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alistorz · 1 month ago

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FRAGMENT OF US

(Aespa x Male Reader Fanfiction)

Chapter 2 - Hope, Not Lies

11821 words

~ “It’s strange how quiet the world feels when you’re waiting for something to change.” ~

A.N - First of all, huge sorry. Its been like more then a month. And this chapter, is a kind of a mess since it was rush. More notes at the end. Thank you.

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

They say time heals everything.

But what if time only makes things worse?

What if, the longer it stretches, the deeper the wounds become?

There’s no alarm sound. Nothing but silence.

Soft raindrops tapped against the window, their rhythmic patterning the only sound in the silent dorm room. Gray light seeped through the half-open blinds, casting a dull, lifeless glow over the space. The air was cold, damp, carrying the scent of rain-soaked concrete from outside.

Y/N lay on his thin mattress, staring at the ceiling, unmoving. His body felt heavy, his limbs sinking into the stiff fabric of his sheets. His mind was awake, yet he lacked the will to move. He didn't know how long he'd been like this—minutes, maybe hours. Not that it mattered.

He wasn't avoiding sleep. Sleep had long abandoned him. His eyes burned from exhaustion, but every time he closed them, he heard it again.

"It’s getting worse… Surgery is the only option now."

His mother’s voice, strained yet trying to remain composed, echoed in his skull.

"It’s expensive, sweetheart… We don’t know what to do."

Neither did he.

He clenched his jaw, pressing his forearm over his eyes as if to block out the memories. But they remained. "I’ll figure it out." It had been a promise, spoken without thought. A desperate attempt to assure her—to assure himself—that he would find a way. That he wouldn’t just sit here, useless, while his father’s life depended on money they didn’t have.

But what if that was all he was? Useless?

The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the window. A distant rumble of thunder rolled through the sky. His cracked phone lay beside him, the dull screen reflecting his worn-out expression. He picked it up, swiping down to refresh his inbox.

No new emails. No job offers. No responses. Just silence.

Y/N exhaled sharply, sitting up. His body ached in protest, his muscles stiff from nights of tossing and turning. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, fingers briefly stopping at his temple, where a dull headache pulsed. He needed to move. To do something. Because if he sat here any longer, he might drown in his own thoughts.

—-

At first, he had been hopeful. The moment he ended that call with his mother, he hadn’t wasted a second. He had jumped onto every job website he could find, filling out applications until his fingers ached from typing. Cafés, convenience stores, delivery services, tutoring gigs—if the job existed, he applied. It didn’t matter if he was qualified or not. He just needed something.

But reality was cruel.

Some places responded, only to reject him outright. Others simply ignored his applications, leaving them to rot in the void of job portals.

A week into his search, Y/N started looking physically—walking into stores, asking managers face-to-face if they needed help.

The first café he entered had been promising. The place was small, cozy, and not too busy. Maybe, just maybe, they needed an extra hand.

"Excuse me," he had asked, forcing a polite smile at the barista behind the counter. "Are you hiring by any chance?"

The worker barely glanced at him before calling out, "Boss?" A man in his late 30s appeared from the back, his expression tired before Y/N even said a word.

"I was wondering if you had any job openings," Y/N explained quickly. "I can work part-time, full-time—whatever you need. I learn fast, I won’t cause trouble—"

"Not hiring," the boss cut in, voice flat, uninterested. "Try somewhere else."

Y/N hesitated. "Are you sure? I can work any—"

"Listen, kid." The man sighed. "I already have too many employees. Adding another one? That’s just extra baggage."

Y/N swallowed the lump in his throat. "I… I understand. Thank you for your time."

He walked out feeling the sting of rejection, but he convinced himself it was just one failed attempt. But then came the second. And the third. And the tenth.

At a convenience store, the manager barely let him finish speaking before shaking his head. "We’re fully staffed. We don’t need another worker slowing us down."

At a delivery company, the receptionist didn’t even look up from her computer. "No foreigners, sorry."

A tutoring job at a local cram school? "We require a college degree."

He even tried a small diner run by an elderly couple. The old woman had been kind, but when he asked about work, she only gave him a sympathetic smile.

"I wish I could help, son, but times are hard. We’re barely making enough as it is."

It became a cycle. Wake up. Apply. Walk around. Ask. Get rejected. Repeat. Each day, his feet ached more. His motivation thinned. His savings shrank. Hope, once so determined, now felt like a candle struggling against the wind.

Y/N sighed, shaking himself from the memory. Outside, the rain still fell. The cold air seeped into the room, making his already drained body feel even heavier. His stomach grumbled in protest, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since last night. He ignored it.

He grabbed his phone and refreshed his inbox one more time.

Nothing.

How much longer could he keep going? Was there even a point in trying anymore?

Y/N clenched his fists, inhaling sharply. He couldn't let himself break. Not yet.

He had to keep going.

Because the moment he stopped trying… everything would fall apart.

By the time Y/N returned to his dorm, he was soaked down to his skin. Again. His shoes squelched with every step down the corridor, drawing a few annoyed looks from fellow students passing by. He didn’t care. He barely even noticed.

It has become a routine now. The same damn routine.

Grey skies. Cold rain. A silent walk home with nothing but wet shoes and a heavier heart. It was like living inside a loop, a bad scene playing over and over. Each time he walked the same road, stood at the same doors, and heard the same answers.

He didn’t even flinch when the hallway light flickered above him as he stepped into the dorm. Everything was predictable now—his rejections, the silence that followed, and the familiar ache in his chest when he realized nothing had changed

The worst were the ones who didn’t even bother to respond. No emails. No callbacks. Just silence.

Y/N had scrolled through dozens of listings, applied to every job that didn’t explicitly say Korean native only, and even some that did—out of sheer desperation. He handed out resumes in person, walking for hours to save the cost of public transport. But in the end, every effort led back here: to a damp room, to soggy clothes, to silence.

As he reached for his phone to check for new replies—anything—a notification flashed across the top of the screen.

[1 New Email] – Professor Seonghyun (Academic Supervisor)

His heart skipped.

For a second, he thought maybe—just maybe—someone had referred him to a position, or maybe his professor wanted to help. He opened the email, eyes scanning fast.

But his heart quickly dropped.

—

Subject: Concern Regarding Your Recent Academic Performance

Y/N,

I hope you're well. I've noticed a decline in your performance and attendance over the past two weeks. Your recent midterm score was well below your average, and I’m concerned.

If there's something going on, please don’t hesitate to reach out. That said, improvement is crucial. Continued decline could affect your scholarship status.

Best, Prof. Seonghyun

—

He stared at the screen.

Of course. Of course that would start falling apart too.

His jaw tightened. He turned the screen off and tossed the phone onto the bed.

Was there anything in his life that wasn’t slipping away?

His grades. His home back in his country. His father’s health. His future. All crumbling, slowly and then all at once.

And now the very thing that brought him here—his scholarship—was at risk, too.

For a moment, Y/N just sat there, unmoving, letting the silence crawl into his lungs like smoke. The cheap ticking of the clock above his desk was the only sound in the room. He didn’t know how long he sat like that.

But eventually, he stood up.

Not out of motivation. Not out of hope.

Just because he couldn’t sit still anymore.

He moved toward the tiny kitchenette to make something warm—ramyeon again, the last packet. As the water boiled, he stared at the steam rising from the pot, eyes unfocused. The heat fogged his glasses slightly, but he didn’t bother wiping them.

In a few more days, he might not even be able to afford the water bill.

—---

He didn’t know how long he had been lying there, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Minutes? Hours? Time has stopped meaning anything lately. At some point, his body moved on its own. Not because he had a plan or destination in mind—he just needed to get out. He grabbed his hoodie—still damp—and stepped outside.

The rain hadn’t stopped. It never did, not these days. The skies above Seoul felt like they were syncing with his mood—gray, weeping, and indifferent.

Y/N walked. Not to submit another job application. Not to hand out resumes. Not even to check his phone. He just walked.

He passed glowing cafés filled with warmth and noise. Laughter behind glass. Friends chatting over coffee. Couples huddled close beneath umbrellas. The world was moving forward—unbothered, uninterrupted—while he felt like he was drifting through it like a ghost, unseen and unneeded.

The city around him buzzed with life, but it only made the silence inside his chest louder.

Eventually, his feet brought him to a familiar bench by a quiet bus stop. He didn’t remember choosing to go there. He just did.

Sitting down, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head heavy. His hoodie clung to him, soaked and uncomfortable, like everything else he couldn’t shake off. He wasn’t crying. Not really. But his lips parted just enough to let something slip out—barely audible under the sound of the rain.

“…What else do I even have left?”

No answer came. No one around seemed to notice or care. The sky above offered nothing but more rain. The bench gave no warmth. He sat in it for a while longer, then eventually stood up and wandered back to his dorm, not because he felt better—just because there was nowhere else to go.

Once home, he changed into dry clothes. Not out of comfort. Just… routine. Then he sat at his desk, eyes blank, laptop closed, his textbooks untouched. He couldn’t bring himself to try anymore.

That’s when his phone buzzed.

He barely noticed it at first, assuming it was another push notification or a job site reminding him of all the places that weren’t hiring him. But it didn’t stop.

He reached for it lazily, ready to silence whatever it was—but froze when he saw the screen.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER]

No name. No label. Just a number.

He stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. He didn’t want to pick it up. He had no energy left for another disappointment. But something—small, stubborn—kept him from letting it go.

The call was seconds from ending when he finally tapped the green button and raised the phone to his ear.

“…Hello?”

—----------------------------------------------------

The lights were blinding, the mics were off, and the final round of smiles had just been flashed to the cameras.

“Thank you for joining us, Aespa!” the host said brightly, their voice still riding the wave of on-air enthusiasm.

The girls waved back in unison — four polished smiles, picture-perfect.

Karina’s elegance led the curve of the moment, Winter’s quiet warmth followed behind it, Giselle’s smirk added the spark, and Ningning’s playful beam sealed the frame with energy.

The cameras cut. They bowed. And once they stepped away from the lights, out of frame and off the stage, the glow dulled.

Backstage was colder — both literally and metaphorically.

They entered the green room without a word, the heavy door clicking shut behind them. Staff still moved around them in a rush — producers, stylists, camera operators — voices echoing off the walls with directions and calls for final wrap-ups. But Aespa themselves were still.

A small junior group passed by just as the girls entered. Fresh faces, wide eyes, that stage-sweat glow of adrenaline still on them. One of them bowed quickly and stammered, “You were amazing, sunbaenim!”

“Thank you,” Ningning replied with a kind smile, her voice airy but distant.

Another junior glanced toward Karina and said something about having grown up watching their performances. Karina smiled, nodded, and offered a soft “That’s sweet of you.”

Winter gave a quiet quip — something teasing about how they’re not that old yet — and the rookies laughed awkwardly before continuing down the hall.

Once the green room door closed, the masks slid off effortlessly.

Karina lowered herself onto the couch, smoothing out her outfit as she sat. Across from her, Winter tilted her head back and closed her eyes, saying nothing. Giselle sank into the corner of the L-shaped couch, scrolling through her phone with slow, distracted swipes. Ningning leaned against the wall and stared at her own screen, her thumb idle against it.

On the table in front of them, a tray of food and drinks had been left by one of the staff — neatly prepared, clearly with care. Fruit cups, boxed meals, vitamin drinks, and iced teas. Not one of the girls touched it.

The room was neither loud nor quiet — just... muted. Like a TV with the volume turned too low.

Karina watched them from her seat. Her members. Her sisters.

Giselle, who once couldn’t go five minutes without bantering with her, hadn’t said more than three words since the stage.

Ningning, who used to share memes during their breaks and lean into her shoulder like a younger sibling craving warmth, had barely glanced up from her screen. There was no teasing, no playful jabs, no sparkle.

And Winter — the one she shared the closest bond with, the one she once exchanged ridiculous jokes and tongue-tied inside gags with — now sat in complete silence, lost in her own space.

Karina's gaze softened. When did we stop filling the room with noise?

Giselle’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, exhaled quietly, and locked the screen again.

“That guy again?” Karina asked gently, breaking the stillness.

Giselle shrugged, eyes fixed forward. “It’s nothing.”

Karina didn’t press. But she could tell it wasn’t nothing.

Ningning spoke up, almost to herself, “My mom called earlier. I didn’t answer.”

Karina turned slightly toward her. “Why not?”

“I couldn’t fake a smile today,” she said simply, eyes still on her screen.

No one responded. Not because they didn’t care, but because they understood.

The sound of the door clicking open didn’t stir much of a reaction.

Harin stepped in with a tablet clutched to her chest, her eyes briefly scanning the quiet room. The girls were scattered — Ningning sitting on the makeup chair scrolling her phone, Winter curled up on one end of the couch with her arms folded, Giselle with her legs pulled up, head resting back, eyes half-lidded. Karina sat near the corner, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, quiet and still.

“Hey,” Harin greeted softly, mindful of her tone. “You all did great out there. Seriously.”

Ningning gave a small smile without looking up. Giselle lifted a hand in a half-wave. Winter nodded, almost imperceptibly. Karina met her eyes for a brief second and offered a tired but polite nod.

There was something in the air that Harin recognized immediately — a weight she’d seen too often lately.

She looked around at the scene — quiet, drained, heavy. She didn’t say it out loud, but her eyes lingered for a moment too long. She noticed the untouched water bottles, the barely eaten snack trays, and the silence that had settled like dust on everything.

She exhaled, then walked over a few steps and lowered her voice. “I came to tell you something — a bit of a heads-up.”

She hesitated before continuing. “So, uh… I wanted to let you know that the company’s HR team is in the middle of recruiting again. They’re searching for a new probationary manager.”

Giselle’s thumb paused mid-scroll.

Winter slowly blinked but said nothing.

Ningning turned slightly from the mirror, brows lifting. “Another one?”

Karina’s gaze sharpened. “What happened to the last one?”

Harin’s lips pressed together for a second before giving the answer. “He accepted an offer from HYBE. Better pay. Less chaos.”

Giselle scoffed under her breath and muttered something in English too quiet to catch.

“Wasn’t he only around for… two months?” Karina asked, straightening up.

“Forty-seven days,” Harin replied dryly. “Not even enough time to memorize your coffee orders.”

“So, what’s this one like?” Winter asked. Her voice was quiet, tinged with her usual dry sarcasm, but her eyes remained fixed on the wall.

“Unknown,” Harin admitted, rolling her tablet gently against her fingertips. “We haven’t hired anyone yet. The process just started. Could be male, female — idol-savvy or completely green. I just thought it was better you heard it from me before someone randomly shows up mid-schedule like a surprise group assignment.”

Ningning let out a long breath, leaning back in her chair with a tired tilt of her head. “And we’re the test subjects again…”

Karina leaned back, expression unreadable. “Do we even have time to train someone?”

“Not really,” Harin admitted, with a hollow chuckle. “But if we don’t… you’ll keep getting shuffled between twenty different assistants who don’t know the difference between a live mic and a prop.”

That earned a faint snort from Winter. Giselle shook her head slowly, lips twitching without humor.

“No one’s asking you to love them,” Harin added, her voice softening now, carrying a thread of sincerity. “Just… give them a chance. Even if they’re clueless. You never know — they might surprise you.”

Karina didn’t answer right away. Her gaze drifted over her members, then toward the untouched food on the table, the damp tissues scattered near the makeup kits, the space around them that felt full and empty at once.

That’s what they said about the last five.

And still, none of them stayed. None of them saw them. Not really.

I hoped for honey once, she thought. But all I got was sugar water.

Harin looked like she wanted to say more — there was a small crease between her brows that hadn’t left since she entered — but her tablet buzzed with a new alert, flashing urgent.

“I’ll keep you updated,” she said, glancing at the door. “And if something feels off, don’t hesitate to tell me. I’ll do my best to make this one work.”

With a quiet wave, she stepped out of the room and disappeared into the hallway bustle.

The silence returned like a curtain falling. No one spoke for a while.

Winter leaned forward to grab her water bottle and unscrewed the cap slowly. “Forty-seven days,” she mumbled.

Giselle pulled her hoodie over her head. “That’s a record.”

Karina didn’t laugh. But a thought flickered through her mind — faint, fleeting.

What if this one’s different?

She didn’t say it aloud. She wouldn’t. Hope was dangerous like that.

But still… maybe this time, the sugar might not be so plain.

The dorm was silent when Jimin slipped out.

She left a quiet message in the group chat — just in case the others woke up and wondered. “Going for some air. Don’t wait up.”

No security. No staff. No assistant shadowing her every step.

Just her hoodie pulled low, her mask snug, and the weight of the day hanging off her shoulders like a wet coat she couldn’t shake.

The air outside wasn’t fresh. Seoul at midnight was thick with neon buzz and exhaust. But to her, it was still a relief — not the recycled chill of makeup rooms or the conditioned quiet of luxury vans. This was air that didn’t carry the scent of hairspray and pressure.

She walked aimlessly, letting her feet decide the direction. The city moved around her like a dream she wasn’t part of — couples sharing headphones, students lugging backpacks too big for their bodies, a man arguing softly on the phone, delivery scooters buzzing like flies. Life, raw and unfiltered, pulsed around her.

She paused near a small street stall — its striped tarp flapping in the breeze, steam curling from its tiny griddle. Karina’s steps slowed. The smell of tteokbokki — sweet and spicy — curled into her lungs. Her stomach gave the tiniest lurch.

A grandmother, no younger than her late 50s, waved at her like she’d been expecting her all night.

“Good evening, dear,” the woman said, her voice kind and familiar.

Jimin bowed slightly, her voice muffled through her mask. “A serving of tteokbokki, please.”

As the woman worked, the smell of gochujang sauce warmed the air around her. A few meters away, four students sat on plastic stools, laughing through mouthfuls of rice cakes, their chatter louder than the street noise. They looked barely twenty — probably still in high school. Carefree, still soft around the edges, not yet trimmed down by life. One of the girls spoke animatedly, arms flailing mid-story.

“I still think I’ll get into architecture,” one of them said.

“No way. You get stressed building IKEA shelves,” another teased.

“I’m serious! It’s either that or game design. I just want to make cool things.”

“I just want to live in a villa and wake up at noon.”

Karina’s lips tugged upward beneath her mask.

It reminded her — almost too much — of something she'd buried beneath all the comebacks and encores. Of her and Winter sneaking out late during trainee days. Pocket money in hand. Sitting just like that. Eating tteokbokki on a curb. Talking about dreams that still had blurry edges.

“Miss?”

She blinked, realizing the ajumma had called her more than once. She bowed quickly. “Ah, I’m sorry. Thank you.” She handed over the bills and accepted the warm tray in both hands.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, she stepped toward the group of students. They looked up, confused by her approach.

The four froze mid-bite, their expressions flickering with surprise. One girl blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

They hesitated — naturally. One of them even looked around as if checking for a hidden camera.

Then, with a breath of courage, she lowered her mask just enough for them to see.

“Mind if I join you for a minute?” Karina asked, amused by their confusion.

And four jaws hit the floor.

One gasped. “Oh my god.”

“No freaking way—”

“You’re—You’re Karina.”

“Are we being pranked right now?”

Karina laughed softly and waved a hand. “No prank. Just… saw you all talking, and it reminded me of someone I used to be. That’s all.”

Still dazed, they shuffled to make room on the curb. Karina sat, folding her legs beneath her.

One by one, they shared their dreams again — a teacher, a designer, a streamer, a nurse. Each story, sincere and raw and wrapped in the kind of hope Jimin hadn't heard in too long.

She sat with them for a few minutes longer, just listening. Laughing with them. Letting herself forget the things waiting for her back home.

When they asked for a photo, she didn’t hesitate. She took the pictures, signed their trays with a pen the vendor lent her, and waved them off as they bowed over and over in thanks.

Karina resumed her walk, biting into the soft, spicy rice cakes as she went. She passed an ad board flashing their comeback visuals — her own face blown up ten feet tall, polished and perfect. She didn’t look at it long. She turned her gaze away before it reminded her too much of the version of herself the world expected to see.

Further down, she spotted the flickering lights of a claw machine arcade.

She stepped inside.

The soft hum of whirring motors and cheap pop songs filled the space. Rows of claw machines gleamed under cool fluorescent lights, filled with pastel plushies, K-pop merch, and candy sets.

Karina lit up for the first time in hours.

She exchanged bills for coins and got to work — eyes narrowing with each grab attempt, mouth twitching when the claw slipped just a little too early. She cursed under her breath. Then laughed. Then tried again.

No cameras. No weight of expectations. Just her, a metal claw, and a helpless plush keychain caught in the middle.

It wasn’t much.

But it was hers.

Fourth try — success. The claw trembled, but it held.

She laughed softly as the plushie dropped into the chute — a round, squishy peach-colored bear with little angel wings. She picked it up, holding it close for a moment.

Then, without meaning to, she whispered, “The girls would love this.”

She imagined Yizhuo hugging it to sleep. Minjeong makes a dumb pun about its wings. Aeri trying to steal it with that smug little smirk. Ning pretended it was hers all along.

Even out here, even alone, they never left her heart.

For a few fleeting minutes, she felt real again.

Time passed — she didn’t know how much. When her last coin clinked inside the machine, she finally sighed, smiling as she pocketed her prize — a small bunny plush.

Sighing, she packed up the two plushies in a paper bag from the front desk and stepped back into the cool air.

On her way home, she passed a PC bang. Just as she neared it, the door slammed open without warning. She startled, jerking back a few steps.

A guy her age, maybe a little younger, rushed out. His hood was up, eyes tired, clearly in a rush — but he stopped the moment he noticed her.

“Oh— I’m so sorry, I didn’t see— are you okay?”

Jimin nodded quickly, waving both hands to reassure him. “It’s okay, I should’ve watched where I was walking.”

He waves a short, awkward bow before hurrying down the sidewalk.

She watched him go for a second. There was something about his rushed, slightly panicked energy that felt familiar.

But she didn’t dwell on it.

She kept walking.

As she approached the dorm entrance, the warmth from the plushie in her bag faded into the chill of the night. She thought about what Harin had said earlier — the new manager recruitment, the possibility of someone new popping up again.

She didn’t let herself get too curious. Didn’t wonder too hard.

After all, how different could one more new face be?

She stepped inside.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

The soles of his socks had memorized every inch of the floor.

Back and forth.

Corner to desk. Desk to window. Window to bed. Then all over again.

Y/N’s steps were restless, each turn sharper than the last, like the air in his room was thinning and the only way to breathe was to keep moving. His fingers raked through his hair for what felt like the hundredth time that day, muttering words to himself that only made sense inside his own head.

“Strong multitasking ability… fast learner… dependable, even under pressure… favorite food? Kimchi stew—no, that’s too random. Or is that good? Shows personality?”

He stopped pacing and groaned, pressing both palms to his face as he flopped onto the edge of his bed. The cracked ceiling above stared back, unsympathetic.

This was the tenth time today. Or maybe the twelfth. He’d lost count somewhere between “Tell us about yourself” and “Why do you want this job?”

"Hello, my name is Y/N. I'm currently a university student majoring in…" He cut himself off halfway, voice trailing into nothing. "No, no, no. That sounds like I’m reading off a script."

He stood again. Rolled his shoulders. Forced himself to look at the window across the room — not for the view, but for the faint reflection of himself in the dark glass. A silhouette barely held together. Still, he gave it his best attempt.

Confident tone. Open expression. Words that didn’t sound like desperation leaking through a paper-thin smile.

The truth was, he didn’t have time to fall apart.

Not now.

Not after the call that changed everything. That one call that gave him hope and new light.

This was the first real shot he’d had in months — the first reply that hadn’t ghosted him or slapped a “not qualified” label before even hearing him out.

The first real interview since everything began. The first opening that didn’t come with a “sorry, but…” attached to it. A chance, however small, to climb out of the hole he’d been sinking into for months.

It was probably a small matter to others.

But to him, it was everything.

Y/N sat back down, picking up the small stack of crumpled papers scattered on his desk — notes he’d scribbled in every spare moment since the call. Practice answers. Traits he thought sounded impressive. A few jokes that maybe, if the interviewer had a sense of humor, could land just right.

His hand shook slightly as he gripped the edge of the desk.

It wasn’t a job offer. It wasn’t even a second-round confirmation.

But it was hope.

And when hope’s all you’ve got left, even the smallest thread can feel like a lifeline.

He stared at the notes, then at the small clock in the corner of his desk. Almost midnight. He hadn’t eaten dinner, hadn’t showered, hadn’t done anything except rehearse the same lines on loop like a man stuck in a maze with only one possible way out.

He swallowed.

It had to go well. For him. For his father. For everything that was slipping further out of reach.

“Okay,” he whispered, sitting a little straighter. “One more round.”

And then he started again.

It all started with that one call.

Just one.

It was late, well past the time he usually silenced his phone and forced himself to sleep—or at least pretend to. The cracked screen of his ancient phone lit up the darkness of his room with a soft, ghostly glow. A number he didn’t recognize. He stared at it. No movement. No answer. Not at first.

He didn’t have the strength for this. Not tonight.

His thumb hovered over the reject button. But something—a feeling, a breath, a whisper only he could hear—told him to wait. To listen. A pull. Soft and strange, like the universe gently nudging him forward.

So he answered.

“Yeoboseyo?” a woman’s voice said on the other end, fluent and professional.

Y/N blinked, taken off guard by the Korean greeting. For a second, he didn’t know what to say. But his response came automatically, rusty but polite. “Annyeonghaseyo”

“Is this Mr. Y/N?” she asked, still in Korean.

His brow furrowed slightly. The uncertainty was already crawling up his spine, coiling in his chest. “…Yes,” he answered, keeping his tone simple, cautious.

“Thank you for confirming,” she said. “I’m calling from the HR department of SM Entertainment. We received a job application under your name recently, and I’d like to confirm—did you apply for a position with us?” She continued smoothly, asking whether he had submitted an application recently.

Silence.

Not on her end — she had just dropped the kind of news that usually makes people scream or gasp or break into a thousand thank-you’s. But Y/N was too stunned to respond. His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. It was like the words had been robbed from him, stolen by disbelief.

An interview? With an actual company? Not a scam email. Not a rejection notice. Not a robotic message thanking him for his interest followed by a cold “we regret to inform you…”

His mind didn’t know what to do with this information. After all the rejections he had received — after being turned down over and over again in recent weeks — he had built up a quiet wall inside himself, a defense mechanism that told him not to hope anymore. Hope hurt too much. Hope could turn into something cruel when it shattered.

So he said nothing.

The woman must’ve sensed his hesitation because she kept going with a kind, steady tone. “If you're still interested, I can send you the interview details by email shortly after this call. It will be a group interview session — we’ll be seeing multiple applicants that day.”

Y/N stayed quiet for a second longer. His heart wanted to leap. His body was already halfway out the door. But his mind clung to caution like a lifeline.

What if it was fake? A prank? Some kind of phishing scam? Technology was terrifyingly advanced these days — you could find someone’s email and name with minimal digging.

But then she said his name again. Gently. Pulling him out of the spiral.

And finally, Y/N gave a small nod, as if she could see it through the phone. “Yes… I’d like to attend.”

“Wonderful. May I confirm your email address?”

He confirmed it, repeating the awkwardly long handle he’d created years ago. The woman read it back to him with no hint of judgment.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked.

He wanted to ask a hundred things. A thousand. But everything in his chest tangled up on the way to his mouth. “No… I don’t think so.”

There was a beat.

Then, just as she began to thank him again, he spoke up. “Wait — sorry. One question.”

“Of course,” she said patiently.

“What… exactly is this job about?”

There was a brief pause, then a smile in her voice. “Ah, I thought you already knew. It’s a managerial position for one of our idol groups. You’ll receive more details at the interview.”

His lips parted again, but no new question came. That was enough.

“No more questions,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

The woman thanked him again, wished him luck, and the line went dead.

Silence filled the room once more.

Y/N lowered the phone slowly and just stared at it, at the cracks in the glass, at the faint reflection of himself on the screen. What had just happened? Was it real?

He stayed frozen like that for almost a minute.

Then, ping.

An email.

His heart skipped a beat.

His fingers trembled as he unlocked the screen, opened the mail app, and tapped on the new message.

His eyes scanned it quickly.

The logo. The address. The wording. Everything looked real. No broken grammar. No red flags. Just… legitimate instructions. A schedule. A dress code. A list of required documents.

The subject line read: Interview Invitation – Managerial Candidate

His vision blurred a little.

He couldn’t help it. A breathless, trembling smile broke across his face, spreading from ear to ear.

This was real.

This was really happening.

He was still cautious. Still not fully letting himself feel the relief. But some part of him—some deeper part—started to glow.

He stood up suddenly, his movements erratic, adrenaline flooding his system. Moments later he was suddenly at the dorm building. It almost seems like he is teleporting.

He practically flew down the hall, ignoring the judgmental stares of others in the dorm building as he sprinted up the stairs and threw open his door like a man possessed.

He dropped to his knees in front of the old laptop he’d borrowed from a classmate. He was supposed to return it by morning, but that could wait.

Fingers flew across the keys.

The company name.

Search.

Articles. Photos. Achievements. History. A global presence.

Y/N sat back in awe. Was this really the kind of company that had called him?

He smiled again, softer this time. There was something warm rising in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a long while.

And then his smile faltered slightly.

“Managerial job…” he whispered. “Why would they pick me for that?”

He had no celebrity experience. He wasn’t majoring in entertainment or business. Sure, he’d had some project work related to logistics and people management, but… that was it.

Still.

He looked down at the photo frame next to his bed. A slightly faded picture of him, his mom, and his dad, taken during better days. He picked it up gently, holding it like a precious gem.

“I got it, Mom. Dad…” he said, his voice barely above a breath. “I think this is it. I think this is the chance.”

He smiled again, this time through a slight sheen of tears.

“I just need you both to believe in me—from wherever you are.”

And the room, once filled with silence and darkness, now felt different. Warmer. Brighter.

Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t walking in the dark anymore.

It was strange.

Y/N had always thought that receiving an interview offer from SM Entertainment—one of the most prestigious companies in the country—would bring relief. Joy, even. But all it did was make his stomach twist and his chest tighten.

He wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not for a job he knew almost nothing about, surrounded by people who were born and bred in this world. Managers, trainees, idols. All of them moving at a pace he barely understood, let alone could keep up with.

He read the email at least a dozen times, not out of excitement, but panic.

The words didn’t change.

We are pleased to invite you to the first-round interview...

Pleased? He wasn’t even sure if he had enough clothes to look “interview appropriate.” Was there a dress code? Would they ask him about K-pop? Artist schedules? The only thing he knew how to manage was stress—and barely that.

For the first time since arriving in Korea, he started to feel the weight of everything. Not just the job. Not just the expectations. But the gnawing sense that he was way out of his depth.

He stayed up that night staring at his cracked ceiling, repeating the same thought over and over again:

How am I supposed to do this?

He didn’t sleep much after that. For the next few days, his mind was split between anxiety and frantic attempts to prepare—except he barely knew where to start. Most online guides for manager jobs were vague at best or aimed at entertainment veterans. And asking someone? Not an option.

His only comfort in the mess of his thoughts was the small, worn-out smartphone resting by his side.

It was old—ancient, really—but it had history. A couple of scratches on the corner. A battery that barely lasted half a day. A hairline crack across the screen from when he dropped it during his move to Korea.

And yet he still kept it polished like it was something sacred. Because it was.

His father had bought it for him years ago—not from a store, but from a scrapyard seller who was about to toss it with the rest of the junk. Y/N could still remember the way his father had handed it to him, all smiles and proud eyes.

“It’s not much... but it works. I figured it might help you stay in touch while you’re far away.” He hadn’t even asked for a phone. But his father knew. Knew he’d feel alone. Knew he’d need a lifeline.

Y/N ran his fingers across the cracked screen that night, guilt and longing rising in equal measure.

Appa... if you saw me now, would you still be proud?

It had been raining on and off for the past two days. The sky remained a permanent shade of grey, casting a dull, heavy silence over the city. Everything felt slower—slower buses, slower people, slower thoughts. It was like the world was moving through water. And Y/N was drowning in it.

He had only one thing on his mind that afternoon: borrow a laptop.

The interview was getting closer, and he had nothing. No solid background in artist management, no professional guidance, and no reliable way to prepare. The borrowed laptop he’d been using had already been returned yesterday—because students were only allowed to borrow once a week. He knew the rules, but still, he had to try again. Maybe someone at the desk would understand. Maybe they'd bend the rules.

So he went. Even in the rain.

His umbrella was missing—probably left in a lecture hall two days ago—so he tugged his hoodie tighter around his head and jogged across the wet pavement toward the campus library.

Water clung to his jeans. His socks were already soaked through.

By the time he reached the library front desk, he looked more like someone who’d crawled out of a drain than a student preparing for a future. The student worker behind the counter barely spared him a glance before delivering the blow:

“Sorry, you’ve already borrowed this week. We can’t give out another one.”

“But I—I returned it yesterday. I just need a few more hours. Just today.”

“I’m sorry,” the worker repeated, tapping something on the screen. “The system won’t let us.”

Just like that, the conversation was over.

Y/N stood there for a moment, dripping quietly onto the carpet. He gave a tight nod, whispered thanks, and turned back toward the doors.

The rain was heavier now. He stepped outside and winced as the cold hit his skin again.

Defeated, he pulled his phone from his coat pocket to check the time and look up the nearest PC bang.

And then, just like that— it slipped.

Maybe his fingers were too numb. Maybe his sleeve snagged the edge. Maybe the universe just hated him today.

But the phone tumbled from his hand, hit the edge of the steps, and skittered across the concrete— before landing face-down in a wide, murky puddle at the edge of the walkway.

Splash.

Y/N’s heart dropped with it.

“No—no, no—”

He crouched instantly, fingers scraping through cold water and wet leaves as he fished the phone out of the puddle.

He wiped the screen with shaking hands, pressed the power button.

A dim flicker. Then nothing.

He pressed again. And again. Harder this time.

“Come on,” he whispered, chest tightening. “Please, not now…”

He pulled off his hoodie and used the driest part of the sleeve to wipe it again. Still nothing. The water had gotten in—deep.

He sank onto the wet steps, phone in both hands, staring at it like he could will it back to life.

It wasn’t just a phone.

It was the only way the company could contact him. It was the only thing connecting him to a world he was trying so hard to be part of. And more than that—

It was a gift from his father. The last one, given just before Y/N left for Korea.

This phone had traveled continents with him. It held every message, every call, every blurry photo and saved voicemail from home. It had survived his first semester, homesickness, cultural shocks, and lonely nights.

And now it was dead. Just like that.

He sat there in the rain, hood forgotten, head bowed. His legs ached. His hands were freezing. And his heart— his heart felt like it had cracked open quietly, the way glass does when pressure builds too slowly to notice.

This wasn’t just a bad day. This was the kind of day that made everything feel impossible.

He stared at the lifeless screen, chest still heaving with short, shallow breaths. Rain dripped from his eyelashes, his soaked hoodie clinging tightly to his arms. But the cold wasn’t what hurt the most.

His fingers traced the cracked edge of the phone, already chilled and starting to stiffen. A quiet ache spread through his chest—not just from the day’s misfortune, but from what the phone had meant to him.

His mind drifted, uninvited, to a night not too long ago. Back home. 2 days just before he left.

He was sitting on the edge of his old bed, luggage half-zipped beside him. The room was dim, only lit by the yellow glow of the hallway light seeping through the cracked door.

His father stepped in, hesitating for a second like he always did when emotions were involved. Then, wordlessly, he walked over and sat beside Y/N. For a long while, neither of them said anything.

Then his dad pulled something from his coat pocket and placed it in Y/N’s palm.

An old smartphone. The back was scratched, the screen slightly chipped in one corner.

“It’s a little beat up,” his dad said, voice gruff. “Bought it secondhand from a guy at the scrapyard.”

Y/N blinked, confused. “You don’t even use a smartphone.”

“I don’t,” his dad replied. “But you’ll need one. To call. To find your way around. To talk to us.”

He paused, then added more softly, “Just... don’t forget to call sometimes.”

Y/N had smiled and promised he would. He hadn’t realized it then, but that moment was his father’s version of saying I love you.

Now, sitting alone on a concrete step halfway across the world, Y/N felt like that promise had cracked with the phone screen.

He swallowed hard, wiping a hand across his face to brush off the water—or the tears. He couldn’t tell which anymore.

"I'm sorry, Dad..." he whispered.

He clutched the broken phone tightly in his palm, pressing it to his chest for a moment—like holding it close could bring something back.

Then he stood up, slowly, shakily, and looked out at the grey horizon.

He didn’t know how he'd get through the rest of the week without it. But he had no other choice.

Not anymore.

The PC bang wasn’t far, just tucked off a side street past a convenience store with flickering lights. When he pushed the door open, the blast of warm air, LED lights, and rapid keyboard clicking almost made him turn around. It was loud. Claustrophobic. Every seat was filled with people shouting into headsets, hunched over glossy screens with glowing energy drinks beside them.

Y/N hesitated at the counter, glancing up at the price list. He could barely afford two visits between now and the interview. He’d have to make them count.

After paying for a few hours, he quietly took a seat in the far back corner. He pulled out a worn notebook and the stub of a pencil, then logged in.

The screen lit up, and so did his brain.

He started researching everything—idol schedules, manager expectations, how SM Entertainment structured their artist support. He jotted down terms he didn’t understand to study later. His fingers trembled from exhaustion and cold, but he kept typing.

Around him, people shouted, laughed, and played. But he stayed quiet, steady, focused. He didn’t have a choice.

Time melted away.

Eventually, the screen blurred in his eyes. His shoulders ached from hunching over, and the notes in his notebook had become messier with each line. He rubbed his temple, finally admitting to himself that he was too tired to keep going.

He saved his work on a cloud platform, logged out, and packed his things in silence. As he approached the glass door near the exit, the night outside looked darker than before—colder, lonelier. He took a breath, gripped the door handle, and stepped forward.

But he pushed too fast.

The door swung open with a sharp motion—and nearly struck someone walking right past.

“Oh—!” Y/N froze mid-step, jolting back. “Sorry! I didn’t see you—!”

The girl in front of him had instinctively raised her arm to block the door. Her hoodie was pulled up beneath a black coat, casting her features in shadow, but her eyes were sharp and startled, lips parted in surprise.

“No, no—it’s fine,” she said, quickly regaining her balance. “I should’ve been looking ahead.”

Their eyes met—briefly. Just a second. But it was long enough to register the exhaustion on both ends.

Y/N bowed slightly again out of habit. “Still… sorry.”

The girl gave a small, polite nod in return. “It’s alright. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

And just like that, they passed each other.

He walked home in silence, eyes on the ground.

Tomorrow, he'll come back. He only had one more shot at this. One more night to prepare. And no matter how tired he was—no matter how small he felt—he would take it.

The alarm clock buzzed with a shrill, robotic ring, echoing through the dorm room like a countdown. Y/N’s eyes blinked open instantly, his body jolting upright before his mind could catch up. He stared at the dim ceiling for a second, heart pounding.

Today.

It took him a few seconds to remember why his stomach felt like a knot had been tied in it overnight. The interview. The only one he managed to land despite weeks of searching, the one shot that could change everything—and he was going to try to make it work after two full classes, with no phone, no safety net, no idea if he’d even make it on time.

He rubbed his face, let out a breath, and climbed out of bed.

The first class wasn’t difficult to sit through. The professor lectured with his usual slow, melodic tone, and Y/N managed to nod along and take some notes, even if his handwriting wobbled a little more than usual. Still, the class was bearable, the minutes ticking by at a steady pace.

But it was hard to focus.

Every time he glanced at the clock on the wall, he felt a rising pressure behind his ribcage. He double-checked his schedule, the company’s address, the bus routes—all from memory. He had nothing written down, nowhere to double-check except his mind.

And if his memory failed, that was it.

He left the class quickly once it ended, nearly bolting from his seat, muttering apologies when he bumped shoulders with someone on the way out. There wasn’t time to waste.

Then came the second class—and everything began to spiral.

It was a required seminar. He had no choice but to attend, or risk penalties. Worse, the professor was notoriously unpredictable, always veering off-syllabus, sometimes talking for twenty minutes longer than scheduled just to hammer home a single theory.

Y/N sat near the back, hoping the class would pass quickly.

But halfway through, the professor paused mid-lecture and frowned at the class. “Before we wrap today, let’s take a moment to reflect. I’d like each of you to write a short paragraph on today’s discussion and submit it before you leave.”

There was a collective groan.

Y/N’s throat tightened.

He scribbled something down, mind racing. It wasn’t good. It barely even made sense. But he handed it in and slipped out the door the moment the professor waved dismissal.

He checked the time on his watch.

He was already behind schedule.

The sky was overcast when he stepped outside, the cold air biting at his face. He jogged down the sidewalk, cursing under his breath, eyes darting toward the nearest bus stop. He had planned everything down to the minute: which bus to take, how long the transfer would take, the buffer he left in case of traffic.

But the moment he reached the stop, his heart sank.

The next bus wasn’t coming for another fifteen minutes.

He turned around, looking wildly for alternatives. There was no money for a taxi. Walking would take too long. And if he missed the interview completely—

No. He didn’t even want to imagine it.

The bus eventually arrived, and he got on with shaking hands, clutching the pole as if it were the only thing holding him together. Traffic crawled. He tried to stay calm. He tried to breathe. But every red light felt like a curse from the universe itself, every delay a cruel joke.

By the time the bus rolled into the nearest stop near SM Entertainment, the sun was already starting to dip low on the horizon.

He jumped off, heart hammering, and sprinted toward the company building.

Now standing in front of the towering glass structure, Y/N realized with sudden horror—

He didn’t know where to go next.

There was no front desk visible from outside. No clear signage. Just a few people loitering near the entrance, all of them looking too busy or too important to approach. His eyes darted from person to person until they landed on a trio of women near the glass doors. Two were chatting quietly while the third stood slightly off to the side, checking something on her phone.

Summoning the last of his courage, Y/N hurried over.

“E-Excuse me,” he said, voice slightly winded as he bowed. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but—” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket, the one where he had printed out the interview email in case he couldn’t access it digitally. “I have an interview today, but I… I got lost. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

The woman—tall, sharply dressed, her lanyard catching the light—took the paper from him with a curious look.

Her eyes scanned the print. Her expression changed for the briefest moment—an almost imperceptible flicker of surprise—but she quickly masked it and glanced down at her watch.

“You’re running a bit late,” she said, voice calm. “But you might still make it. Come with me.”

Turning to the other two beside her, she gestured. “You two go ahead without me. I’ll catch up later.”

They nodded without question, continuing through the doors as she turned back to Y/N and motioned for him to follow.

They walked through the lobby in silence, her heels clicking lightly on the polished floor.

While they waited at the elevator, Y/N bowed again, this time more deeply. “Thank you so much. Seriously. I—I don’t even know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t run into you.”

His words came out quickly, almost stumbling over themselves, a little too earnest—but he didn’t care.

The woman gave him a brief sideways glance but offered a small smile. “It’s fine. Really. Not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” he murmured, almost to himself.

She looked ahead again, then extended a hand. “I’m Harin, by the way. One of the managers here.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh—! I’m Y/N. It’s really nice to meet you.”

“You too. You’ll do fine,” she said, just as the elevator chimed with a soft ding.

He wanted to ask more—something about the interview format, what they might ask, how many people were in the room—but the doors opened before he could speak, and Harin stepped in without pause.

They rode up in silence.

When the elevator opened again, she stepped out, turned to the left, and pointed down the hallway.

“That’s your floor. Take the first left and head all the way down. The interview room should still be open if you’re quick.”

He nodded rapidly, already half-walking backwards. “Thank you again. Really. I’ll do my best.”

Harin offered one last small smile. “Good luck.”

And with that, Y/N turned and ran.

At the end of the hallway, double doors stood wide open. The space inside looked like some kind of multipurpose conference room. But instead of a bustling group of candidates, he saw rows of chairs already pushed back into stacks, and a pair of staff members—janitors, maybe—were rolling up a carpet runner near the podium.

Too late.

His stomach dropped.

He stepped inside slowly, eyes sweeping across the half-lit room, heart pounding in his ears.

No reception table. No waiting candidates. Not even a visible sign with the SM Entertainment logo. Just leftovers. Like the party ended before he was even invited.

No… no, no. Please.

Before he could spiral, the door on the far side opened, and three people stepped out. Two men in suits, one woman in business-casual, still holding a clipboard.

Y/N’s legs moved before his brain could catch up.

“Excuse me!” he called out, voice cracking. “Excuse me—sorry, I… I know I’m late.”

They all turned to look at him.

He bowed deeply, nearly a full 90 degrees. “Please, just give me a minute—I’m here for the interview. I had class, the traffic, I got lost—” His words were a blur, his voice trembling. “I printed the email—I showed someone downstairs—I swear I tried everything to get here on time—”

One of the men looked at his watch with a tired sigh. The other glanced toward the cleaning staff, then exchanged a look with the woman. She didn’t look annoyed—more like wary. Cautious.

“I’m really sorry,” she said. “But we’ve already finished for the day.”

Y/N’s chest caved in.

No. He couldn’t let it end like this.

“Please,” he said again, stepping forward. “Just a chance. Five minutes. I… I know I don’t have experience like the others, but I prepared. I studied. I worked hard for this. Just one chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

They hesitated.

He could feel it—that thin line between rejection and possibility.

The woman tilted her head slightly, studying him. Her expression softened.

…

“Five minutes,” she finally said.

Y/N blinked.

“Just five,” she repeated. “We’re already over time.”

He nodded rapidly, bowing again with a flurry of thank-yous tumbling from his mouth.

They exchanged a few quiet murmurs among themselves, then the woman motioned for him to follow them back into the room.

The chairs were gone. The lights dimmed slightly. Just a long rectangular table at the front, with their papers still spread across it.

Y/N stood before them.

His palms were sweating. His shirt stuck to his back. He couldn’t tell if it was nerves or the sprint from the lobby—but either way, it was time.

The door closed behind him.

The interview had begun.

The room was still.

Three interviewers sat in a clean, intimidating semi-circle across from him. Not a single one looked particularly pleased to be there.

Their suits were sharp, their expressions sharper.

Y/N sat upright in his chair, trying to steady his breath. His hands—tucked into his lap—were slightly damp with sweat. But his posture didn’t waver.

The woman in the center, name tag reading Jinhee – HR, glanced up from his resume, her tone void of warmth.

“Why were you late?”

No greeting. No smile. Just that.

Y/N bowed from where he sat, low and respectfully.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “There were... a few things that went wrong today. But none of them should be used as an excuse. I take full responsibility.”

A quiet scoff came from his right.

The man beside Jinhee—Mr. Nam, according to the nameplate—leaned back slightly in his chair, arms crossed.

“So, your first impression is this: irresponsible, late, and unprepared.” He stared at Y/N, deadpan. “Why are you even here?”

The words landed like a punch, but Y/N didn’t flinch. He paused, swallowing hard, then looked up and answered evenly.

“Because I believe I can contribute something of value here.”

Nam clicked his tongue. “You have no background in management. No experience. And you’re a student. What makes you think you’re better than the other twenty applicants we saw today?”

Y/N glanced down at his hands—open, trembling faintly—then back at the panel. His voice was low, but steady.

“I don’t think I’m better,” he said. “I think I’m different.”

That got their attention.

Jinhee blinked. Nam raised a brow, skeptical. The third interviewer—a younger man with soft features, Manager Seo—tilted his head slightly, more curious than annoyed.

“Different how?” he asked.

Y/N let a few seconds pass. He wasn’t here to bluff or sell a perfect image. So he didn’t.

“Most applicants probably came in with all the right skills, degrees, and training. I don’t have that.”

He met their eyes, each one of them in turn. “What I have is pressure. And a reason to keep going when things fall apart.”

Jinhee narrowed her eyes. “What exactly does that mean?”

Y/N hesitated, just a moment—then answered honestly.

“It means I’ve had to keep moving while everything in my life was falling apart. I’ve spent the last few months balancing school, part-time jobs, helping with family matters back home... all while living alone in a foreign country, with no safety net.”

He took a slow breath.

“I don’t have the ideal resume. But I know how to endure. I know how to take care of things under pressure. I’m used to being tired, behind, and afraid—and still pushing forward anyway.”

This time, the silence that followed wasn’t judgmental. It was thoughtful.

Y/N leaned forward—not desperate, but grounded in his truth.

“What I lack in credentials, I’ll work twice as hard to earn. What I don’t know, I’ll learn. But if what you need is someone who can stay grounded when things get chaotic, who won’t walk away when it gets hard… that’s me. Because I’m already living it.”

Nobody spoke for a moment.

And then the just moment moved on.

The woman on the left — the sharpest one so far — leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.

"Let’s say you get the job," she began, her voice cool. "It’s been a rough week. The group’s schedule has been a mess, one of the members is having a breakdown backstage, and you're the only manager nearby. Fans are screaming outside, the stylists are late, and your head manager is unreachable. What do you do?"

Y/N blinked.

He didn’t respond right away. Not because he didn’t have something to say, but because he understood what this was. This wasn’t just a situational question — it was a trap. A test of composure. They were seeing if he would flinch.

He sat a little straighter, folding his hands on his lap.

“I think…” he began slowly, carefully, “…that the most important thing in a situation like that isn’t to fix everything all at once. It’s to decide who needs you most in that exact moment.”

There was a pause. The man on the right tapped a pen against his notepad, eyes not leaving Y/N’s face.

“You’d leave the rest of the problems alone?” the woman asked, skeptical.

“No,” Y/N said quickly, but still calm. “I’d prioritize. If a member’s having a breakdown, that’s a mental health crisis. That has to come first, no matter what. I’d get her somewhere quiet, stay close but not push. Just be a person in the room who isn’t panicking.”

“And what about the others?” the man pressed.

“I’d call backup while handling her. Or text whoever I could from the staff. After that, I’d start checking off whatever I can do. Stylists are late? I’d ask if we can prep the basics ourselves. Fans outside? I’d contact security or venue staff for help. But the key is not to freeze. Just… move. One step at a time. Let the member feel safe, and don’t let the rest fall apart while you’re at it.”

Another pause. It wasn’t heavy — it was quiet in a different way now. Even the pen stopped tapping.

The woman leaned back slowly. “You’ve never managed anyone before, right?”

Y/N nodded. “No, ma’am.”

“You speak like you have.”

“I just…” Y/N gave a small shrug. “People are people. You don’t need a title to treat someone like a human.”

One of the interviewers, the man who had been mostly quiet until now, finally looked up from his notes. He had a faint furrow in his brow as he leaned forward slightly.

"You speak well," he said, voice calm but edged. "And you clearly know how to navigate people. But…" He tapped his pen lightly on the table. “Don’t get your hopes up too high just because you can read people or say the right things under pressure.”

Y/N’s expression stiffened.

“This job isn’t built on kindness and instincts alone,” the man continued. “It’s logistics. Planning. Coordination. You’re expected to juggle scheduling conflicts, location changes, live broadcast windows, visa renewals, budget reports, vehicle routes, staff rosters, costume management, health reports, backup plans, emergency plans—sometimes all in the same hour. It’s high-speed, no-hand holding, no safety net.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “I understand. I know I don’t have all of that knowledge yet, but I’m willing to—”

“Yes, I know you’re willing to learn,” the man cut in, his voice even but firm. “But this isn’t a school.”

He leaned forward slightly, the table between them feeling thinner now.

“This isn’t a university class where someone teaches you from A to Z. We don’t have the time, or the luxury. It’s just work. Fast, chaotic, unforgiving work. You either pick it up as you go or you get left behind. And if you mess up…” He paused for a moment. “It’s not just your problem. It becomes the artists’ problem.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than anything so far.

Y/N didn’t have anything to say this time. He just bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the weight of the warning, letting it settle into his bones.

There was no silence this time — just a small, mutual stillness. One of the women let out a quiet exhale, almost like she’d been holding it in. The man nodded once, his gaze steady.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s all from us.”

Y/N stood quickly and bowed, deeper than necessary. “Thank you for your time. Thank you for letting me speak even when I was—”

“Go,” the woman on the left cut in, but not unkindly. “Before we all change our minds.”

He blinked. Then let out a quiet, shaky breath. “Yes, ma’am.”

Just as he turned to leave, Y/N paused and looked back at them.

“Ah—sorry, just one thing. My phone isn’t working right now, so… if there’s any update, could you please contact me through the email I applied with? I don’t have a backup at the moment.”

There was a beat of silence. The middle-aged man gave a small nod. “Noted.”

That was it. No smile, no comment—just a quiet acknowledgment.

Y/N gave a final bow again. “Thank you for your time.”

As he stepped out of the room, the hallway lights felt too bright, too white. He didn’t know what to make of what just happened. Didn’t know if he did well, or if he’d just embarrassed himself trying.

But he hadn’t backed down. He’d stayed honest. Said what he believed.

And as he walked away, unsure of what came next… that was the only thing he could hold on to.

As Y/N stepped out of the elevator and into the spacious lobby, his steps gradually slowed. The weight of the long day had started to settle into his shoulders, but something else tugged at his thoughts—something small, but persistent.

He hadn’t properly thanked her.

Turning around briefly, he glanced toward the hallway he came from, half-considering trying to find her again. But the place was a maze, and he didn’t even know where she had gone. With a quiet sigh, he made his way toward the front counter near the building’s entrance.

A woman sat behind the desk, typing something into her computer. She looked up as he approached.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Uh… yeah, sorry.” He offered her a polite nod, adjusting his posture. “I know this might sound a bit odd, but… is there a staff member here named Harin?”

Her expression shifted into something between curiosity and caution. “And who are you?”

“My name’s Y/N. I had an interview just now, and… she helped me find the way. I was kind of a mess when I got here. I didn’t get the chance to thank her properly.”

The woman studied him for a moment, clearly debating whether this was some strange excuse or something sincere. After a beat, her expression eased.

“I think I remember. You two rushed through the lobby earlier, right?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. That was us.”

“What did you want exactly?”

“Nothing much, honestly,” he said. “I just… wanted to ask if you could pass along a message. Just to say thank you. For helping me, even when she didn’t have to.”

There was a moment of pause before she gave a small shrug. “Alright. I’ll let her know.”

Y/N let out a soft breath and bowed slightly. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

With that, he stepped back and headed toward the glass doors. The sky had dimmed outside, casting the street in early evening tones. And though the outcome of the day was still uncertain, there was a quiet sense of relief in knowing he had at least done this one thing right.

The moment Y/N stepped outside the building, it felt like the world finally gave him permission to breathe.

He tilted his head back slightly, took in a deep inhale, and let it out slow. The city was still buzzing around him—cars rolling past, conversations drifting in waves, horns and footsteps and life all moving on as if nothing in the world had changed. But something had shifted inside him.

That was when it hit him.

The exhaustion.

It came crashing down like a slow, heavy wave—no warning, no chance to brace for it. His legs felt heavier than they had a moment ago, his arms loose at his sides, and his mind buzzing with the dull hum of everything that had just happened. The sleepless nights, the rush to make it here, the stress, the ache in his feet from walking too far in shoes too thin—all of it had stacked up quietly behind his determination.

Now that he had nothing left to chase, the weight caught up to him.

He stood still for a long second, blinking at the sky. The clouds had deepened into a soft charcoal gray, swallowing what little daylight remained. People still hurried past him, brushing by with backpacks, coffee cups, business calls echoing from phone screens. But he felt… still. Like he didn’t quite belong in the motion anymore.

What now?

He didn’t know. He really didn’t. There was no sense of victory. No relief. But no defeat either. Just this strange, quiet blankness—the kind that came after giving everything you had and still not knowing whether it would be enough.

His fingers twitched slightly as he curled them into his palms. He looked one more time at the building behind him, then turned away.

He started walking—slowly, this time—blending back into the city’s rhythm, heading toward his dorm.

—-

By the time Harin reached the practice room, the sounds of idle conversation and warm-up stretches greeted her. The four members of Aespa were already inside, scattered around the room in their usual rhythm—Karina doing slow stretches by the mirror, Giselle sitting cross-legged and scrolling through her phone, Ningning humming as she adjusted her in-ears, and Winter, quietly tying her shoes by the wall.

Giselle looked up first when Harin entered. “Unnie, who was that guy you were with earlier?”

Ningning perked up at the mention, spinning around with interest. “Yeah, we saw you walking in with someone. Looked kinda rushed.”

Harin blinked, not surprised they caught it. “Oh, that? Just someone who asked for help. He was late for a manager interview.”

“For real?” Ningning tilted her head. “Was he Korean?”

“Not sure,” Harin replied as she stepped further into the room. “His Korean was decent, but his accent definitely sounded foreign.”

Karina, stretching her arms out, glanced over. “Was it for that opening you told us about? The one possibly for our team?”

“If I remember the paper he showed me right… yeah, I think so.”

Karina raised an eyebrow. “Can foreigners even join the management team?”

Harin shrugged as she opened her tablet. “It’s possible. Not common, but not impossible. That’s more HR’s call than mine.”

Giselle leaned forward slightly. “So the interview’s over?”

“Yeah,” Harin nodded. “All the candidates went in already. The team will evaluate everyone today or tomorrow.”

No one said anything after that. The room returned to its earlier calm as they each sank into their own space again. The quiet was filled only with the subtle scuff of sneakers on polished wood and the low hum of the speaker system booting up.

Harin settled into her usual spot near the wall, tapping through the schedule on her tablet.

Before she could focus, though, her eyes flicked to Winter.

The girl hadn’t said a word through the entire conversation. She wasn’t looking at anyone, wasn’t frowning or smiling—just calmly lacing up her shoes, almost detached. But Harin noticed. She always noticed.

She knew the reason why…. but chose not to hold onto it for long.

—-

A few days passed.

With each silent hour, the hope inside Y/N began to fade a little more. There had been no call, no email—nothing. And without a working phone, there wasn’t much else he could do but wait and wonder. Had they forgotten him? Or worse, had they already made their choice?

He told himself not to think about it. He had other things to focus on—classes, assignments, surviving day by day. So when the university’s computer lab finally reopened after maintenance, he slipped in quietly, found an empty seat, and logged in. The screen glowed to life.

First thing he did was check his email. Just another day, just another assignment waiting for him.

But then— His breath caught.

His eyes stuck on the screen.

An email. From SM Entertainment.

He froze. For a second, he just stared at it, heart pounding in his chest. A dozen thoughts rushed through his mind, each louder than the last. Then, with trembling fingers, he clicked it open.

Congratulations. After careful evaluation, we are pleased to inform you…

And there it was.

Words he had to reread. Once. Twice. Three times. Until they finally sank in.

He got it.

He got the job.

His chest caved in with a breath he didn’t know he was holding. A strangled laugh crawled out of his throat, mixed with something dangerously close to a sob. His hands flew to his face, clutching it like he could hold himself together just a second longer.

His shoulders shook. His vision blurred.

He wanted to scream. To cry. To collapse.

To run outside and yell it to the sky— That something finally went right.

After everything. After the sleepless nights, the empty stomachs, the quiet breakdowns, the way the world seemed like it was closing in on him—

He made it.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a maybe. It was real.

He whispered it to himself, over and over again, just to believe it.

“I got it… I really got it…”

For the first time in a long, long time— Hope didn’t feel like a lie.

…

To be continued... --

Notes,

Thank you once again for taking your time reading this story.

I just wanted to take a moment to sincerely apologize for how long it took to finally release this chapter. I know the wait has been long, and truthfully, this chapter didn’t turn out the way I hoped. It feels messy, a bit rushed, and far from my best work.

I’m also sorry for stepping away from this story for so long without any updates. Coming back after that break with a chapter that feels less than average is something I feel bad about—but I still wanted to share it, even if it’s imperfect.

Thank you so much for your patience, for reading, and for sticking with this story. I hope, despite everything, you still found something to enjoy in it.

More to come soon—hopefully better.

#aespa fanfiction #aespa x male reader #aespa x reader #giselle x male reader #karina x male reader #ningning x male reader #winter x male reader

169 notes · View notes

disgustingtwitches · 5 months ago

Text

A Rose in Harlem

New York is supposed to be the city where people vanish into the chaos, but somehow, Simon Riley has found his way into your life. He’s managed to slip past your defenses, filling a void you didn’t realize was there. But when the closeness starts to feel too real, you pull back, desperate to hide your vulnerability. Simon, however, has already bared his own scars and expects you to do the same. Suddenly, your life feels like a romcom you never signed up for, starring the one man who’s impossible to ignore.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete, when no one else ever cared.

Masterlist

PART 4

The Sweetest Taboo

So, you're sleeping with your neighbor. This is fine. Totally fine. You're two consenting adults; no one needs to know. Except Simon seems to disagree.

You wouldn’t peg him as the "kiss and tell" type, but much to your duress, Simon is unapologetically the "kiss and show" type.

At the grocery store, he casually shows up at the same time, grabbing your bags like it’s second nature and walking you home. The stares from the neighbors make your face burn.

Morning run-ins in the foyer have evolved into something dangerously inappropriate. He refuses to let you leave without a kiss. Sometimes it’s just a fleeting brush of lips; other times, it’s deeper, lingering, and edging into the territory of lewd, making you shove his face away.

Then there’s the hoodie. One of his oversized ones, soft and smelling faintly of him. He bullied you into wearing it. You caved, of course, but it stays hidden in the back of your drawer when Ishta comes around—there’s no way you’re dealing with opening that can of worms.

It’s not just the overt gestures, though. It’s the way he lingers too long at your door after you’ve kissed him goodnight. Watches you through the fire escape, like he has every right to. Sitting there with his legs sprawled, a cigarette lazily dangling between his fingers, he makes no attempt to hide it.

You tried to put an end to that one. Bought curtains on a whim, feeling smug about the newfound privacy they’d grant you. But they mysteriously disappeared the day after you installed them—conveniently after you’d gone to work.

Simon played dumb when you confronted him, leaning casually against his doorframe.

“Dunno what you’re talking about, angel. Someone breaking in while you’re away? Maybe I should stick around your place and keep watch.”

His grin was infuriatingly smug, as it usually is.

It’s all becoming a little too real, a little too… loud. And yet, when you’re pressed up against him in the quiet of your apartment, his hands framing your face like you’re the only thing worth holding onto, you almost forget about his wrongdoings.

***

“Brought out the good shit tonight.”

Ishta grins, popping open a bottle of prosecco—the cheap, overly sweet kind she adores. You hold back the urge to grimace as she pours, passing you a glass.

“What's the occasion?”

“Me and Mr.Scottsman are official!”

She squeals lifting her glass high. You mimic the gesture, the clink of glass on glass ringing lightly through the room.

“Wow, it's so official you still won't tell me his name.”

You quip, rolling your eyes as you take a cautious sip. The sweetness of the wine hits immediately, and you fight the reflex to wince.

“John. Johnny.”

She sighs dreamily, hearts in her eyes.

“I call him Johnny because John is way too serious for my liking.”

You raise a brow at her,

"Sounds like you’ve got it bad, Ishta.”

She doesn’t deny it, swirling the prosecco in her glass like it’s some romantic prop, her grin widening.

"Oh, you have no idea. He’s got this laugh—it’s ridiculous—and he can’t make tea to save his life. But, ugh, he’s perfect."

You shake your head, taking another begrudging sip of the prosecco, already bracing yourself for what’s sure to be a night of gushing anecdotes about Johnny.

“Perfect,”

You echo with a laugh, setting your glass down.

“You’ve been together for how long now? A month?”

“Three weeks,”

Ishta corrects.

“But when you know, you know.”

You snort, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

“Yeah, sure. You’re gonna marry this man, huh?”

“Don’t tempt me,”

She says, her grin widening.

“He’s already invited to meet his family. Can you believe it? His family, and I’m just over here trying to not come off as a complete lunatic.”

“Well, you’re failing spectacularly.”

You tease.

She throws a pillow at you, laughing.

“Says the one who’s been mysteriously glowing these past few weeks. Care to spill why?”

You freeze for half a second, a sip of prosecco poised at your lips.

“Glowing? What are you even talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play coy with me,”

Ishta says, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re hiding something. Someone.”

You feign indifference, shrugging.

“Maybe I’ve just been using better skincare.”

“Bullshit. Spill. Who is it?”

She leans forward, her gaze piercing.

There’s no way you’re telling her. Not about Simon. Not about the fire escape. Not about the way his hands feel against your skin or the things he whispers in the dark.

“No one,”

You say firmly, hoping she buys it.

“And stop projecting your ridiculous love life onto me.”

Ishta squints at you, unconvinced.

“Uh-huh. Sure. For now, you’re off the hook. But mark my words,”

She wags a finger at you.

“I’ll figure it out.”

You laugh nervously, downing the rest of your drink.

You’re grateful for how easily distracted Ishta can be, her attention now fully locked onto the trashy dating show the two of you watch every Thursday. It’s a routine you’d both adopted more for the chance to mock strangers' poor life choices than for any genuine investment in the drama.

Occasionally, she’ll pipe up, her voice dreamy as she recounts the latest romantic gesture from Johnny, her “Mr. Scotsman." She compares him to the guys on TV, and each time, she insists that Johnny does it better. You can almost hear the wistful sigh in her voice as she talks about how much she adores him.

You smile at her, teasing lightly,

“Gonna end up as one of those military wives?”

Ishta laughs, a genuine, carefree sound that rings out in the space between you. She shrugs with mock indifference, but there’s a spark in her eyes.

"Maybe. I mean, he’s a loverboy under all that wildness, but yeah… I’d say I’ve got it bad.”

You smirk at her, shaking your head.

"You’re hopeless."

"And you’re one to talk,”

She fires back, leveling you with a knowing look.

“Sexy British neighbor still got you tied up in knots?”

You scoff, taking a sip of your drink to stall. The wine’s still too sweet, sticking to your tongue, but you focus on the tang that lingers at the edges.

“I’m not ‘tied up’ in anything. Haven't even spoken to him since the noise complaint situation.”

“Riiight.”

She side-eyes you, unconvinced.

“Something tells me that's not entirely true. You get this weird look on your face every time I bring him up.”

You try to keep a straight face.

“Maybe you’re reading too much into things.”

“Uh-huh.”

She leans back, crossing her arms.

“One of these days, I'll catch you slipping.”

You roll your eyes, desperate to redirect her attention.

“I think you’ve had too much wine.”

“Or not enough,”

She shoots back, taking another sip with a knowing smirk. She hums, like she just remembered something important.

“I forgot to tell you, Johnny invited you to come with me to meet his family.”

You make a face of confusion.

“Me? Why?”

“I talk about you a lot, believe it or not you are one of the most important people in my life.”

The statement takes you back a bit, makes you feel a twinge of guilt lying to her.

“But his family?”

“Well…”

She tilts her head, searching for the right words.

“They’re not exactly blood relatives. They’re his squad, I think that’s the term he uses. He trusts them with his life, so he sees them as family—or the closest thing to it. Something like that.”

It’s her turn to hesitate, her fingers absently trailing the stem of her wine glass.

“Anyway, he thought you might want to come along. Besides,” She adds with a grin, peeking up again.

“It'll be fun. Think about it! Drinks, charming military men, and me as your entertainment. What more could you want?”

With Simon in your life, you think to yourself, you find yourself wanting for nothing lately—except maybe a little less suffocating attention.

“Yeah, what more could I want.”

You say aloud, masking the weight of your thoughts with a light laugh.

Ishta beams at your answer,

“That’s the spirit! You’ll see—it’ll be good for you. And hey, if nothing else, you can help me judge Johnny’s friends. Who knows, maybe one of them is a secret disaster like the guys on this show.”

The conversation shifts back to the TV, her playful commentary dragging you out of your head. But even as you nod along, your mind is already working on an escape plan.

You’re just gonna text her some excuse when the day comes. She’ll understand. Probably.

***

“How can you breathe in these?”

You groan, tugging at the waistband of Ishta’s skin-tight leather pants as she twists and wiggles, trying to pull them up.

“Breathing isn’t a priority here.”

She huffs, planting her hands on her hips and giving a final shimmy.

“Looking good is. Besides,”

She admires herself in the mirror.

“Johnny will love it.”

“Yeah, he probably cares more about how easy they’ll be to take off, Ishta.”

She grins, running her hands down the smooth fabric.

“Yeah. My man, the most efficient guy I know.”

You laugh, shaking your head as she strikes a dramatic pose.

“Efficiency—truly the cornerstone of romance.”

“Don’t knock it,”

She quips, spinning around to face you.

“He’s got it down to an art. Makes him a great lover.”

“Ishta.”

“I mean seriously, when I'm running late he knows exactly what to-”

“Ishta!”

“What? Someone has to get laid here, and it sure isn't you!”

You groan in protest, grabbing a throw pillow and launching it at her. She ducks, her laughter ringing out as she returns to inspecting her reflection in the mirror, twisting to check out the back of her pants.

“I think my butt’s getting bigger.”

She declares, completely unfazed.

“Aren’t we running late?”

You ask, exasperated.

“We’re fine. He’s getting us an Uber.”

She replies, adjusting the waistband of her pants with a smug little smile.

“To Brooklyn? Ouuu, big money.”

You tease, rolling your eyes as you grab your bag.

She grins, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“I just got him trained right. I'll show you how to do it when you get your own man. Or woman. Or anyone.”

Before you get to have your say her phone dings, and she grabs her keys.

"C’mon, Uber’s here."

You give her one last look before following her out the door, ready for whatever insanity lies ahead.

***

The bar you stand outside of is dingy and small, a stark contrast to the sleek black SUV Johnny arranged for Ishta and you. You raise an eyebrow, already feeling out of place.

“Are you sure this is the place?”

You ask, rocking side to side in your heels, feet already hurting.

“Too good for it?”

Ishta teases.

“No, just… aren’t we a little overdressed?”

You reply, glancing down at your outfit. Her red-bottoms are going to get ruined by the sticky floors, and your top is way too low-cut for a place like this.

Ishta smirks, giving you a look.

“You’ll be fine. Besides, if anyone stares for too long, the guys will probably scare them off— if they are anything like Johnny describes.”

And so, you step hesitantly into the grungy spot, thinking of what shitty liquor you need to get you through the night.

The bar is dim, louder than you expected, the scent of stale beer and fried food heavy in the air. Ishta leads the way with her usual confidence, weaving through the mismatched tables and chairs. You follow, heels catching on the sticky floor, your stomach tightening as she heads toward a table in the back.

That’s when you see it: the large black hoodie. The person wearing it is turned away, broad shoulders hunched slightly. Something about the way they hold themselves makes your chest tighten. You tell yourself it can’t possibly be him. The odds are ridiculous, almost laughable.

And yet, your feet falter.

Johnny spots Ishta first, lighting up with a grin so wide it makes his eyes crease at the corners, laughter lines deepening across his face. There’s a boyish enthusiasm in the way he waves her over, unrestrained and unabashed, like a pet spotting its owner after a long day apart.

You remember her mentioning once, in passing, that he was born the year of the dog. It’s funny how fitting that feels now. Loyal, eager, a little too earnest. He all but bounces out of his seat, the movement causing a ripple of attention to shift across the table.

The ridiculously pretty man seated next to him glances up first, his expression brightening with easy charm. Across from him, an older man with a beard you could only describe as unnecessarily dramatic turns and nods politely.

Then, the hoodie moves. Your stomach plummets.

Simon.

His expression is unreadable, but the sight of him freezes you in place, and before you realize it, you’re standing there looking like a deer caught in headlights. The rest of the table follows his gaze, looking at you with various degrees of curiosity.

Ishta grabs your arm.

“Oh my God. Girl, is that your man? What’s wrong? You can’t back away now!”

She says in a low voice, dragging you forward before you can recover.

“That is not my man,”

You hiss back, but it does nothing to stop her relentless pull.

Johnny grins as you both approach, his voice warm and thick with his accent.

“Almost scared her off, Ghost.”

Ghost?

Your eyes flick to Simon. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word.

Johnny, takes over the introductions.

“This is Simon. Don’t mind him, wasn’t properly socialized as a bairn.”

There’s some shifting around as the group makes room. To your dismay, Simon stays tucked into one side of the booth, leaving Kyle and Price to scoot out. They pull over chairs from a nearby empty table, and you find yourself awkwardly squeezed beside Simon while Ishta takes the seat across from you.

“Finally nice to put a name to the face.”

Ishta beams at Simon, and you can see the faint flicker of amusement in his eyes, though he doesn’t respond. She laughs when Johnny makes a confused face, giving a brief rundown to the table.

“She says you haven't seen each other since that incident.”

Ishta waves her glass in Simon's direction.

Simon leans back in his seat, mask still up.

“Avoids me like the plague, she does. Must’ve left quite the impression.”

Kyle snorts, leaning forward with an amused grin.

“That’s just his thing. Simon’s got a talent for being a nuisance, don’t you, mate? Knows exactly how to make people’s lives hell.”

“Only when they deserve it.”

Simon replies smoothly.

The table chuckles, but you stay quiet. His knee bumps yours under the table and you shoot him a sharp glance. He doesn’t even look your way, focused instead on swirling his drink he hasn't touched. You drink more than you probably should, hoping it’ll dull the awkwardness.

Thankfully, the rest of the table carries on without issue, their conversation flowing easily.

“Military, huh?”

You ask eventually, your voice quieter than intended.

Simon doesn’t look at you, but Johnny leans in with a grin.

“Yeah, we're stationed here for a while, so get used to seeing my handsome face around.”

The ease in his tone does little to settle the tension twisting in your chest. Simon doesn’t so much as flinch, remaining a stoic, unreadable presence. His silence feels deliberate, heavy, but Johnny’s brightness seems determined to lighten the mood.

“Maybe you’ll even get used to this one,”

Johnny adds playfully.

“Though I wouldn’t hold your breath. He’s got the personality of wet cement.”

That makes you laugh a little, along with the rest of the table. Younod toward Simon.

“So… Ghost. That’s a call sign?”

Simon hums, noncommittal, leaving Johnny to fill the silence.

“Wish I got something cool like that,”

Johnny says, shooting Simon a look that’s both teasing and fond.

“Guess he earned it, scary bastard.”

You glance at Simon again. His face gives nothing away.

Ishta leans over and whispers something into Johnny’s ear, her lips brushing against his ear with a playful familiarity. Whatever she says prompts a crooked grin to spread across his face, his blue eyes lighting up with mischief.

The two of them fall into their own little world, lovebirds whispering and laughing softly, entirely lost to anyone else at the table. Their giddy exchange contrasts sharply with the tension simmering between you and Simon.

You shift in your seat, feeling the press of his knee against yours again. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but the contact makes your pulse quicken. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if it’s intentional. If he notices your reaction, he doesn’t show it.

Across the table, Price and Kyle keep the conversation flowing, their camaraderie effortless. You envy the ease they seem to find in this dynamic, the sense of belonging that eludes you in this moment.

Eventually, you decide to call it a night.

“Think I’ll head out, guys.”

You say, grabbing your bag. You glance toward Ishta, but she’s too busy twirling a strand of Johnny’s hair between her fingers, practically sitting in his lap.

Kyle stands, reaching for his jacket.

“Want me to walk you home, love?”

Before you can answer, Price butts in.

“Think Simon’s closer. Said you're neighbors, right?”

Your mouth goes dry.

“Oh, uh. Yeah.”

“He'll take you home. Don't need Kyle chasing up your dress.”

Simon finally looks at you, dark eyes unreadable. Without another word, he gets up.

***

The train ride back is painfully silent, tension coiling thick between you. Simon doesn’t make small talk, doesn’t fill the awkward space with meaningless words, and you can’t decide if you’re grateful or annoyed.

When you finally reach your apartment, you stop at the door, fumbling with your keys. You unlock it and step inside, turning to offer a polite, “Goodnight.”

Before you can close the door, Simon’s boot wedges into the frame.

“No kiss goodnight?”

He murmurs, pulling down his mask, voice low.

“Do you always have to be like this?”

You mumble, leaning forward and tilting your head up.

“You like it.”

He replies, pressing his scarred lips against your glossed ones.

The kiss lingers in your mind longer than it lasts, the warmth still spreading through your limbs. He pulls away, slipping his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. You stand with the door still open,

“Ok, well, goodnigh-”

“Not gonna invite me in for a drink?”

The way he says it—like he’s giving you the option, but he knows exactly how this game goes—brings a rush of heat to your cheeks.You hesitate for a moment, the weight of the night pressing down on you, but it hits you then—you’ve been waiting for him to make this move. Simon knows exactly how to push just enough, always teetering on the line between being too much and just enough.

You tilt your head, playing the game, your voice teasing.

“I don’t believe in letting strangers into my place, Ghost.”

His jaw tightens at the name, a flash of something flickering behind his eyes, but he recovers quickly, scanning your face with a quiet intensity.

“Hit your head, angel? The name’s Simon, remember?”

“Hmm,”

You cock your head, a playful smirk curling on your lips as you tease,

“Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”

Simon’s expression shifts, eyes narrowing just a fraction as his lips curl into a grin.

“No? Thought you’d remember it with how many times you say it when I’ve got you bent over that couch.”

“Simon!”

You gasp with a smile.

“Glad to see your memories back, love. Had me worried there for a moment.”

His voice drips with smug satisfaction, fingers creeping around your waist as you step backward into your apartment. His movements mirror yours, closing the distance, the same familiar rhythm between you two. Except this time, the dance ends in your bed, bathed in silvery moonlight that filters through the windows, casting shadows and soft glimmers over the room.

What he says to you in that space, the things he says are as depraved as they are tender, sinful words laced with something softer, gentler. And in that moment, you realize they’re the sweetest things Simon is capable of offering.

Lying on his chest, you let your thoughts drift, his sparse chest hair tickling the side of your face. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat drums against your ear as your fingers trace lazy circles on his skin. His hand mirrors yours, gently skimming the small of your back in slow, soothing motions.

You enjoy these moments just aas much as the more heated ones—maybe more. They feel almost domestic, like peeking through the keyhole of something you tell yourself you can’t have. But for now, it’s enough. It fills that quiet loneliness you feel some days.

Simon presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head, his lips lingering there for a beat longer than you expect. It feels like him savoring the closeness he so rarely allows himself.

“Mind if I sleep here tonight?”

His voice low and casual.

Your body goes stiff before you can stop it, and his hand on your back stills.

“Oh,”

You say, forcing a laugh that cracks at the edges.

“Didn’t think you’d grown tired of your bachelor setup. What happened? Mattress on the floor finally giving up on you?”

Simon hums, unbothered, his fingers resuming their lazy path.

“Figured I’d upgrade. You offering?”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you sit up quickly, putting a small but deliberate distance between you.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He doesn’t move, watching you with hooded eyes, his expression calm, unreadable.

“Why not? Thought we were comfortable now.”

His tone is deceptively light, but you can hear the challenge beneath it.

“I don’t sleep well with someone else in the bed,” You say, crossing your arms, covering your bare chest.

“It’s just a thing—I’m used to having my space.”

“Space, huh?”

He sits up and leans back against the wall, hands clasped behind his head, looking entirely too at ease.

“Didn’t seem to need space a few minutes ago, angel.”

You frown, heat rising to your face.

“That’s different. Sleeping is… it’s personal.”

He smirks, tilting his head slightly.

“And what we just did isn’t?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your irritation in check.

“You know what I mean, Simon.”

“Not sure I do,”

His tone is playful, but there’s a stubborn edge to it now.

“Seems to me like you’re just makin’ excuses.”

“I’m not.”

The words come out sharper than you intended. You sigh, running a hand through his short hair, an apology of sorts.

“It’s just… I’m not ready for that.”

“A lil sleepover?”

He tilts his head. Before you can respond, he grabs your face with one hand, his fingers pressing against your cheeks to make your lips pout.

You yank your head away, sucking your teeth in frustration.

“You’re impossible.”

He grins, leaning back against the wall like he’s won something.

“Am I? Or are you just makin’ this harder than it needs to be?”

“Simon,”

You snap,

“It’s not about being hard or easy. It’s about boundaries. Respecting them.”

“Boundaries?”

He raises an eyebrow, the smirk slipping just slightly.

“Since when have we had those?”

Never, you think to yourself. It's a little distressing if you think about it too long, letting a man have such sway on you.

He pulls you closer, his thick arms wrapping around you with an ease that feels as natural as it is intrusive. You don’t resist, though. Instead, your fingers trace the inked lines on his forearm, a distraction, an excuse not to look him in the eye.

“Think you got one more in you?”

His voice is low, dipping into something softer, coaxing.

“I’ll be out your hair after that.”

You can’t help the faint smile that tugs at your lips, even though you hate yourself for giving in so easily. It’s always like this with him—pushing, pulling, finding that sliver of space where you’re weak enough to let him in.

“Yeah,”

You murmur, leaning just slightly into his touch,

“Think I do.”

His lips curve into a grin, satisfied, but he doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he pulls you into his lap. And just like always, he gets exactly what he wants.

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#he never got spoiled as a child so if you give him an inch he will take a mile #a rose in Harlem #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x y/n #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #ghost x reader

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heliosunny · 4 months ago

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Deception

Yandere!Gojo x Reader

Years ago, Gojo Satoru watched his closest friend—his everything—die in his arms. The grief shattered him, pushing him to become the strongest sorcerer, a lone god among men. But when he unexpectedly sees you—alive, breathing, and unchanged—his carefully controlled world spirals into chaos.

The first time Gojo saw you die, something inside him shattered.

He had always been fast—too fast, but not that day. That day, he was too slow.

One moment, you were standing beside him, teasing him like you always did. The next, blood was pooling beneath you, your body limp in his arms. His hands pressed against the wound, shaking, desperate.

“Stay with me” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Don’t do this to me.”

But no matter how much power he had, no matter how much he begged, you still slipped away.

And Gojo, the strongest, realized something terrifying that day.

Without you, strength meant nothing.

Years passed, but the nightmares never did.

He stopped visiting your grave. What was the point? You weren’t there. You weren’t anywhere. Just a memory, a cruel trick time played on him. No soul left to sense, no cursed energy to trace. Just a void where you used to be.

Then, one night, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, he saw you.

And the world tilted on its axis.

You were laughing softly, eyes bright, standing just a few feet away. The same face. The same voice. The same presence he had lost all those years ago.

His Six Eyes burned as he focused on you—on your soul.

It was you.

Not an illusion. Not a trick.

You.

His breath hitched, fingers twitching at his sides. A thousand emotions surged through him at once—rage, confusion, relief—but one thought drowned out the rest.

You lied.

And Gojo Satoru did not take betrayal lightly.

Hours later, you walked alone through the quiet streets, your bag slung over your shoulder.

The night was crisp, and after the farewell party with your friends, exhaustion weighed on you. You had finally left your old life behind. No more sorcerers. No more Jujutsu battles. No more him.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Then, the air changed.

Before you could react, a hand covered your mouth, an arm wrapped around your waist, and the world snapped into darkness.

When you woke up, the scent of concrete and old wood filled your nose. A dim light flickered above you, casting long, eerie shadows. Your wrists were bound to the arms of a chair—tight enough to keep you still but loose enough not to hurt.

A slow, familiar chuckle sent a shiver down your spine.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

Your heart stopped.

Gojo stood in front of you, blindfold gone, Six Eyes glowing as he leaned down, his face mere inches from yours. His expression was unreadable, too calm, too controlled.

You swallowed hard. “Satoru—”

He clicked his tongue. “Toru” he corrected, voice almost playful. “You used to call me Toru, remember?”

You stayed silent.

His fingers ghosted over your cheek, his touch feather-light yet suffocating. “You died” he whispered, his tone soft but laced with something sharp. “I felt you die. And yet… here you are.”

Your pulse pounded against your skin.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured: “Start talking, love. Why did you leave me?”

Your breath hitched. His voice was low, smooth, but it carried an edge so sharp it could cut through bone.

You turned your head away, refusing to meet his gaze. “Let me go, Satoru.”

A slow, dark chuckle escaped his lips.

“There it is. That defiance,” he mused, tilting your chin back toward him with two fingers. “I wondered if you’d changed after all these years. Guess not.”

His Six Eyes flickered, scanning every inch of you—your trembling fingers, the tension in your jaw, the way your pulse pounded in your throat. You weren’t afraid. No, this wasn’t fear.

It was guilt.

Gojo’s grip on your chin tightened just slightly. “You faked your death” he said, the words more statement than question. “Why?”

You clenched your teeth. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

You swallowed hard. The weight of the past, of everything you left behind, pressed against your ribs like a vice.

“You needed me to be dead.”

Silence.

Gojo didn’t move, but something in his expression darkened. “Excuse me?”

You took a shaky breath. “You needed something to break you, Satoru. Something to push you past your limits. You needed pain, real pain, so you’d become strong enough to protect everyone else. If I had stayed… you wouldn’t be who you are now.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your own breathing.

Then—

Laughter.

Cold, bitter laughter that sent chills down your spine.

Gojo straightened, running a hand through his hair. “That’s your reason?” His voice dripped with something almost hysterical. “You let me rot in grief? You chose to make me suffer?”

Tears stung your eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be forever! I planned to come back—”

“Then why didn’t you?”

His voice cracked.

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Because you had seen it.

The way he had changed. The man who once stood beside you, carefree and untouchable, had become something else. A god among sorcerers. The strongest. A man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

You had done this to him. And by the time you realized it, it was too late.

“I was going to” you whispered. “But you didn’t need me anymore.”

Gojo went still.

Then, in a blink, he was in front of you again, both hands gripping the arms of your chair, caging you in. “You don’t get to decide that” he murmured, voice dangerously soft.

Your heart pounded.

“You think I needed to break?” His lips curled into something that wasn’t a smile. “You think I needed to lose you to become stronger?”

You flinched.

Gojo exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Damn it…” His hands lifted, resting on either side of your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “If you had just told me—if you had just stayed—I still would’ve become the strongest.”

His fingers tightened slightly.

“But at least I wouldn’t have been alone.”

For the first time since waking up in this room, you saw it—the raw, unfiltered agony behind his glowing eyes. The pain you had left him with.

You opened your mouth, but he spoke first.

“It doesn’t matter now.” His voice was quieter, but no less intense. “You’re here. And I’m not letting you leave again.”

Your stomach dropped. “Satoru—”

His lips brushed against your forehead—gentle, fleeting. But when he pulled back, the look in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine.

“Welcome home.”

#yandere x reader #yandere #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #yandere gojo #yandere jjk #gojo x you #jjk gojo #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #satoru gojo

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aajjks · 1 year ago

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Destroyer (m)

Synopsis: you better start to love him before he destroys you and himself.

warnings: yándèrè, kïdnáppèd rèádèr, dárk contènt, câptívè rèádèr, obsèssíón, ünhëälthy bêhávïöür, dárk côntènt, ünstáble jk.

note: just a small little something, shouto’s ver. SHARE FEEDBACK AND TALK TO HIM. ENJOYYYY!!!!

“Jungkook… I hate you so much, I can’t even begin to describe how much I fucking despise your guts!” You scream at the top of your lungs, but your voice only comes back to you with the sound of echoing in the basement, Jungkook watched you with his calculated gaze. His lips were pressed in a thin straight line, you stared back at him with hatred filled eyes. A flash of longing and disappointment shined in his brown coloured eyes, but only for a second.

“Fuck you! Fuck you! I hate you!” You spat again, anger was coursing through your veins. He didn’t care, did he? Your skin was itching with irritation, it didn’t bug him. He was really insufferable. But you wanted to hurt him, in the worst ways possible.

But, To your disappointment, He only looked down.

“I know.” After what felt like an hour, he finally replied. Your eyebrows farrowed, what did he mean? “What?!?” You were now, genuinely confused. His tone was void of any emotion. It was cold, just like him. “I know, y/n.” He looked up from the concrete floor to you. His feet were starting to walk ahead in your direction, where you were held captive by the steel chains. “You never fail to express it. I-I know..” His eyes were glossy, his lips upturned, almost in a pout. If you didn’t know the real him, his tone would’ve made your heart shake.

But you knew damn well than to pity a monster like him.

“Oh that’s good! Kook, then… tell me..” you gave him a faux smile in return, taking in a deep breath. “Why don’t you fucking let me go?”

Your eyes never left his face. He was now close than ever, your faces were only inches apart, he could grab your face easily in his hands. You hated the way he looked at you, like you were his world. “Because I can’t. I can’t let you go, y/n.” His eyes were swimming in obsession, “I love you- AND I FUCKING HATE YOU!?!” It was infuriating.

This was starting to get frustrating, more than before. It had been months. Months without any human contact expect him, who claimed to be your lover. You only saw his face.

“I don’t care. I never cared. I love you and I only care about that. I don’t care if you hate or want to fucking kill me. I can even die for you.” Jungkook only dismissed your confession. His eyes had been covered with a dark shadow, his jaw was clenched, his tone was deadly. “Don’t you get it, sweetheart? I love you.” He chuckled at your disgusted expression.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to love me. My love for you is enough for both of us. I love you so fucking much, ever since I saw you, I have loved you ever since.” He whispered in a low husky tone.

He seemed to have completely change in a span of fifty seconds. It was scary. “I love you so much, like a fucking madman. I’m starting to go insane.” He gritted his teeth. His intense gaze sent shivers down your spine, his eyes were filled with craze, passion. “You’ll learn to love me, baby. Yes, you have to. You have to love me.” His fingers grabbed your face, gently but tightly. You only stared back in horror. His tone was dripping with craziness.

“You have to love me, sweetheart because now, my patience in running thin. I was never really a patient person y’know? But I have waited so fuckin’ long for you to finally become mine. Only mine,

So love me now, before I fuckin lose it and destroy both you and myself.”

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star-suh · 3 months ago

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Heartbeat

Johnny Suh x Male Reader

an: based on the song ‘heartbeat’ by Childish Gambino, i’ll be using lyrics from the song as dialogue here.

—

johnny, a college student known as the campus’ heartthrob, is loved by everyone but not as much as his favorite person in the world, yn. the pair wandered around the campus with hands interlocked, they were such a good couple that people thought that if they were on a manhwa they would always be drawn with tiny hearts around them. in short they were what everyone wanted in a relationship, so what happened? what the fuck happened?.

“what the fuck happened?” is a question that always roamed on johnny’s head. their undeniable good chemistry is now just a wasteland full of radioactivity. love, desire, lust and passion were for a long time the only feelings in their hearts but then it started to feel a little void on them that was quickly filled with jealousy, mixed signals and vulnerability. their once beautiful relationship turns into something destructive and intoxicating that they can’t let go.

minutes turned into hours, then into days and even weeks when they would communicate with each other, they were slowly drifting apart in terms of feelings. in sexual terms it was another story, it just takes one simple message for one of them to appear where the other is and take out the anger in sessions that could last for hours.

it was confusing, like why did it happen, when did it start?, what could’ve been saved by just a simple conversation was now left behind. ‘i still love you’s are thrown around here and there but they’re not convincing anymore, not when there are unspoken truths lingering on the back of their throats. this has caused insecurities to grow on johnny, “am i not good enough for him?”, “was i the only one in love?”, “why does yn keep pulling away?” and other questions flooded his head on the cold, lonely nights. on the other hand yn regrets how he is treating johnny, he loves him even though he’s a bit of a controller, he’s quite the perfect partner he has ever wished for but why is he afraid of committing to a relationship with him if he’s that good?. but things didn’t stop there, as a way to still capture his attention yn started to hook up with people around him, hell, even johnny’s friends. “do you enjoy being a little whore, shaking your ass here and there for some cocks to fuck you?” a pissed off johnny says to yn who’s sitting near him while watching a basketball match on the campus’ yards. yn just smirks because he’s getting what he wanted, keeping johnny’s attention on him. “relax bro, i can be your little whore too” he grabs johnny’s chin and kisses him and then waves a goodbye. “two can play this game yn” johnny murmurs.

next day johnny hooks up with a lot of people too, yn even catches him walking out of the bathroom all sweaty and flushed, when they both make eye contact johnny winks at him causing the other to get flustered to the point of almost looking like a tomato, minutes later a person walks out of the bathroom too, while yn stands there speechless.

“in a fucking bathroom, SERIOUSLY????”

“i don’t give a fuck and you should too”

“stupid and … sexy johnny” yn complains while locking his phone and throwing it into his backpack, “i hate you”.

they have never claimed that they are not a couple anymore so that’s why it surprises a lot of people how they just go fucking around, slowly they spiraled into something destructive, a race to see who pisses off the other more, those precious feelings they once claimed to have towards each other being trapped in a concrete box, would they ever go out of it again? who knows…

finally friday, the whole campus is throwing a party to celebrate the anniversary of it, johnny wore an all black suit, with no tie and a slightly unbuttoned shirts, showing his cleavage and part of his chest, while yn wore a black tank top, jeans and one of johnny’s jackets that he forgot on his dorm, yn giggled when he imagined the face of johnny when he sees him wearing it, “perfect”.

hours passed and the night grew colder so yn naturally had to find a way to get warm and what better option than to dance with one of johnny’s friends that was coincidentally dancing in front of the table in where johnny was sitting. glances were exchanged in between them, if looks can kill johnny would be already a serial killer, his gaze full of anger and jealousy piercing into yn’s soul, but he liked it, the bastard liked it. his knitted eyebrows showing how his blood was boiling, he couldn’t hold it anymore so he stands up walking directly towards yn, “we need to have a serious conversation” he grabs the other by his hand and dragged him towards a dark spot.

“what the fuck is all this about, i thought you love me” johnny reclaims, yn just stands there against a wall with his arms crossed, “i thought that too” he murmurs. “don’t come to me with that shit, you know damn well i’ll give everything from you yet you started to drift away from me.. w-why?”. “listen i don’t know, okay?” yn snaps “maybe i go away from the people because i don’t know how to stay with them. so it’s way easy for me to go and then come back for some days”.

“so your excuse to throw me away, it’s because you’re scared, acting like i’m the problem?” he laughs “that’s bullshit”. “oh my fucking god stop being so selfish and think that everything is about you… and yes you’re part of the problem”. johnny laughs bitterly “the fuck?” he inhales and exhales trying to calm down, “you know i’ve been patient with your ass, i’ve been trying to find a perfect moment so we could talk and fix things but your slutty ass was always around the campus whoring yourself out like a cheap bitch” he pauses muttering a little apology, “woah mr. perfect guy adored by everyone in the campus, what would they think if they hear your sexy mouth muttering all those degrading words” yn zips up the jacket to feel more warm in the cold night, “you’ve been telling me how to behave, hell even you told me how to act in front of your parents that night you invited me to dinner. you want me to be someone i’m not, you want to control everything and i simply can’t” his tone raising but going down and almost into a whisper in the last words, johnny just stares at him, “every time i let myself get close to you i feel like i’m gonna lose who i am” yn pauses.

“i just wanted to feel that you cared about this, about us, like i’m not the only one fool in love here” johnny hums, “so what now? are we done with this shit?” he angrily says “you know what fuck this, what even are we? are we dating? are we friends with benefits? are we fucking? are we even something?” his fist landing against the wall, i wish we never fucked and i mean that” these last sentence johnny said it with his face inches away from yn, the heated conversation rapidly turn into something else when their mouth clashed against each other into a desperate messy kiss. when they stopped to catch some air johnny spoke one last time, “but not really, you say and do the nastiest shit in bed and it’s fucking awesome” they both smiled into the kiss with yn hoping onto johnny who carries him towards his dorm to fuck all night long, like the couple they supposedly still are.

the cycle once again initiates, despite all the love, anger and jealousy neither can’t deny that between them there’s something that they can’t let go, it’s like a drug that they need to keep going, the connection between them is fragile, held by a fine thin thread yet they refuse to break it, deep down they know it’s toxic but hey, that’s the thrill about it.

#johnny suh x male reader #johnny seo x male reader #seo youngho x male reader #nct x male reader #nct u x male reader #male reader #kpop x male reader #johnny suh #seo youngho #johnny seo #johnny suh x reader #seo youngho x reader #johnny seo x reader

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bonesxbows · 4 months ago

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Infection (Arthur Nightingale X Reader)

My Masterlist

You can't get sick...right? You're a child of the void, immune to simple bacterial viruses. But yet when you pull into the Mall's garage one day, head throbbing and body aching, you can't help but wonder if that's actually true. To make matters even worse you've been so busy running errands and missions for the Hex that you haven't been keeping an eye on the calendar; it's closer to the end of the time loop than you thought. Arthur's the first to remind you, and the first to notice your change in health.

(WARNINGS) - Graphic Descriptions of Flu like symptoms - Female Drifter (she/her pronouns used)

Guess who got sick right before new years eve and wrote this as a way to make themselves feel better because they're missing out on all the fun parties

I'm still getting a grasp on Arthur's character and I also wrote this while extremely sick so sorry for any mistakes/out-of-character moments

Banners by @strangergraphics

The mission had gone as usual, no kinks or hiccups, smooth sailing as you and your squad mowed down techrot hoard after hoard, the smell of burnt acid and chitin-filled technological carapaces burying the under levels of the old mall. But at some point, your trigger finger began to lag, your steps became staggered and you could feel phantom sweat coat your forehead from within the safety of your warframe. You were falling behind. They wouldn’t leave you, but they wouldn't wait for you either. So you forced your feet to keep moving, willing the energy to keep flowing through your warframe to fend off the techrot surrounding you. By the time you made it back to the garage, you wanted to collapse.

You left your frame next to your atomicycle, not having the energy to pilot the suit even another step. The bundle of supplies you had brought back for the Hex felt like a bag of concrete on your shoulder, threatening to topple you over as your knees screamed in protest, your muscles aching right down to your bones. You were so ready to just trudge up to the backroom and fall into the nearest couch you could find. Luckily, by some small grace, help had arrived. You heard the sliding doors that separated the garage from the rest of the mall glide open, metallic footsteps clicking against the tile floor.

“You’re not usually gone this long. Everything go alright?” You heard him ask, his accent coating over the forming headache in the back of your mind like warm drizzled honey.

You sighed. You didn’t want to snap at him, but you were in so. Much. Pain. Standing on your feet physically hurt. “Everything went fine, Arthur. Can you take these and distribute them, please? I need to...lie down. For a moment.” You kept your voice sweet and plastered a soft smile on your face as you handed the bag of supplies in his direction. He hesitated, his brow furrowing as he studied you. He knew you; ever since you had first arrived you never stopped, never slowed down, always bouncing to the next mission or next bounty, so why now, of all times, were you stopping to take a rest? There was something off, but it was so hard to tell with you. You weren’t built like him, or like he used to be anyway, you weren’t exactly human. He couldn’t read you like he could other people.

“Are you…feeling alright, love?” He took the bag from you, lessening the weight on your body, and immediately you sighed in relief. Your eyes flickered to the door, eager to book it towards the backroom now that you were free from your last responsibility and could finally crash, but Arthur stood in your way, and it was clear he had no intention of moving until you answered his question.

“I’m fine, really. I’m immune to everything, remember? Child of the void and all that. I’m just tired. After some sleep I’ll be right back to normal, promise. You worry too much.” You spoke quickly and then kissed him on the cheek, getting a satisfactory answer out as fast as possible and leaving him no room to argue as you dashed off towards the door. Hopefully, he wouldn’t chase you down so you could actually take that nap you so desperately wanted.

You made it to the backroom in record time, flopping face-first onto the nearest soft surface you could find and passing out as soon as your head made contact.

It wasn’t long though before you woke up retching, a wet cough rattling your chest and scratching your throat on the way out. You groaned, sitting up and leaning back against the back of the couch. You blinked against the lights above you, pulling the blanket that covered your arms up over your head…which definitely hadn’t been there when you had fallen asleep. You poked an eye out, looking around the room, but no one else was there with you. Well, no other people. Your eyes landed on your kubrow who had snuggled up next to the foot of the couch nearest you, curled into a ball, a note laid next to their feet. You reached down to pick it up, scritching their fur as a reward for safeguarding the note for you when you did so. They sighed contently in response.

The white of the paper was blinding to your straining eyes, your headache having only increased from earlier, and his fancy scrawled handwriting didn’t help -you figured it had to be a Britannic thing, Eleanor wrote the same way-, but you managed to decode the note.

You looked cold. Text me when you wake up, team’s taken off the rest of today. I’m all yours. -A

You couldn’t help but smile underneath your little blanket cocoon. It took an extraordinary amount of effort but you stood up, your knees wobbled and your back ached but you willed yourself to stay upright, stumbling your way over to your POM-2 PC. You pushed the on button, the screen flickering to life, making you outwardly hiss as the blue light assaulted your eyes and shot to the very back of your skull like a laser. But you pushed forward, ignoring the pain, and clicked on Arthur’s chatbox.

Hey, A <3

Broadsword is typing…

You’re awake. I take it you got my note then?

I did. Something special going on I don’t know about? You never let the team take days off.

Broadsword is typing…

Check your calendar, love.

Broadsword has gone offline.

You squinted in confusion, a small flash of panic grabbing hold of your heart. Had you forgotten something important? You clicked off of the chat page and onto the built-in calendar with the PC, the boxes flashing onto the screen. They were all greyed out, you had reached the end of another month, nothing special there. But then you saw it. December on the top of the screen. December 31st. Today was the end of the time loop. New Year’s Eve.

Metallic footsteps sounded off of the wooden floorboards behind you. You were still facing the PC, dumbstruck by your discovery, nothing but a mass of blanket from his point of view. He came up behind you and snaked his hands around your waist, slotting his head into the crook of your neck, though he was met with a mess of fluffy blanket instead of your warm skin. His eyes flicked between your face and the PC’s screen still brought up on the greyed-out calendar. “Figure out what today is, then?” He whispered.

You leaned back into Arthur’s chest, the heat radiating off of his warframe a welcoming comfort through your blanket.“I didn’t realize.” You spoke, answering his question, but yet you didn’t recognize your own voice. Your eyes widened at the unexpected sound, a hoarse croaking noise as the words scratched out of your throat. Arthur pulled his head away from your shoulder and spun you around as soon as he heard it too, forcing you to face him, his hands now on your shoulders and a concerned look on his face as his brow furrowed. A chill ran over your body at the abrupt removal of his warmth from your back, causing you to shiver, a motion that didn’t go unnoticed by Arthur. He was looking over you, studying you. You pulled the blanket closer around you, becoming sheepish under his gaze. He took in everything he hadn’t noticed before in addition to your recent shiver and scratchy voice; the way your eyes seemed to sink into your face surrounded by dark circles, the unusual dullness in your complexion, and the way both your shoulders and your spine seemed to slump towards the floor as if the weight of a million bricks rested upon you.

A small smirk crawled over his face, his assumptions from earlier now being undeniably confirmed. “So, ‘child of the void that’s immune to everything’ huh?”

You sniffled, sticking your nose into the air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice scratched out like a destroyed record, the words catching in your throat and making you hack and cough, breaking whatever semblance of composure you were trying to feign. You brought your elbow up to your face to catch the cough, the fuzzy blanket encompassing everything as you moved. Arthur carefully dug his fingers into the muscles of your shoulders and neck as you coughed and retched up the fluid in your lungs, the gentle pressure a soothing distraction from the pain coating your throat with every new breath you took. Eventually, you stopped, now looking exhausted from the effort, and you couldn’t help but collapse against his chest, your head finding the crook of his neck. Your breathing became ragged against the metal platings and exo-flesh of his neck, though he couldn’t feel it the sound of it alone made concern worm its way to his heart. He didn’t think about it often, he didn’t want to unless he had to, honestly; but moments like this were blatant reminders of just how fragile you were compared to him. He sighed and curled his arms around you, holding you against him and running his hands up and down your back comfortingly. “Hm. Sounds to me like you’re sick, if I had to guess.”

“Ugh.” Was all you could muster for a response, the sound reverberated through your chest instead of your already painful throat. He reached down and hooked his hands under your thighs, pulling you up and bundling you into his arms so he could carry you. You made no protest to his actions, immediately wrapping your legs and arms around his torso, albeit weakly. He carried you back over to the couch, settling down with you in his lap, the blanket not forgotten about and cocooned around your shoulders. You huddled into the warmth radiating off of his mechanical body as another shiver crawled over your spine, causing you to shake. He let his hands roam your back absentmindedly, working his fingers against your muscles gently and every so often letting one of them wander upwards towards your hair, carding his fingers through the strands soothingly.

Though the quiet moment didn’t last for long as his ears twitched, picking up the sound of footsteps coming up the metal staircase that separated your living space from your workshop. He instinctively tensed, his eyes whipping to the doorway as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, ready to protect you at a second's notice. The mall was a safe zone, he knew that in the back of his mind, but he always prepared for the worst. The need to protect you, especially now given how weak you were in your current state, greatly outweighed any rationality to his thoughts. You were oblivious to everything happening, your eyes long since being closed ever since he had sat down with you.

“You two are adorable.” He heard in his head, his guard dropping as he saw both his sister and Aoi poke around the corner. She had been listening when his instincts had kicked in.

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you two knock?”

“Don’t you two answer your comms?” He heard in his head again, a teasing smile on Eleanor’s face.

“Didn’t hear them go off. Sorry.” He explained.

“You, not paying attention to your comms? What’s got you so sidetracked?” Aoi retorted, though her face showed she was teasing as well. Eleanor, however, had already found the answer to Aoi’s question. Her face fell when she saw you clinging onto Arthur’s chest, your breathing harsh and unnatural and your hair plastered to your forehead by sweat. She knelt down in front of him, studying you for signs of something she had long since forgotten even existed.

“Is she sick?” She asked him telepathically.

Aoi had also heard the question, catching up on the details laid out before her. She sat down on the other side of the couch, her brow furrowing and a small frown adorning her lips. “Can she even get sick?”

“Apparently,” Eleanor answered in their minds, half sarcastically. “Is there anything we can do?”

“What could we do? We don’t have a cure, she’s in no condition to go back to her time and retrieve one, that’s even if they’ve discovered one.” He ran through options in his head, none of them seeming feasible.

“So…what? We just let it run its course? She seems…miserable.” Aoi’s voice was laced with sympathy. You had done so much for them, it felt awful not being able to help you in return.

“I don’t think we have any other choice, unfortunately.” They could hear the pang of guilt in Eleanor’s words as they echoed in their heads, her lips parting in a regretful sigh as she stood up.

“What did you two stop by here for, anyway?” He asked, his eyes flicking to you as you shifted in his arms, but you were still fast asleep.

“We were going to gather in the commons to celebrate the countdown, you know, since we avoided annihilation and all that this year, we figured why not, and we were going to ask if you and Drifter wanted to join us, but…” Aoi explained, her voice trailing off towards the end as her eyes landed on the bundle of blanket that was you in Arthur’s lap.

“I doubt she’d feel up to a party and I’d rather not leave her here alone, so if it’s all the same to you lot I think I’ll stay here with her for the night.” Both women gave him looks of understanding to his reply, but as soon as Arthur had answered your eyes fluttered open and your head shot up, instantly causing you to go dizzy from your sudden movement and you had to place a hand against his chest to stabilize yourself. But that didn’t stop you.

“No, Arthur, you should go.” You looked at him, your words croaking out just the same as they had before, startling the two women who hadn’t heard the severity of your sickness yet.

“I’m not leaving you here by yourself.” He retorted, brown and white eyes burrowing into yours. He knew it was selfish to argue with you when you were less than healthy, you stood no chance at winning, but he didn’t care. Not when it came to looking after you.

Eleanor and Aoi took that as their cue to leave before the conversation got any more heated. “If you do decide to join us, you know where you can find us,” Aoi told the two of you before standing up and making way for the door.

“Take care of her,” Eleanor told her brother inside of his head, a message only he could hear, as she followed Aoi out.

You waited until you heard the familiar click of the backroom door shutting before trying to bicker with the man in front of you. “You deserve to celebrate.” You told him, fighting against the hoarseness in your throat to get your point across.

“And you don’t? We'd still be dead on the floor of that reactor room if you hadn’t intervened. I won’t leave you here to celebrate alone if I have a say about it.” He brushed the sweat-stricken hair off of your forehead as he spoke.

You huffed, the noise sounding more like a wheeze. “You’re stubborn, Nightingale.” You wanted to cross your arms, to pout, to argue back and force him to spend time with his friends instead of wasting his night away in a stuffy old room. But you barely had enough energy to keep your head up as it was.

He couldn’t help but laugh, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips. “So I’ve been told.”

You didn’t remember falling back asleep, or even when you had laid your head back down onto Arthur’s shoulder, but the next thing you knew he was gently squeezing your hand, trying to wake you. You stirred for a moment, your eyelids fluttering as you came back to reality. “Wake up, love.” You heard him whisper into your ear. But it was then that all of the pain came flooding back, hitting you all at once. You groaned, feeling the stiffness in your bones and the aches throbbing in your muscles. Though you were grateful that your headache had at least subsided, you discovered that your throat still felt like sandpaper every time you swallowed, causing you to wince from the pain. You slowly raised your head up, coming face to face with Arthur. He had a small smile stuck on his face and you were caught off guard when he tilted his head and kissed you, his lips gentle against yours, as if too much pressure would shatter you like glass. You quickly leaned into it though, weakly wrapping an arm around his neck and inwardly smiling as you felt his hair tickle your cheekbones. He pulled away far too soon for your liking. “Happy New Year, love.”

You blinked in confusion for a moment before turning your head towards your POM-2; sure enough, the usual black screen was now flashing big green numbers, “00:00”. The loop had been completed. Soon it would all start again. Whether or not Arthur would still be there with you come morning was now a decision left in your hands.

#my writings #warframe #arthur warframe #arthur nightingale #arthur nightingale x reader #warframe 1999 #warframe x reader

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sexsylexi · 9 months ago

Text

Reunion with the past

Jason Todd x Reader

The wind howled through the narrow alleyways of Gotham, sending a shiver down your spine as you clutched the crumpled letter in your hand. The edges were frayed from the number of times you’d folded and unfolded it, tracing the sharp, angry handwriting that you could have sworn was a ghost’s. It had to be some kind of sick joke—a cruel prank by some heartless soul who knew just how deeply Jason’s death had scarred you. But as much as your mind screamed for you to dismiss it, something in your heart couldn’t let go.

“Meet me at the old warehouse, midnight.”

There was no signature, just those words scrawled in the same script that had filled countless notes and letters from the boy you once loved—the boy who was supposed to be dead. It felt impossible, but after everything you had seen in Gotham, was it really so unbelievable? Batman had told you Jason was gone. The city had mourned him, and you had spent years trying to heal from the void he left behind. Yet, here you were, standing outside a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of the city, the clock inching closer to midnight.

The air was thick with tension, the shadows seeming to stretch out toward you, as if the darkness itself wanted to swallow you whole. You almost turned back, more than once. Your mind raced with thoughts of what this could mean—if it wasn’t Jason, then who was it? And if it was Jason… how? Why?

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the heavy metal door open. The creak echoed through the empty space, amplifying the silence that followed. The interior was dimly lit, only a few sparse bulbs flickering overhead, casting long, ominous shadows across the concrete floor. You scanned the room, your eyes searching for any sign of life, but the warehouse seemed deserted.

For a moment, you felt foolish for even considering this was real. You started to turn back, when a figure stepped out of the shadows.

Your breath caught in your throat as you recognized the silhouette—a tall, broad-shouldered man, clad in black armor with a helmet obscuring his face. It was the Arkham Knight, the villain who had terrorized Gotham. But something about the way he moved, the way he stood… it was familiar in a way that made your heart ache.

“Y/N…” The voice was distorted through the helmet, but you would recognize it anywhere. A voice you had thought you would never hear again. It was deeper now, rougher, but still unmistakably Jason.

“Jason?” Your voice trembled as you took a tentative step forward, every part of you screaming that this couldn’t be real, that it had to be some cruel trick of the mind. “Is it really you?”

He hesitated before lifting his hands to the sides of his helmet. With a mechanical hiss, the helmet unlatched, revealing the face beneath it. The face of the boy you had loved. Only, he wasn’t a boy anymore. His features were sharper, harder, his once-bright blue eyes now clouded with pain and anger. His skin was paler, a faint scar running down his left cheek—a mark of the horrors he had endured.

“Yeah, it’s me.” His voice was low, almost emotionless, as if he was holding everything back. His eyes flickered over you, taking in every detail, and you saw the way his jaw clenched, like he was bracing himself for something.

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. For years, you had imagined what it would be like if you could see him again, if you could just have one more moment with him. But now that he was standing right in front of you, you didn’t know what to say. Your mind was a whirlwind of emotions—relief, disbelief, anger, sadness.

“I thought you were dead,” you finally managed to whisper, your voice barely audible. “We all thought you were dead.”

His expression hardened at your words, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I was,” he said flatly. “At least, the Jason Todd you knew was.”

“What happened to you?” you asked, your voice breaking as you took another step closer, your eyes searching his face for any trace of the boy you once knew.

He looked away, his gaze drifting to the ground. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, the cold edge to his voice making your heart sink. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“You’re still Jason,” you insisted, your voice trembling. “You’re still the person I… I cared about.”

Jason flinched at your words, a flicker of emotion flashing in his eyes before he quickly masked it. “You don’t know what I’ve become,” he said, his tone laced with bitterness. “I’m not the same person, Y/N. I’ve done things… things you can’t even imagine.”

You reached out to him, your hand trembling as you gently touched his cheek. He stiffened at the contact, but didn’t pull away. His skin was cold under your fingertips, and you could feel the tension in his jaw as he clenched his teeth.

“I don’t care,” you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. “I don’t care what you’ve done, Jason. I’m just… I’m just glad you’re alive.”

His eyes finally met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flash of vulnerability in them—an echo of the boy you once knew. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a steely resolve.

“You shouldn’t be,” he said, his voice harsh. “I’m not the person you remember, Y/N. I’m not… I’m not good for you. I’m dangerous. You should stay away from me.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I can’t,” you whispered. “I can’t just walk away, Jason. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not after losing you once. I won’t lose you again.”

Jason’s expression twisted with pain, and he closed his eyes, as if trying to block out your words. “You don’t understand,” he muttered, his voice strained. “You don’t know what I’ve done. The things I’ve seen… the things I’ve been through… they changed me. I’m not the same person anymore. I can’t be that person for you.”

“But I still love you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Jason’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he just stared at you, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His expression was a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something else—something deeper, more painful.

“You… you still love me?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “I never stopped,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “Even after everything… even when I thought you were gone… I never stopped loving you, Jason.”

He looked at you as if he was seeing you for the first time, his eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit. But all he found was the truth—the raw, unfiltered truth of your feelings.

“I don’t deserve that,” he muttered, his voice choked with emotion. “I don’t deserve your love. Not after everything I’ve done.”

“You do,” you insisted, your voice firm despite the tears. “You deserve to be loved, Jason. You deserve to have someone who cares about you… who sees you for who you are, not what you’ve done. And that someone is me.”

Jason shook his head, his eyes filled with pain. “I’m not the same person,” he repeated, his voice breaking. “I’m not the boy you loved. I’m colder, harder… I’m not sure I even know how to feel anymore.”

“You’re still Jason,” you whispered, your hand still resting on his cheek. “You’re still the person I fell in love with. And I’m not going to walk away from you. Not now, not ever.”

For a long moment, he just stared at you, as if he was trying to process your words. Then, slowly, his hand came up to cover yours, his touch hesitant, as if he was afraid he might break you.

“You’re too good for me, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of awe and sorrow. “You always were.”

You shook your head, a soft smile breaking through your tears. “And you were always worth it,” you replied.

Jason’s expression softened, and for the first time since you’d seen him again, you saw a hint of the old Jason—the boy who had made you laugh, who had been your best friend and so much more. It was fleeting, but it was enough to give you hope.

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “I don’t know if I can be that person again,” he admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“You don’t have to be,” you assured him. “I just want you to be you—whoever that is now. I want to be with you, Jason. We can figure it out together.”

Jason closed his eyes, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. You could see the conflict in his expression, the war he was waging within himself. But after a long moment, he opened his eyes again, and there was something different in them—a resolve, a tentative acceptance.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said quietly. “But… I want to try. For you.”

A sob caught in your throat as you threw your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.

For a moment, Jason hesitated, his body stiff and unyielding against yours. It was as if he was afraid to let go, afraid to allow himself to feel anything beyond the cold anger and bitterness that had kept him alive all these years. But then, slowly, almost reluctantly, you felt his arms wrap around you, holding you close. It was tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure how to touch you, how to be close to someone in this way again. But then his grip tightened, and you could feel the raw, unspoken emotions in the way he held you—a desperate need, a longing he had buried so deep within himself that he’d almost forgotten it was there.

You buried your face against his chest, feeling the hard armor beneath his clothes, but also the steady beat of his heart. It was real. He was real. The boy you had lost, the boy you had mourned, was back in your arms, and despite everything, despite the coldness and the pain, you knew he needed you as much as you needed him.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. The words were heavy with years of grief, of longing, of nights spent staring at the empty side of your bed, wondering what could have been.

Jason didn’t say anything, but you felt him press his face against your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. For a long time, neither of you moved, simply holding on to each other as if afraid that letting go would shatter the fragile moment. You could feel the weight of his pain, the burden he carried, and it broke your heart all over again. But you also felt something else—a flicker of the boy he once was, hidden beneath the layers of anger and hurt. It wasn’t gone, just buried, and you knew that as long as you were with him, you could help him find that part of himself again.

Eventually, Jason pulled back, though his hands remained on your shoulders as if he was afraid you might disappear if he let go completely. He looked down at you, his expression a mixture of uncertainty and something that looked almost like hope.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his voice quiet and raw. “I’ve been alone for so long… I don’t even know how to be with someone anymore.”

“We’ll figure it out together,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears that still threatened to fall. “You don’t have to do this alone, Jason. You never did.”

He nodded slightly, his eyes filled with a sadness that made your heart ache. “I wish I’d known that before,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “I pushed everyone away… I thought that was the only way to survive.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that anymore,” you said gently, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. “You don’t have to push me away, Jason. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch as if he was savoring the simple, human connection. For a moment, he looked so vulnerable, so lost, that you wanted to take all his pain away, to somehow erase all the terrible things he had been through. But you knew that wasn’t possible. All you could do was be there for him, to help him find his way back, one step at a time.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a determination in them that hadn’t been there before. “I don’t know if I deserve this,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “But I want to try… for you, Y/N. I want to be someone you can love.”

“You already are,” you whispered, your heart swelling with emotion. “You’ve always been that person to me, Jason. No matter what’s happened, no matter how much you’ve changed… you’re still the person I fell in love with. And I’ll love you no matter what.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, and for the first time, you saw the walls he had built around himself begin to crack. It was just a small fissure, but it was enough. Enough to give you hope, enough to make you believe that you could help him heal.

“I don’t know where to start,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything feels so… broken.”

“Then we’ll start with the pieces,” you said softly, taking his hand in yours. “We’ll pick them up, one by one, and we’ll put them back together. We’ll make something new, something strong. Together.”

He stared at your joined hands for a long moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe what you were offering him. Then, slowly, he squeezed your hand, his grip firm and reassuring.

“Together,” he repeated, the word a promise, a vow.

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through you that you hadn’t felt in years. It wasn’t going to be easy—you knew that. The road ahead would be long, and there would be setbacks, challenges, moments of doubt. But you were ready for it. You were ready to fight for him, for the love you shared. Because no matter how much he had changed, no matter how dark his path had become, you knew that the Jason you loved was still there, beneath it all. And you would do whatever it took to bring him back.

As you stood there, in the cold, empty warehouse, holding onto each other as if the world outside didn’t exist, you felt something shift. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a change in the air, in the way Jason held you, in the way he looked at you. It was as if, for the first time in a long time, he was beginning to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a way back from the darkness.

And as you looked into his eyes, you knew that you would be there, every step of the way. You would walk with him through the shadows, through the pain, through whatever lay ahead. Because you had found him again, and you weren’t going to lose him. Not now, not ever.

“Let’s go home,” you whispered, your voice filled with a quiet determination. “Together.”

Jason nodded, a small, almost tentative smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It was a start—a fragile, precious beginning. And as you led him out of the warehouse, into the cold night, you knew that no matter what the future held, you would face it together.

Because some things, some loves, were worth fighting for. And Jason Todd was worth every battle, every tear, every moment. You would rebuild, you would heal, and one day, you would both find peace.

Together.

#imagine #x reader #dc #dc comics #dc universe #fluff #x you fluff #jason todd #red hood #arkham knight #arkhamverse #the outlaws #jason todd x reader

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fear-is-truth · 8 months ago

Text

void. ── patrick bateman x reader

⟢ WARNINGS: fantasying about violence, sex & murder ・ foul language・sexism・ reader discretion is advised .ᐟ

⟢ TAGS: bateman’s pov・fem!secretary!reader ・“y/n” used i’m so sorry

⟢ WORD COUNT: 1,875

a/n: english is not my first language, but i loved the book & movie sm (might write a part two.)

VOID

I flip through the pages of GQ, my attention divided between an article on the season’s latest must-have suits and the image that keeps surfacing in my mind.

Paul Allen’s assistant. She started working here a few weeks ago, and ever since, I can’t seem to get her out of my head. It’s irritating as hell. She’s not like the women I usually deal with—clones of one another, in varying shades of blonde. This new girl is different.

It’s not like she’s anything special—at least not in the usual sense. I remember watching her, studying the way she fumbles with a stack of papers, fingers trembling slightly. I wonder how they’d feel like wrapped around my cock.

She’s not like the others. Not like Evelyn, with her relentless neediness, or even Jean, who’s dependable but she is, well, Jean. Reliable, dependable, and utterly forgettable.. y/n—there’s something about her that feels different. Unspoiled. Innocent in a way that’s almost laughable in this city, like a virgin lamb wandering into a den of wolves, completely unaware of the danger that surrounds her. And it makes me want to ruin her.

It’s intriguing. It’s also fucking annoying.

I toss the magazine aside, the pages crumpling as they hit the sleek surface of the desk. My eyes drift to the window, where I can see the city stretching out below, a concrete jungle full of meaningless, vapid people.

My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored wall, and I adjust the knot of my Charvet tie, admiring how it complements my gray wool suit by Cerruti 1881. Everything is meticulously in place: my Valentino loafers shine under the soft glow of the overhead lights, and my skin is flawless, practically glowing from the morning routine of an intense workout and the application of a moisturising mask from Jean Paul Gaultier. I run a hand through my slicked-back hair, appreciating the perfection I’ve crafted.

I feel a pang of something—sadness? Anger? No, it’s more like emptiness. A void that no amount of money, no designer suit, no fucking (and later slaughtering) prostitutes can fill. I’ve been feeling it more often lately, especially when I’m alone with my secretary who’s in love with me. She’s always there, always willing to please, but she doesn’t challenge me. She doesn’t excite me. She’s just… there. I pity her, in a way, though I doubt she even realises it.

“Van Patten,” I reply coolly, leaning back in my chair. I feel the leather creak beneath me, a sound that irritates me more than it should.

“Going to Harry’s Bar later?” he asks, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Typical. I stare at him, considering the offer. Harry’s is fine, but the thought of spending the evening listening to these idiots prattle on about which bar serves the coldest martinis or which girl they’re planning to fuck next, makes me want to drive a nail through my skull. Still, there’s a game to be played.

“No,” I say finally, my voice flat. “I have plans.”

Van Patten shrugs, clearly not giving a shit, and turns to leave. But then he stops, his gaze shifting to the hallway behind him. I follow his eyes, and there she is—her, holding a stack of files that looks too heavy for her.

“Oh, by the way, have you seen Allen’s new assistant? McDermott’s been talking about wanting to fuck her her non-stop. I’d like to fuck that pretty little thing too.”

I don’t react outwardly, but inside, I feel a flicker of something—anger, perhaps. Not for her, but for myself. For the fact that I’m letting this get to me. Because I too want to fuck her. “McDermott’s an idiot,” I say coolly, eyes narrowing slightly. “She’s not his type.”

He snorts. “She’s not anyone’s type. Too shy, too pure. She looks like she’d freak out if you even touched her. You know how some guys love that innocent act. Wouldn’t last a day with someone like Bryce or Preston. They’d eat her alive.”

“Get out, Van Patten,”

My thoughts drift to Allen’s last dinner reservation—Dorsia, of course. Bastard. I can’t even get a table there without months of planning, but Paul Allen—stupid, oblivious Paul Allen—walks in like it’s nothing. It makes me want to crush him, to take everything from him. Including her.

Once he’s gone, I stand up and adjust my suit jacket, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles. I step out of my office, my eyes scanning the hallway until I find her.

She is standing near the copier, a stack of files in her arms, her head tilted slightly as she tries to figure out the machine. She isn’t flaunting anything, and yet, she still manages to catch my eye. The black dress she’s wearing is Donna Karan, I’m almost sure, though the cut is a bit too conservative for my taste. It clings to her figure, revealing just enough to pique my interest but not enough to satisfy it. Her shoes, I note with some disappointment, are Manolo Blahnik. Not quite as stylish as something from, say, Azzedine Alaïa— not predictable choice, though not without merit. The impression of someone trying to fit into a world she doesn’t fully understand. Cute.

“y/n,” I say, my voice cutting through the hum of the copier. She jumps slightly, looking up with wide eyes that are both fearful and curious. Interesting.

“Mr. Bateman,” There’s no coyness in her voice, no flirtation. Just that same goddamn innocence. My mind wanders, imagining what it would be like to run a blade across her soft, supple flesh and watch the light fade from those innocent eyes Her skin parting under the sharp edge of a knife, the warmth of her blood spilling out, the sound she would make. But as quickly as the thought comes, it dissipates, leaving me with a hollow emptiness that I can’t quite explain. It’s a thought that would normally excite me, but with her, it feels… wrong. Unnecessary. Maybe even wasteful.

I realise I don’t really want to hurt her. At least not in the way I’ve hurt others. Quite unsettling, I feel… disappointed in myself, as if I’m losing my edge.

“Call me Patrick, or Pat.”

I correct, though I don’t know why. I’ve never cared about what people call me before. I glance down at the papers she’s holding.

“Your boss is not in yet?” I ask, knowing full well he isn’t.

“No, he’s not,” her voice is breathless, carrying a slight tremor—I wonder how my name would sound on her tongue when I’m fucking her. I also wonder what sounds she’d make. Soft kittenish noises, maybe. Doesn’t seem like the type to spew profanity, but one can really tell.

“I’m just trying to get these copies done before he arrives.”

I nod, pretending to care.

“He’s lucky to have an assistant like you,”

A blush spreads across her cheeks, and she stammers out an thank-you, though I barely register it. My focus shifts to the gold chain around her neck—Tiffany. Cheap, sentimental. It doesn't belong here, but it suits her somehow, in that unsophisticated way.

“Though, if I were you, I’d be careful. He’s not exactly known for his discretion.”

“I’m…sorry?”

I smile, she’s taken the bait. “Paul’s habits aren’t exactly… discreet. Let’s just say he’s not very particular about who he spends his nights with. Or what he picks up from them.”

She blinks, the implication sinking in, and I see a flash of something in her eyes—concern, maybe disgust. Good. Let her think about that. It’s too easy to manipulate her, to plant seeds of doubt in that pretty little head of hers. I flash her a smile, one I’ve perfected over years of dealing with people who are far beneath me.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors,” I continue casually, “about what’s going around these days. AIDS is a nasty business. You can never be too careful.”

“But don’t worry,” I add quickly, my tone lighter. “You seem like someone who’s smart enough to avoid trouble.”

She doesn’t respond, just nods slightly, still processing what I’ve said. I can see the effect my words have had on her.

“Did you know,” I say, shifting to something more conversational, “that Ted Bundy once worked at a crisis hotline? Spent his days talking people out of killing themselves. Ironic, isn’t it?”

I don’t expect her to catch the reference—most people don’t. It’s just another way to distance myself from them, to prove my superiority. But then, she surprises me.

“Yes, I read about that,” she says quietly, looking up at me with a mixture of curiosity and something else—understanding, perhaps?

“It’s strange, how someone can seem so… normal, but be so twisted underneath the mask of sanity.”

I pause, taken aback by her response. She got it. She actually understood. For a moment, I feel a flicker of something—something almost like respect. But it’s very fleeting, quickly replaced by the familiar emptiness.

“Exactly,” I reply, my voice smooth as glass. “People are rarely what they seem.”

There’s a brief silence, and I let it linger, watching her as she processes our exchange. I’ve rattled her, but I’ve also piqued her interest. It’s a dangerous combination, one that I’ll need to manage carefully. But I’m feeling bold.

“By the way,” I continue, “I was planning on having dinner at Dorsia tonight. Why don’t you join me?”

She looks up at me, confused, unsure, and I feel a twinge of satisfaction. She’s still trying to figure me out, to understand what I want. It’s amusing, really, how little she knows.

“I don’t know, Mr. Bate– Patrick,” she says, her voice faltering. Her innocence, her reluctance—it’s intoxicating like pure, uncut cocaine.

I smile again, this time more warmly, but it’s just a mask. “Come on, doll. It’s just dinner. Besides, it’s not like your boss will miss you for one night.”

“Okay,” she agrees quietly. There’s that softness in her voice again, that genuine gratitude that I don’t understand.

“Excellent,” I say, satisfied. I turn to leave, but not before giving her one last look. She’s already turned back to the copier, but I know that she’s not thinking about the papers anymore.

She makes me feel… something, though I’m not sure what. It’s frustrating, maddening even. But it also gives me hope. Maybe she’s the key to filling that void. Or maybe she’ll be another disappointment, like the rest. But tonight, at least, she’ll be mine to toy with.

Hopefully that will be enough to stave off the void for a little while longer.

read part ll here

#jackie writes ⟢#american psycho #patrick bateman #patrick bateman x reader #slasher x reader #Patrick bateman fanfic #patrick bateman x female reader

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fancyfeathers · 1 month ago

Text

Burn It All Down

(Yandere!Justice League & Yandere!Young Justice)

Based on Yandere!Justice League with their darling!children AU

Previous Chapter <- Chapter Eleven, Arrow Wounds -> Next Chapter

This chapter is told from the perspective of Bruce Wayne's Daughter!Reader

Each chapter will be the perspective of the reader but as the different children since when I originally had this concept, they were all darling/reader characters.

“Wait, why is only Songbird going out on this mission alone?” You heard Supergirl question as you shoved a few more pieces of civilian clothing into your backpack just in case you would be staying in Star City longer than intended. “We could help too.”

“None of you have any experience yet, let alone experience in the dead of the night,” Huntian replied. All of your friends had gathered in your bedroom, which you shared with Supergirl. You were packing for a mission to Star City, Hex’s tracking spell had found that Oliver Queen’s son was on the move back to Star City, which none of you liked the sound of. So you were on your back to Star City in order to track him down as Songbird since you were the so-called leader of this group of misfits. “I would go with her, but someone needs to watch you all.”

“Hey!”

“We’re not that bad.”

“That’s enough.” The sound of your voice was enough for all of them to be quiet, maybe it was the slight irritation that lingered on the tip of your tongue or maybe it was because of how your shoulders were tense. You were on a bit of edge at the moment, you certainly did not want to go back to Star City this soon, after all, you left without saying a word to Oliver and Dinah, just taking your motorcycle out in the middle of the night while they were handling different cases on the opposite side of the city. You could not help but think that they only took you in as if to fill the void of their missing child. You sighed, throwing your backpack over your shoulder looking over all your friends to see them staring at you which was not exactly surprising since this was the first time any of them saw you in your suit. “Look I don’t know how long I will be gone, so just don’t start any incident with anyone-”

“What if someone starts something with us?”

“Then just�� okay we’re not doing hypothetical questions right now.” You replied to the question of Blitz which was clearly asked just to irritate you. You glanced at Hex, who was sitting on your bed, scrolling through his phone. “Hex, you ready?”

“Sure.” He shrugged before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed as he began to stand up. “Look just be careful, the last thing we need-”

“Just cast the damn spell.”

“Geez… fine.” Everyone but you stepped back as Hex raised up his hand towards you, his eyes turning a dark shade of red and it was as if his very veins were glowing beneath his skin. You felt the ground beneath your feet change from a carpeted floor to a concrete alleyway as he spoke out the incantation from his lips. “Efas slevart.”

It was always a headache whenever he cast a teleportation spell, it gave you a heavy feeling of disorientation as you tried to catch your balance once again, your vision fading from your bedroom to an alleyway in Star City. It was just after sunset, and parts of the far west sky were still shades of purple, pink, and orange, no doubt that you would most likely have to avoid the city’s night time patrollers. You forced yourself to find your balance once again before springing up like a cat, catching your grip on odd edges and ledges of one of the buildings that surrounded the alleyway, climbing to the top and swinging your legs up over so that you landed atop of the rooftop. The city was the same as you remembered it, the smell, the sounds, the sight of it all, the only thing is that you were alone this time around.

You sat on top of a rooftop, it was an apartment building across the street from the Star City General Hospital. You were switching between busy areas in the city, keeping watch over places you could possibly think your next target so to speak could be. Right now at least you were indulging yourself, placing an order at a fast food restaurant before it closed, paying online, and picking it up when no one was looking because the last thing you wanted was to be spotted as Songbird after you had been away from Star City for almost two months now. You munched on a chicken strip that you ordered, dipped in honey mustard with a side of fries, it was not the healthiest meal but you felt like indulging yourself for a chance.

“Midnight snack?” You jumped when you heard an all too familiar voice behind you, but just as you looked over your shoulder before you could even get your hands on one of your throwing knives, you saw him, his hands up as if to show he meant no threat, despite that he was dressed in his suit, Green Arrow. Your body relaxed only slightly as you saw he only came to talk at least, so you let him step forward, coming to sit down next to you. “You always did get peckish on patrols.”

“Ya… why are you here?” You asked, not wanting to waste any time on pleasantries like Oliver tended to do, especially with his sense of humor. “How did you find me?”

“I saw you from the hospital window, sort of hard to not notice you since you lived with me for over a year.” He spoke as if nothing was wrong, as if you did not leave without a word to him and you were just sitting in the kitchen with him not as Songbird. “Thought I might as well come and keep you company, cold night after all.”

“We both know that’s not the reason you came out here.” Your words felt like a harsh contrast to his more soft words to you as if he was someone you would interrogate in an alleyway and not one of your mentors that you lived with for over a year, someone who said he saw you as a daughter. “Why were you at the hospital? Or is it just another thing you can’t tell me?”

“It’s not something I’ve told you-”

“Great, so just another secret, just like those trackers you put in my clothing without telling me.” You could see his jaw tighten as you cut him off, perhaps getting slightly irritated at your attitude. “Look I don’t know why I even bother asking anymore-”

“Eight years ago, Roy was abducted and the Roy you may have encountered over the last few years is a clone made by an organization called The Light, he was unknowingly a mole, a sleeper agent in a way. When he was free from their control he started looking for the original Roy and we all thought he was dead until now.” You watched as Oliver turned his head to glance at the hospital, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as a look of self-directed disappointment and shame. All of this felt insanely hard to believe it was not for the amount of secrets that were kept from you. “He was cryogenically frozen for eight years, he’s not awake yet but that is to be expected-”

“Who is in this organization you’re talking about?”

“Why are you asking?” Despite his guilt, you could feel his eyes narrow at you as if he knew you were hiding something from him. “You left without telling us, and then you are found helping runaway children, one of which has Kryptonian powers presenting, do you have any idea of how dangerous that is?”

“I’m a vigilante, danger is sort of my thing.” You snapped back at him, you could feel your fists begin to clench up, your arms tensing up. “Besides those children are both legal adults, they shouldn’t have anyone breathing down their necks.”

“What if The Light gets ahold of any of you, huh? What if they kidnap you like they did with Roy? What happens then?”

“Then that is our problem to deal with!” You finally lost it, you raised your voice at him. You groaned, pushing yourself to stand up from where you sat on the rooftop ledge, walking across the rooftop, and turning your back to Oliver. “I’ve just had enough, first I find out my mom is missing and I have Ra’s Al Ghul breathing down my neck, waiting for me to mess up, and now this! I am tired of being pained as just some disobedient child, I am someone who is absolutely exhausted by all this b-”

You stopped yourself suddenly when you felt something hit your neck, it could not be an arrow, it was too small. You reached back and yanked whatever hit you out from your skin, bringing it to your eyes to see, it was a dart. Panic overtook you, these were normally laced with poison or some sort of sleeping drugs, the latter was far more likely given the circumstances.

“I really didn’t want to do that, but this is for your own good.” Your blood ran cold when you heard your former mentor speak to you behind you as your eyes grew heavier and you could hardly keep your balance. You felt his arms come around you to catch you from falling as your body grew limp and heavy and your vision began to grow dark. “I’m really sorry it came to this.”

“So… you want to help her?” There were faces watching the scene of your fall from where you would never be able to see. “Kind of temperamental.”

“She would do the same with me if I was in danger, so I would call her a friend.” A certain man around your age responded to his friend. He turned around, looking over the abandoned office building they were hidden away in, he had a few friends himself just like you but only his father would be considered a hero. “You all go meet with her friends, I’m going to track her and keep up with where she is taken.”

“You’re going to follow Green Arrow alone?”

“Well, can any of you keep up with my dad?”

When you woke up it felt like you had a horrible hangover, it was white all around you, almost reminiscent of a hospital room, It was definitely a hospital room of sorts, perhaps Oliver’s dart did have poison instead of a drug, or maybe both since you would definitely use both. Once your vision cleared you noticed that there was an IV in your arm, heart monitors, and of course, you were handcuffed to the bed’s railing. You were only in your suit, only your jacket had been removed and was currently draped across a chair in the room, your weapons and gear were removed, not in sight anywhere so you guessed that they were either disposed of or being examined. You did not know what was in the IV, so you tried to bend your head down to use your teeth to pull out the needle.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, it’s an anti-poison.” There was no one else in the room with you, or at least that is what you thought, but you certainly thought wrong. You watched as quite literally out of nowhere the green-skinned face of Miss Martian appeared, you almost forgot that Martians can go invisible. She smiled at you as the chair in the room where your jacket was draped began to move on its own so she could sit closer to your bedside. “Green Arrow brought you by early this morning, there was no good place to keep you in Star City that…”

“That I couldn’t break out of? Please that is the only way you could phrase it, after all, I know all of Oliver’s hiding holes.” You could not cross your arms due to your current state, leaving you feeling exposed, so you settled for resting your head on the propped-up on the back of the bed. “So let me guess, I’m here indefinitely?”

“Yes, but-”,

“Just don’t start with me right now.”

“Look there isn’t much of a choice, but if The Light got their hands on any of you it could destroy the Justice League, this is in your own best interest.” She was sweet, just like how her adopted cousin described her but you just could not help but feel some sort of anger towards her.

“Then what? If the Justice League deals with The Light then what will happen to us? I don’t exactly think that Batman will be too keen on me becoming Songbird again.” You rolled your eyes, scoffing under your breath. “It’s not about that, it’s about controlling what they are afraid to lose.”

“Look, I’m just the one watching you tonight, I just thought it could be a nice night…” She sighed, standing up from her chair and forcing herself to smile again as if nothing was wrong. “I made some-”

“I’m not hungry.” You cut her off, not even bothering to look at her as you spoke. You would need to figure out a way to get out, break out of your cuffs, get a layout of the building, and hopefully get on to their computer system to dig for any information about The Light and confirm if your theory was correct, Oliver only darted you after you mentioned Ra’s Al Ghul which gave you a sneaking suspicion given everything else that transpired that the Demon’s Head was a member of the light. “Besides my hands are kind of immobile at the moment and I would rather not have someone hand-feed me.”

“But-”

“It’s alright M’gann, she’s always been stubborn. It is just in her nature, she has always been that way since she was a little girl, just like her mom.” You just felt irritation build up in your gut at the sound of your older brother’s voice, you tilted your head to turn to look at the doorway, and like you thought it was Dick Grayson, standing in his Nightwing suit. “Hell when she was ten she swallowed a chest piece just because she didn’t want to play with me, that was one interesting trip to the emergency room, wasn’t it?”

“I remember hoping that I would choke and die.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Well, I wasn’t joking, Dick.”

“Look, as much as I want to make sure you are comfortable and happy while you are here, but I need to ask you some questions.” You would have rolled your eyes but instead you felt your breath hitch in your throat as you saw Dick show his hand, a necklace chain wrapped around his fingers, the necklace that Ra’s Al Ghul gave you with water from the Lazarus Pit, he must have taken it off of you while you were asleep. “Starting with why you have water from the Lazarus Pit with you?”

“Pass.”

“This is not a pass sort of question, baby bird-”

“And don’t call me that either.”

“Look just answer the question, make this easier for all of us,” M’gann cut into the conversation, her voice was soft as if she was speaking to a child or a wounded animal that was backed up into a corner. “We just want to protect you all.”

“I call bullshit.”

“Enough!” You knew you pissed off your older brother when he raised his voice at you, a rare thing even when you were disobedient as a child. His eyes narrowed at you from behind his mask, walked over to your bed, and grabbed your face, squeezing your jaw and cheeks in his firm grasp. “Why do you have water from the Lazarus Pit? Did Ra’s Al Ghul give it to you?”

“I didn’t have a choice!” You snapped back at your older brother and you saw his features relax slightly when you finally started to answer his question. “He trapped me in a corner, I have to continue being Songbird, or else he is going to drag me off to god knows where just like they did with my mom! Or did you not know Ra’s was the one who took mom? I’m guessing he took her because Talia wanted her.”

“...Jesus.” He sighed, he paused for a moment before glancing over at M’gann with a look of concern as he released your face from his near-bruising grip. It took a moment for him to speak M’gann even if he was looking at her as if he was going to say something. “Keep an eye on her and take care of her, I… I need to go talk to the Justice League about this.”

“I understand, I should use an inhibitor collar for when she wants to walk freely?”

“I’m sorry, an inhibitor collar?”

“It’s a collar that limits the powers of those who have them, but it is also used for people who don’t have any powers to limit any risk-”

“So it’s a fucking dog collar?” You cut off your brother’s explanation, if you had your hands free you were sure that you would be strangling the living daylights out of your brother. “Ya, I think I’ll pass. I would rather not be treated like a disobedient puppy dog.”

“Fine, suit yourself, but you are staying here, understand?”

“Dick… go fuck yourself.” You could practically feel the disappointment and irritation radiating off of your brother when you spoke to him like that. You let yourself lean back on your bed, closing your eyes in a clear attempt to shut everything out.

“I guess… just let her rest, M’gann… she is exhausted.” You heard Dick’s voice speak to his friend, his voice was soft as if he was hurting himself. “I think we all are after everything that has happened.”

“I understand, I’ll look after her until you get back.”

“Thank you, M’gann, you have no idea what that means to me right now.”

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