the classic student where the teachers bemoan that he's "not living up to his potential". But he writes some damn good poetry.

Now Zayne, on the other hand--give him a rule and he's going to follow it. The man simply cannot do anything half way, and he's masochistic enough to do what needs to be done to get the grades (lookin' at you, med school). As a quintessential type five, he simply will not rest until he knows All The Things. The grade is secondary--if he can't ace the test, then he doesn't know All The Things and so he must study more.

Caleb's the one that's going to get really competitive. He's as ADHD as Sylus, but you think he's gonna let pipsqueak see Zayne be better at something than him without a fight? Hell no! Caleb will be casual about it at all times, of course, but as we know from Pathless Realms he was a top student at the Aerospace Academy. He's also going to subtly avoid topics he might not be as good at, packing his schedule with things that come easily to him. (Very type seven of him.)

I'm totally blanking on who made it, but I saw a lil comic about Zayne and Caleb where Zayne had no idea he was top of the class and Caleb was checking the rankings daily and trying to give Zayne a hard time, but Zayne was totally oblivious, and I just thought that was spot on. 😂

Xavier is definitely next up--he's mentioned that he got good grades in subjects he cared about, but not the others. So, he's up there, but def has a B- or a C+ floating around in there 😂 He's also maybe fallen asleep during a midterm or two...

Then we hav our dear fishie. Rafayel is as averse to being told what to do as Sylus, but completely unmotivated by status or money. Any time spent in class is time not spent on art. Any time studying is time not spent on art. Why exactly do I have to do anything that's not art? seems dumb. I'm sure he's got his teachers begging him to turn in the extra credit assignments so they don't have to fail him for the year because wow yeah his art is incredible.

It's not that Rafayel isn't smart. He picks up on more than people realize--as his teachers find when they try to call him out for doodling in the back of class and he immediately gives a complete and correct answer. But if he got really into a painting this week, yeah he's gonna skip the homework. And maybe he'll put in an effort for 70% of the test, but that's probably good enough, and he's gonna circle C for the rest of the questions and go back to doodling (probably MC) in the margins of his notebook.

Art history though? He can teach that class--and he does. Substitute teacher who? Just say something vaguely controversial and you can't stop Rafayel from talking about it. All that math stuff is for someone else to figure out. (Poor Thomas 😂)

Rafayel is also 100% going to pretend to be confused to get MC to tutor him. "I don't get it, can you explain it again?" (He already aced the homework last week.) Being doted on by her sweet, earnest, diligent efforts to explain? A million times better than getting A's.

So it's definitely Zayne > Caleb > Xavier right at the top of the class rankings.

Then, whether Sylus or Rafayel have worse grades depends a lot on whether Sylus sees an opportunity to drop out and start his own business. Why compete with other high school students for a piece of paper when you can be out there making real money, y'know?

If they both manage to graduate, they're pretty even in terms of DGAF energy 😂 But they'd also both be way higher in the class rankings than other people expect. The delinquent and the artist who never does his homework in the top 25%? What? How!

#anon ask #answered #ignore all my lol emojis I'M A MILLENIAL OKAY #lads hs au #lads character analysis #lads character discussion #sylus character analysis #sylus character discussion #lads xavier #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads sylus #lads caleb #lads drabble #lads fanfic #lads headcanons #sylus headcanons

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piistaciio · 2 days ago

Text

The “Home Care Attendant” ™️ DCA AU

(all subject to change as i expand on this au)

Fazbear gets into some legal trouble that nearly puts them out of business, forcing them to lie low for a while and shut the plex's doors to visitors while things are sorted.

In an attempt not to lose money, Fazbear had the idea to use their daycare attendant as a ‘home care’ attendant. Considering it was already reprogrammed once to look after small children, Fazbear thought, 'Why not?' A caregiver wasn't that much farther off, right? :)

Rebranded as the "Home Care Attendant"(™️)

…

Takes place after Security Breach, Gregory does not mutilate the other animatronics to be able to escape the plex/stay safe until morning.

This AU uses the idea of Vanny being the one to infect Moon with a virus that makes him hostile in the night.

But as Fazbear lies low, Moon finds he’s.. in control of himself again? And it stays that way as they are reprogrammed and fitted for their new job.

Sun and Moon got to coexist with each other without fear, catch up, and grow close again in the couple of weeks it took for Fazbear to get them all sorted.

…

Cut to one of Cio’s (my insert/sona) online friends seeing this ad for an in-home caregiver robot, ‘for any age!’

They know their friend has been struggling lately, even though she doesn't think so.

So one day there's a knock on Cio's front door and there's a truck unloading this giant ass box???

She tries to make her friend take it back cause ‘omg wtf how expensive was this???’

Friend said too bad, the company they bought it from was adamant about no refunds, and they didn't need an in-home robot caregiver.

“If you rly don't need it, just resell it.”

…

Cio eventually accepts, at the end of the day, when is she ever going to be able to see a robot in person ever again, let alone own one? In this economy???

Especially as a former retail worker on unemployment, using art as a secondary income.

Has to sign a thick pamphlet of liability forms to be able to use it.

Cio skims and signs (we all hate reading terms, but girlie pls)

Comes with a concerningly thinner user guide, as if it was hastily put together or written with the bare minimum legal content needed to ‘sell’ the DCA to the public and generate extra money for Fazbear.

As well as only a singular, fine print, Fazbear branding in an inconspicuous spot on their packaging.

Shit feels sketchy but there are also no refunds/returns.

“The HCA comes fully charged and ready to help you in your day-to-day life!”

That was a damn lie.

…

[Mini drabble for their beginnings below]

Cio squinting at the vague ass instructions of this, intimidatingly larger than she thought, robot is sat in the middle of her living room floor.

“So I just…” squints at the pages, “Wait, why do I have to plug it in if it's supposed to be charged?? Ugh, this is feeling more and more scammy by the second..”

She looks closely at the robot again, its blank sun and moon-themed face and well-built body.

“But it is like an actual fully made robot or- whatever, so maybe not?” Shrugs as she opens the back panel and connects its cord to the extension cord she had plugged into the wall to be able to reach it.

Lights flicker but don't quite trip the breaker

“Oooo boy.. you take a lot of power. I better go unplug some stuff;;”

Comes back and looks the bot over, wondering and checking with the bare minimum instructions on how long this “fully charged” robot was going to take to turn on.

“Bro.. They shouldn't have even included these instructions if they were gonna be this vague about them-” eyes widen as she reads down, “ ‘charging can take anywhere between 5 and 15 hours???’ Ughhhh…”

Cio sighs, looking around, then looking at the bot, “You better be worth it,” she huffed, booping its flat nose.

…

It takes halfway into the night for Sun and Moon to be fully charged. And by that time, in the dark/very dim ‘candlelight’, it's Moon who comes out first, Sun's rays tucking in and his hat popping out.

They hadn't been turned on since Fazbear tweaked them to be what they are now. Why waste the power of a currently closed plex on charging animatronics waiting to be bought?

Moon groaned, body's joints stiff from lack of motion for who knows how long, Fazbear left them uncharged.

[[🌙: Ugh.. Sunny..? ☀️: I'm here.. are we.. 🌙: Yeah.. I think so.. Oh- huh ☀️: what?? What is it?? 🌙: I think I just met our charge. ☀️: Really?? Oh I wanna meet them too!! Do they look nice?? 🌙: That'll have to wait, they're asleep ☀️: Asleep?? Aww…]]

Moon looks down at the sleeping form on the floor in front of him. Hair tousled, cheek smeared with graphite from their sketchbook, as they breathed quietly.

Moon huffed.

They had no knowledge about the person in front of them or what they were like, but it wasn't in his programming to leave someone uncomfortable as they slept.

He unplugged himself from the extension cord and closed their panel. His metal strained as he stretched, flexing his fingers and such before gently and carefully picking up the short human, taking care not to disturb them.

In such a small home, it didn't take him long to find their bedroom. If he had a working nose it would have wrinkled at the messy state of the room.

[[🌙: it's a good thing you're aren't out right now, Sunny ☀️: what, why?? 🌙: messy.. ☀️: Mmmmm- 😣]]

Moon snickers quietly as he lays the human down in their bed, covering them with their blanket. Cio shifts a bit to get comfortable but doesn't stir beyond that.

On a full charge, Moon takes the time to poke around the home, while getting scolded by Sun about privacy and such.

And after tidying a little bit, takes a seat on the bay window in their new charge’s room, looking up at the night sky. A bit in awe, they'd never really gotten a good look at the outside, having been in the 'Plex their entire lives.

...

Unsure if I will make an actual fic about this AU, but this is the world any art of my sona and the boys will be based in!

Thank you for giving it a read! ♥

And feel free to hop into my asks with any questions you may have!

#dca #dca au #dca sun #dca moon #fnaf dca #fnaf au #dca x y/n #dca x self insert #sundrop #moondrop #HCA au #cio talks

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just-some-random-blogger · 5 hours ago

Text

Just watched sense and sensibility today, reblogged a bunch of Alan Rickman stuff then this popped on my dash. All I can say is God bless you and God bless Tumblr ❤️ literally have no idea wtf this fic is based on BuT YOU BEST BELIEVE I WILL SOO FIND OUT AFTER READING THIS OF COURSESS UGGHHH

Forty-eight hours in which your entire understanding of what happened between you shattered under the unbearable weight of silence.

INCREDIBLE WRITING. CHEWING IN BROKEN GLASS.

Then he fucked you like he meant it—like he felt it—and whispered that you were his.

THE WAY I SCREAMED MY SISTER TOLD ME TO SHUT UP. THE WAYS I WAS LIKE WHERE ISSSS ITTTTT THEN I SAW THERES A P1 AHAHHHHHHH

You’d told yourself you weren’t surprised. That it was predictable, expected. That a man like him—older, respectable, decorated—wouldn’t stick around for a dancer with glitter in her bra and rent to pay. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe it had been a moment of weakness, something shameful he’d locked away the minute he left the club. Maybe you were just another story he’d never tell.

Chew his ass bestie

You didn’t smile. You danced.

You didn’t owe him that anymore. And when the manager slipped into the dressing room with a folded bill and the usual nod—“Private request, table three”—you didn’t even ask who. You just said, “Tell him I’m not available tonight.”

ATEEE YOU TELL HIM BABE

And that, more than anything, pissed him off. It wasn’t like him. Not in the field. Not in boardrooms. Not when staring down ministers or generals or even drone feeds with lives on the line. But here? Sitting in a back room of a strip club, waiting for a woman half his age to walk through the door with that soft smile and the scent of violets curling around her skin?

GRRRRRRR I DO LOVE ME A WANTING YEARNING PATHETIC MAN THOOO

He was fucking anxious.

And he didn’t have your number—he hadn’t asked. Stupid. Stupid, like a schoolboy who thought the connection between you had been enough. Like a man who hadn’t been left before.

YOURE STILL A MAN THO. PATHETIC. YOU CAN GO DOWN ON ME ANY TIME. UGHHH I LOVE HIM SHAKING IN HIS BOOTS

But he was here now. And all he wanted was to see you. Touch your hair. Kiss that goddamn smirk off your lips and tell you he’d missed you so much it had physically hurt.

Him:

“She said she’s not doing privates tonight,” the manager repeated, a little firmer now. “Sorry, sir.”

🗣️📢PERIOD

Frank stared at him for a beat too long, not quite understanding. That was the first time you’d ever turned him down. Ever. Not even on nights you were tired, or busy, or pulled away for other things. You always came. Always looked for him.

DESERVED BUT ALSO I ACTUALLY FELT BAD FOR HIM?

“Fuck,” he muttered, low and vicious, dragging a hand over his face. “Stupid old bastard.”

WAIT NO CUZ IVE NEVER FELT REMORSE FOR A FICTIONAL MAN BEFORE EVEN IF ITS A BLORBO DIE FOR ALL I CARE BUT LIKE??? 🫵WITCH🫵 HOW COULD YOU MAKE ME FEEL SMTH FOR HIM

You were giggling at something he said, your fingers toying with his collar, your head tilted back like this was the highlight of your fucking week.

🗣️AS🗣️YOU🗣️SHOULD🗣️

“Should’ve known better,” he growled under his breath, yanking the door open. “Christ. Falling in love with a woman who takes her fucking clothes off for a paycheck—what the hell’s wrong with you, Frank?”

🥺 but also 😌 suffer

He wasn’t thinking straight. He knew he wasn’t. His pulse was a war drum, his thoughts a storm. Logic, reason, restraint—they scattered like ash in the wake of the fury tightening in his chest. His feet carried him back toward the strip club without permission, heavy boots thudding over the pavement like gunshots.

NO BUT THIS WAS SO GOOD TO VIVID AND CRUNCHY AND I LOVVEEE THE IMAGERY THE SENSORY EXPERIENCE LOVEEE

“What the hell does Grandpa want?” the younger man muttered behind a smug smirk, eyes sweeping Frank’s military uniform like he was sizing up a Halloween costume. “Wrong war, old man.”

Frank finally looked at him—hazel eyes narrowed, baritone cold and lethal. “She’s not yours,” he said. “And you so much as step toward her, I’ll put you through the fucking floor.”

Me next

Frank didn’t look at you at first. He just shrugged off his long coat—heavy, still warm from his body—and draped it over your shoulders in one motion.

“I didn’t even touch you,” he said, softer now. “All that time. Didn’t even try. Didn’t ask for your number. I thought—Jesus, I thought—” He looked away, jaw flexing. “You didn’t come to the booth. You looked at me like I didn’t matter. Like I was no one. After everything.”

ugHHHH HES SO PATHETIC AND WANTING AND

Your bottom lip trembled. He leaned down, voice a velvet rasp. “Come home with me.”

Done. Next question. You do not have to worry about me you do not have to worry about me.

“Keep walking,” Frank snarled, his baritone cutting the air like a whip. “Unless you want to lose your fucking eyes.”

HES SO DJDJDJNDNDN

Frank leaned in, nose brushing yours, voice a low growl. “Did it feel like charity two nights ago? When I had you in my lap, when I fucked you so deep you couldn’t remember your own name? When you came screaming for me like I was the only man who ever made you feel like that?”

I NEEEEEEEEEEED

The Officer’s Girl

Summary: Frank Benson doesn't do feelings, but she’s not just another girl in a booth. When she shuts him out, he learns what it means to lose control.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Jealousy

Author's Notes: I wrote this second chapter for Frank while listening to Beyoncé’s song ‘Haunted.’ So, if you’d like, you can play that song while reading it!

First and Second part here.