#because i want you to know what it feels like to be haunted

[unriding]

HOW THEY COMFORT YOU AFTER A NIGHTMARE. moze, mydei, phainon. sfw. fluff + comfort. written with f!reader! in which the hsr men reassure you that you’re safe with them after a scary dream.

— MOZE.

The room you share with Moze feels foreign as soon as you jolt awake with a sharp gasp. Nothing at all like how it usually is.

It’s Cold. Empty. Much too spacious. And…. where’s Moze?

The nightmare you’ve only barely managed to escape seconds ago comes creeping back to haunt you as quickly as it had left — fragments of fear and loneliness rushing in and swirling about in your head, shooting up your spine as you shakily cling onto your blanket. “M..Moze…?”

There’s nothing, save for the sound of wind beating against the window. Violently so, you quickly realize, with each slam of the branches against the glass making you sink further and further back into the corner of your bed. “…Are you here..? Moze—”

Every part of you hopes that he is. Perhaps he’s just lurking somewhere within the shadows as he normally does. Still beside you nevertheless. Always within earshot and always making sure you were safe.

Any shadow could be him — you know this well, but the shadows don’t usually look so cold. They don’t usually stare back at you with such a haunting air around them, nor do they ever feel this empty.

A part of you wants nothing but to bury yourself beneath your blankets — slam your eyes shut and hope that you’re still dreaming.

Any scenario in which you don’t wake up alone in the dead of night, and any scenario in which Moze hadn’t packed up his things and left without a word.

Any scenario where he’s still here.

But you don’t. Still too fearful to move even a single muscle, so you settle for clinging tightly onto your blankets instead, eyes scanning the room for any sign of movement.

Any sign of Moze.

It’s only a second later when the door creaks. Quietly. Though your eyes seem to finally find the shred of courage needed to slam shut at this, head ducking beneath the blanket with a muffled whimper to seek refuge from what you think is doom.

Only, it never comes.

“You’re awake.” The mattress dips from where he sits down beside you, and then you feel a second blanket cover the lower half of your body soon after. “Did I wake you?”

It’s almost silly how quickly the fear begins to dissipate — his presence enough to convince you to wiggle your way out of your blanket, only enough to peer up at him through tearful eyes. “Moze….?”

The look on his face changes ever so slightly as soon as he hears you, even more as soon as he sees you. “I thought .. you left. Like, left me. In my dream, I think — but when I woke up —”

“I didn’t leave.”

The three simple words that loosen the grip on your chest like clockwork. He pulls you into a tight hug before you manage to choke out another word, strong arms keeping you flush against his chest to let you soak up his warmth, the way you always like to do.

He feels you trembling against him, hears the way you sniffle into his shirt, and yet — you latch onto him without another moment of hesitation. “You were shaking in your sleep.”

Moze doesn’t let go, even when he stretches to reach behind you, bunching the second blanket he had left to grab around your frame before his arms wrap back around you. “I thought you might get sick, otherwise.”

You nuzzle deeper into the safety of his embrace. “You.. you went to get blankets in the middle of the night? Because I was cold..?”

“Yes.”

— MYDEI.

Mydei notices the way you stir in your sleep long before you even have the chance to jerk awake, let alone keep yourself up for nearly long enough to work up the courage needed to nudge at his shoulder seeking some comfort.

It catches his eye within an instant — gaze flickering to the way your eyebrows furrow first, then how your body starts to curl up on itself hoping to hide from something. You’re having a nightmare.

It’s not an odd thing for Mydei to stay awake longer than you. He’s grown fond — Phainon’s words, to be exact — of the way you nuzzle yourself closer to him in your sleep. Just a small habit of yours. To press your cheek into the firm muscle of his arm, your own limbs tangled over his in an effort to keep him close to you.

You insist that it helps you sleep better, and that fact is obvious enough. You sleep like a log as soon as you’re latched onto him as so, and whenever he decides to wrap an arm around your waist to pull you even closer to him — big hand mindlessly rubbing your back up and down and feeling the way your frame melts underneath his touch — your lips curl into a small smile, even in your sleep.

It’s why seeing you in such discomfort bothers him. The way fresh tears start to collect along your lashes, face frowning and body tense and trembling — all things he absolutely never wants to see, especially when you’re safe beside him.

Mydei puts down his drink first. Almost instinctively, not taking his eyes off of you for even a moment before he’s letting out a huff, easily pulling you to rest fully on top of him (another thing that he remembers you enjoying, as you’ve mentioned once that it’s fun to hug him like a koala while sitting in his lap).

Only, you don’t hug him this time, and the frown stays on your face.

He frowns now, too.

“Hey.” His arms wrap around you even tighter now, one moving to cradle the back of your head and the other around your shoulders, as if keeping you safely tucked away from whatever threatens your comfort. “It’s only a nightmare.”

You make a noise in response, one akin to a whine or a grumble before your fingers start to dig into the muscle of his shoulder, stirring and fidgeting in your sleep — even more so than before. His mind hesitates for only a moment, conflicted as to whether he should abruptly wake you or continue to hold you in hopes that whatever is scaring you eventually leaves.

He settles for both.

“Nothing’s here,” he continues, pulling you closer to him, this time moving to press a kiss against your forehead. Another, after. One against your temple. Then another against your forehead, for extra measure.

This time, your expression softens, hands relaxing to lightly rest on his body. It’s working.

“See that?” His voice comes out softer, and perhaps if you were awake, you’d point this out.

But you’re not.

So he settles on holding you close like this instead, keeping you warm and close to his heart. “You’re safe.”

— PHAINON.

“Are you alright?” Your eyes shoot open to be faced with Phainon, hands on each side of your head as he hovers over you, concern and what you think might be a hint of fear etched deep into his features. “You’re okay. It was only a dream.”

“Ph-” you call out to him, or at least you try, but the words get caught in your throat, as if something wants to keep you away from him. Your eyes widen. “..on..?”

You hadn’t been expecting him to visit you so soon. His presence almost catches you off guard, more so than the nightmare that had scared you awake, maybe. (Though, perhaps he had intentionally avoided telling you, since he’s always had a thing or two to say about you skipping rest from excitement to see him.)

It wasn’t uncommon for you to have nightmares like these. Nights where you abruptly jerk awake in a cold sweat, barely mustering the courage to wrap yourself in a blanket before seeking out Phainon.

The first person you’ve always sought out, and the only person whose hold can make you feel as safe as you do. Such as now.

“Come closer,” his brows furrow deeper when your lips continue to wobble, now opting to fully climb onto your bed to lay beside you, immediately pulling you towards him. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Sorry..” you grasp at his shirt, almost instinctively. “I know you’re busy — it’s okay. I was just a little scared—”

He doesn’t move away, only letting out a soft sigh of relief at the realization that you’re at least not physically hurt before he’s holding you even tighter against himself, as if shielding you from your thoughts with his own body. “You’re safe now. I won’t let anything harm you.”

“Don’t worry.”

It might just be magic, you think, the way one simple embrace from Phainon can put an end to your fears so quickly. It was often that you’ve told him this — a shy tug on his sleeve and a reminder of just how much you cherish him, to which he only ruffles your hair with a soft smile — followed by another promise that he’ll keep you safe.

Always.

“And,” he shifts his position on your bed, the movement drawing you out of your thoughts when his chin comes to lightly rest atop your head, “I’ve told you there’s no need for apologies, haven’t I?”

“Oops,” you weakly mumble against his chest. “It slipped again.. sor—”

“Ah. And almost again, huh? That’s fine. Let’s focus on getting you back to sleep again for now,” he plants a gentle kiss on the crown of your head, “Close your eyes.”

[sirenpearldust]

Found you 2

Baby Daddy Azriel!

Series masterlist ⋆ Part one ⋆ Part three

Pair: Azriel x Spring Court! Reader

Word count: 3.050

Warning: fluff

Summary: conditions are set

Azriel sat up straighter in his seat, he cleaned up, looked more put together. He wanted to make a better impression on his son than last time. The memory of his terrified face hasn’t left him, it has been haunting his dreams. Just the reminder unsettled him. 

A hint of nervousness crept in, what if one misstep meant he wouldn’t be allowed to see his son again?

Meanwhile, you watched him as he sat across from you, dressed in black pants and a blouse that accentuated every defined muscle he had honed through years of training in the illyrian camps.

His piercing hazel eyes wandered intensely as he surveyed the room. Until they locked onto you, sharp and unyielding. His knuckles repeatedly tightened until they turned white before he forced himself to let go. Black massive wings folded tightly against his back, his shadows swirling around him, still inspecting the unfamiliar space. 

Instead of his usual cold, detached demeanor, irritation flickered across his features. 

That’s a first, you thought. 

For once, he wasn’t emotionless.

For once, he was unraveling and it was because of you.

You had to hand it to his genes, you had basically birthed his twin. Amias was the spitting image of him, inheriting the same elegant planes of his face, a beauty that was almost otherworldly. He had his hair, his wings and even his skin tone.  The only feature that set him apart were his eyes. Those were yours, a striking reminder of your Spring Court legacy shining through.

You still remembered the sadness, the ache in your chest as you watched your son grow into the features of his father. 

The same scowl, the same smile, the same dimples. 

It felt like a cruel twist of fate that your son had to look so much like the man who had caused you so much pain.

Sipping your tea, you deliberately avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the view outside.               He didn’t deserve an ounce of your attention, not anymore. 

You two were here for one reason and one reason only; to discuss Amias.                                        You had to push your feelings aside, no matter how difficult it was.

It hadn’t been part of your plan for Amias to get to know Azriel. He wasn’t supposed to find out about him, he was meant to be raised by you, away from any danger.

Azriel’s presence now posed a threat to your role as a parent and as a noble in Spring. His work was dangerous enough and his ties to the Inner Circle only added more risks. The already volatile situation in Spring was bad enough already. You didn’t need to be accused of treason or colluding with the enemy, you’ve already had enough problems.

“Are you going to sit there silent again and not say anything?” Azriel asked, his shadows darkening around him.

Your lip curled in a faint smile. It was almost amusing, holding something over him, having a semblance of power for once. You might have felt guilty for using your son in this way, but Amias didn’t even know his father, not really, not the way you did.

He had no idea of the darkness and cruelty Azriel was capable of.

“You’re too loud,” you said softly, setting your tea cup down. His wings bristled, and you could tell it had pissed him off.

“I’ll lay the conditions out for you,” you continued, calm and unwavering. 

“Be against even one of them and you’ll have no right to see my son.”

“Our son,” Azriel corrected, his jaw tightening as his knuckles turned white again. He knew, he knew you had set traps, and he wasn’t sure if he was prepared to navigate them.

“He’s my son too, Y/N,” Azriel said, frustration lacing his voice as his hand ran through his hair roughly.

“I only want what’s best for him.”

You ignored him. 

Without a glance in his direction, you opened the folder and slid the sheet in front of him, wordlessly demanding his attention to what truly mattered now.

The conditions were clear and non-negotiable. They were there to protect Amias and you.

1. You are not allowed to take Amias without my permission.

2. Wherever you go with him, you must inform me first.

3. He’s my heir and will receive his education in Spring.

4. He will not train in the Illyrian camps unless he is of age and wishes to do so.

5. You will have no authority over me as his mother.

6. You will be a present father unless he chooses not to see you.

7. Your highest priority is to protect him, cherish him and ensure his safety.

8. You will treat him with respect, kindness and love.

9. You will not arrange or force any marriage upon him.

10. You will not harm me, kill me, or order anyone else to do so in order to have Amias.

11. You will not inform your family of his existence without my permission.

12. You will protect Amias before anyone else, this includes you protecting and serving your High Lord or your mate.

13. You will protect what is mine and what is automatically our son’s legacy.

14. In the event of my death, you will safeguard his wealth, inheritance and well-being. No one shall touch it.

15. You will not take Amias out of Spring unless he is in grave danger, or I am dead.

16. If you choose to have any other children, you are to treat them the same as Amias.

17. Any woman you decide to stay in a relationship with and who is to get to know our son, you will introduce to me first.

18. In the case of a mating bond between us, you will not force it upon me and will let it go if I do not want it.

19. You will not disturb my private life, you will treat me with respect and courtesy.

Azriel rubbed his temples, clearly irritated. 

Most of the conditions were reasonable, but the restrictions on when and how he could see Amias gnawed at him. 

Why did you have to control every aspect? Why did you have to approve when and if he could spend time alone with his son, or when his family could know about his existence?

“Can I introduce him to my family?” Azriel asked, his voice tight with frustration.

“No,” you replied coldly, your gaze unwavering. You hated the Night Court, they were the reason for Spring’s ruin and had caused multiple issues in Prythian across almost every court.

“He has a cousin,” Azriel pressed.

“You and I have no living siblings,” you shot back.

Azriel’s temper flared. 

“Rhys has a son.”

“He’s your High Lord,” you responded flatly.

“He’s my brother.”

You sighed rolling your eyes. “Sure.”

“So can he see his cousin?”

“No!”

Azriel groaned in frustration, his patience running thin. 

“Will you ever allow any of this to be permissible?”

You shrugged, taking another sip of that damned tea, that Azriel now seemed to take a dislike to.

“You either accept the conditions and make this bargain, or you can say goodbye to the future you’ve imagined,” you said, your voice steady but firm.

Azriel sighed, knowing full well you were serious. 

“These conditions are set to protect Amias. He doesn’t know you and I won’t thrust him into your world directly.”

“What about condition 18?” Azriel asked, his voice tight,.

“What about it?” you responded, your gaze unwavering. 

“Will you reject it?”

“There is no bond,” you replied, your tone cold.

Azriel’s jaw clenched again, the tension rising in his chest. “If there is one, will you reject it?”

“Most likely.”

His heart twinged painfully and an uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach, like a bad omen. He hoped he wasn’t your mate because if he was, you would let him suffer. He was sure of it especially after what had happened.

“You know I’ll go insane from a rejected mating bond.” 

You hummed in response, uncaring of the worry in his voice. 

“Let’s then hope it doesn’t happen,” you said, a sharp smile playing on your lips as you met his eyes.

Azriel’s wings shuddered as the weight of the situation settled in. He didn’t feel good about this, not one bit.

“Fine,” he said, his voice resigned, “I accept all 19 conditions.”

You smiled and extended your hand. He took it without hesitation, his rough, scarred hand engulfing yours. The touch brought a flood of memories, both beautiful and painful.

Azriel couldn’t help but notice the softness of your skin, a stark contrast to the calluses and scars that marked his own. 

In that brief moment, you both felt something, an electric jolt, a slight burning sensation. You felt the tattoo spreading under your chest, across your ribs. You were glad that you could hide it, no one had to know about what was happening.

Azriel’s breath caught. He opened his top, revealing the tattoo spreading underneath his pectorals. Tracing the lines with his fingers. You almost choked on your spit. What was he doing?

You quickly turned your face away, not wanting to see the sudden state of undress. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, nothing you wanted to revisit, either.

In the brief glance you noticed something else, new scars. Some were fresh, still pink against his skin, while others had faded to white, stark against his tan.

“Roses,” Azriel murmured to himself.

“Now that we have a bargain, you can see him.”

You stood up, the white floral dress a stark contrast to Azriel’s dark attire.

Azriel was just a step behind you, he was eager to see his son. 

He wanted to teach Amias how to fly, how to fight, to show him the things a father should. He wasn't going to abandon him the way he had been. No, he would be present. He would be the father his son deserved, a steady presence in his life.

For the first time in his life he had hope for a bright future, he wants to build something better, to give Amias a future full of care, love and guidance. 

⋆ ♡ ⋆

Amias had been full of questions ever since he first met Azriel. His curiosity was boundless, he would comment on Azriel’s wings, marveling at how similar they were to his own. He spoke of the shadows, how they moved like his did.

Azriel’s shadows mingled with his own, twisting and swirling in a gentle dance and Amias couldn’t help but laugh whenever they played with him. They were soft and cool against his skin.

Azriel’s gaze softened when he heard his giggling. He felt this immense feeling seeing his son’s joy, feeling his happiness, hearing it, being a part of it.

He had come with presents - toys, books, sweets.  He bought him books, child stories from the night court, stories of Illyrian legends, a little teddy bear and a bag filled with small cherry candies, you know Azriel enjoyed. 

“Amias,” you called softly, lowering yourself to his level with open arms. He ran toward you, his little face lighting up as he kissed you on the cheek. You smiled, warmth flooding your chest as you gave him small kisses back, holding him close for a moment. You breathed him in, he smelled like a baby, you didn’t want him to grow up. He was already bigger than the other children his age. 

Azriel watched the scene from a few steps behind, it stirred up memories he had long forgotten, pushed away. It reminded him of his own rare moments of excitement as a child, the joy he’d felt in those fleeting times he was allowed to see his mother, when he was out of the cell.

He observed how animatedly Amias spoke to you, his small hands gesturing wildly as he recounted his latest “battle” with his plushies. Azriel couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, he was in awe as he took in the pure, unrestrained joy of your son, their son.

Amias’s eyes wandered up to him. He immediately recognized Azriel, but this time, instead of looking scared like before, he smiled at him.

He was taken aback by his reaction. His eyes immediately searched yours, knowing you had something to do with it, but you ignored him, focused on brushing Amias’s hair. 

It had grown long, already reaching his shoulders, he was in need of a new haircut.

Amias slowly slipped from your arms and stood in front of Azriel, his clothes a soft baby blue. His wings pressed tightly against his back and a shadow lingered at his feet. He stood there in awe, his eyes wide and round, smiling and giggling up at Azriel.

Azriel slowly lowered himself to Amias’s level. Even kneeling, his towering figure still loomed larger than both you and Amias. His sheer size stirred something hot inside you, something you’d buried long ago.

“Hello,” Azriel said softly.

Amias took a step back, looking at you for reassurance, as if searching for confirmation.

You smiled brightly, nodding and giving him the encouragement to go ahead. Amias turned toward Azriel again, his hands nervously fiddling. “Are you my daddy?”

Azriel’s breath hitched. There, standing in front of him, was his son, real and alive.

 “Yeah, I am.”

Amias took a step toward him, wrapping his small arms around Azriel and pressing his tiny head into his chest, sniffling. You and Azriel watched as Amias’s small hands clung to him. Without hesitation, Azriel held him close as he cried silently, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat on the floor, embracing him tightly, gently caressing his head, whispering apologies for not being there all this time.

That’s how the three of you spent the afternoon into the evening, watching Amias play, him eagerly dragging both of you into his games.

Yet, he was always a little nervous, always turning toward Azriel, as if he feared his father might disappear again.

You both sat on the floor next to each other.

“Thank you,” he said, watching you. Your eyes never leaving Amias.

“For what?” 

“For birthing, raising and loving him.”

“He’s my son. That’s a given.”

Azriel searched your eyes and this time, you didn’t look away. His gaze was soft and you hated the vulnerability in it.

“You know how they treat bastards.”

“We’re in spring,” you replied softly, making sure Amias wouldn’t overhear. 

“Bastards are a given. What do you think happens after Calanmai?”

He nodded, relieved that his son wouldn’t be ignored or left alone.

“Even if he is Illyrian?”

You laughed softly, a touch of amusement in your voice.

“Yes, even then.”

“They don’t care about that,” you said, your tone steady. “You’d know that if you picked up a book once in a while.”

Azriel winced at the jab, his eyes narrowing slightly. Here he thought you were finally opening up to him, but your words made it clear how you felt about him.

“Spring is inherently open,” you continued, “We accept everyone and everything. That’s why festivals like Calanmai exist and the land prospered with children, happy, healthy children. At least, before Amarantha came and your Lords, or shall I say your “brother” and his runaway whore”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, the urge to retort rising in him. He wanted to tell you that Tamlin had been warned, that he had continued despite it all, but he couldn’t. Your son was here and he shouldn’t witness his parents fighting. But god, the way your eyes burned with hatred whenever you looked at him or spoke about the Night Court, it stung.

“Daddy are you angry?”

Azriel noticed the worry in Amias’s face and immediately smiled, shaking his head. “Just tired.”

“Mama tired too,” Amias added.

You chuckled softly at his cuteness. 

You felt Azriels rage just a few seconds ago, you were thankful that he was still good at lying. You only cared about your son, Azriel’s feelings couldn’t interest you in the slightest.

“Amias, full sentences, please.”

“Mama, I am tired too.”

“You wanna go sleep with Daddy?” Azriel asked gently.

Amias nodded, his tiny arms stretching out toward Azriel. In his fathers arms, he stopped you from going to the office, where you usually spent your time.

You looked at him, noticing the expectant look in his eyes. “Can you both come?”

You nodded, glancing at Azriel. “You’ve got time, or do you need to go to work?”

Azriel smirked, scaring you. “I’m on vacation.”

The surprise was evident in your eyes as Azriel caught you off guard for the first time. Before you could respond, he scooped up Amias, who giggled in delight.

“Where is your room, little prince?” Azriel asked, holding his son up in the air with a grin.

Azriel’s smile was radiant and Amias looked so happy, it made your heart swell. Even if the reason behind it all was the sperm donor, the sight of your son so content made everything feel right.

“Let’s go,” Azriel said, his voice warm as he began to walk.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

There you three laid, Amias down in the middle, nestled safely between you both. 

Azriel had woken up, his internal clock honed over centuries stirring him from sleep. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the sight before him felt almost unreal, like a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.

His son was here and you.                                                                                                                 There you were, lying beside Amias, your long hair fanned out behind you, arms wrapped protectively around the small boy as he cuddled into you. It was endearing, the way you both slept so peacefully next to him. 

For the first time in what felt like forever, Azriel had slept through the night, no nightmares, no restlessness, just quiet, steady breaths filling the space around him.

His eyelids grew heavy again and he let himself sink back into the warmth of the mattress. Just as he was drifting off, Amias stirred, sleepily turning toward him. Tiny hands reached for him as he snuggled into Azriel’s chest, his breath soft and steady.

Azriel let out a slow breath, wrapping an arm around his son. 

And for the first time in a long, long time, he let himself rest again.

Main Taglist: @bubybubsters @lilah-asteria

Found you - Taglist: @bravo-delta-eccho @katherine-2007 @saltedcoffeescotch @the-onlyy-angie @sidthedollface2 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @asahinasstuff @azriels-human @ashjade19 @booksnwriting @starryhiraeth @anon1227 @1enas-12 @alittlelostalittlefound @queenoffeysand

[moonsnqil]

aftg au where neil/nathaniel died in baltimore and andrew knows he's dead, he didnt stop fighting until he had autopsy reports and a closed casket in front of him. andrew knows he died that night but a week later, a week spent rotting and shoving everyone away, he sees neil. blue eyes clear as water, his hair still glows in the sun, when andrew reaches out he knows none of this is real. neil josten is dead, matt has an empty dorm and someone is already adding nathaniel wesninski to a true crime podcast. he knows none of this is real but it's easier to accept a hallucination than it is to accept that he failed, that another person has been snatched away from him. so andrew goes to practice and sometimes he misses balls because neil is on the court aiming left but aaron shot right. he goes to edens and can feel neil's weight behind him as he carries the drink tray back to their table. he watches nicky play games on the xbox and he hears all of neil's commentary. when he's alone, he talks to neil. andrew had always been great at being silent but never with neil. and he knows none of this is real but it's easier to confide in neil now that he's so intimately familiar with his absence. they trade truths and secrets and neil tells him about oklahoma and andrew knows they never talked about oklahoma and he's just remembering a conversation he heard on disney channel when he was eleven. he lights two cigarettes and sees neil smoke it but doesn't dwell on how quickly the flame dies out. he only mentions it once, to bee. when he says "i keep seeing neil" and bee says she understands, people leave traces of themselves all around us, he never brings it up again. it's not like she's wrong on that front either. neil's locker still has an unwashed jersey inside, the phone charger he never used is still shoved somewhere underneath the passenger seat of the maserati, all the clothes andrew bought him are still in a drawer. matt doesn't spend a lot of time in his room anymore. when andrew says "i hate you" and he truly means it, neil says "i know" and his cheeks dimple. andrew knows this isn't normal, nothing about this is okay, his mental stability is a far cry from being good but he thinks maybe having neil beside him, haunting him like this, is better than a reality where andrew is alone. so they follow each other around like ducklings and wymack looks at him like he's a ticking time bomb because in no world does neil josten die and andrew simply moves on. andrew's nightmares have shifted from being seven and begging to watching neil fight for life on a grimy basement floor but it's okay because when he wakes up he gets to hold neils hand and it's a little cold but the divots between his knuckles feel the same as before so he can blame it on the weather. andrew watches neil's banner go up next to seth's on the court and andrew almost wants to laugh because seth is dead but neil is right here, neil is talking about being court, but no that's not right either. neil is dead, andrew knows this. but then how could neil be dead when he's still buying andrew ice cream and pushing all his buttons? they sit a little too close to the edge of the roof nowadays and neil tells him that they could fall but they might not die because it's only four stories so really it's no guarantee. neil tells andrew he has to be careful because what about aaron, what about kevin, his deals and his promises. he keeps his promises, it's what he's good at. he's pretty sure kevin knows something is wrong but is trying to pretend like it's not. they're the same in that regard, really. andrew knows neil is dead, abby's files label him as deceased, but he thinks he likes being haunted. if it means neil is still there, still planning a future and running his mouth, andrew thinks he could convince himself baltimore never happened. maybe neil was never something tangible to begin with.

[beefcakekinard]

"Grab a seat."

Bobby claps Buck's shoulder as he passes on his way into the kitchen. Well - sure, it's got a fridge and a stove, but Bobby's definition of kitchen vs kitchenette leans a little spoiled these days. They can't get out of this rental fast enough.

He comes back with two cups of coffee and sits opposite Buck at the table. He waits as Buck adds a heaping teaspoon of sugar to his mug, glowering at the surface of it while he stirs. He waits as Buck sighs with his whole body and flops back against his chair. Bobby blows the steam from his coffee, takes a scalding sip, and waits. Years of experience have taught him that when Buck's really chewing on something, the easiest way to get it out of him is to outlast his patience.

"I miss Tommy."

It helps that Buck and patience are barely acquaintances.

Buck's continuing the thought before Bobby can even open his mouth. "I can't get him out of my head, Bobby. It's, it's like he's haunting me! Everything I do reminds me of him, even if it has nothing to do with him, and I feel like I'm going crazy!"

Bobby waits. Buck pouts. When it's clear he doesn't have anything more to add, Bobby clasps his hands and leans forward.

"Why do you miss him?"

Buck rears back, looking confused. Bobby spreads his hands.

"You think about him when he's not around. What is it you're thinking about?" he asks. Buck considers the question and flushes. Bobby quickly adds, "Keeping it PG."

Buck scratches his nose, keeping his eyes averted. He takes a deep breath.

"I think... I think about how excited I always was to see him," Buck says to the tabletop. Bobby takes another sip of coffee.

"I think about - how I never had to pretend. Like he saw me, just me, and that was enough. I like, I liked, the way he made me feel about myself." Buck curls in on himself and picks at a thread on his jeans. "I, I miss who I was when he was around."

"Just because Tommy's not around anymore doesn't mean you can't be yourself," Bobby says. Buck takes the bait; he whips his head up to look at him, eyes wide with disbelief.

"No, you, you don't understand, Bobby -" Buck leans towards him, insistent. "I miss how he cares so much about everyone even though he tries to look stoic and casual. I miss how he ugly-laughs at his own stupid jokes. I miss the way he talks to kids like they're adults and I miss how gentle he is with anything smaller than him. I miss how he fills his own dishwasher wrong and I have to fix it every time. I miss him more now than the day he broke up with me, what's wrong with me?"

The only sounds in the room are the ticking of the wall clock and the whooshing in-out of Buck's heavy breathing. Bobby waits until he calms down a bit, until he sits back in his chair again and awaits Bobby's input, looking like he's in anguish over it.

"You know he's not perfect." Bobby feels like he's lobbing a live grenade.

Buck scoffs. "Jesus, Bobby, if anyone knows that right now it's me. But I don't want perfect, I just want Tommy."

The clock ticks. Bobby drinks some more coffee. He waits.

Realization overtakes Buck's face between one blink and the next. "Oh," he says. Bobby smiles, enjoys his coffee, and waits some more.

"Oh!"

There it is.

Buck jumps up, springing to his feet like a cartoon character. "I, I have to go, I gotta - I have to go," he says, all in a rush. "Thanks, Bobby!" he calls over his shoulder before running out the front door, slamming it behind himself. The door opens a crack, just long enough for Buck to call, "Bye Bobby!" into the apartment before he's slamming it closed again. He sounds like a herd of galloping horses running down the hall.

Bobby smiles to himself. He checks the clock - Athena will be home soon, and he feels like whipping up one of her favourites for dinner. He takes the mugs - one empty, one full - into the kitchen and leaves them in the sink while he gets started.

[vifilms]

❝ FWB!ABBY HEADCANONS ❞

word count: 2k+

content warning. eighteen+, minors dni, strap!sex, scissorcity, just a lot of p*rn written out, but omgee i'm writing foir abby again? am i returning home? me saying that when all my long fics are about a certain pink-haired butch.

masterlist.

fwb!abby who is a star-athlete, potentially a hockey player because c’mon, look at her. it starts right before the end of last season. there used to be a trio, three girls who grew up together, forever inseparable. but with a nasty fall out of abby’s break up with your best friend — you picked a side. not that anyone would believe you, but it was innocent. purely innocent.

fwb!abby who keeps you close throughout the breakup, she leans on you when she emotionally breaks, when she doesn’t want to be alone; you’re right there for her. ready to help her in whatever way you can. maybe it was naive of you to expect it to be nothing more and it’s exactly how you end up here — abby’s hand shoves down your skirt as she presses you against the locker room right after the most important game of the season. it could be how good your ass looked in the soft fabric, she couldn’t help herself. 

“mhm, how long have you been thinking about this?” gently, abby asks. “pretty girl, wanna have your fill so bad, huh?” 

all she does is tease. it’s all abby wants to do, pull those god-given moans from your lips and your whines are nothing but a symphony to her ears. but all of this is very wrong. in your bones, with every pint of blood pumping to your veins, it feels like something forbidden. even if you aren’t friends anymore, even if she hates you for siding with abby, you can’t help but love the way she strokes your puffy lips with a flick of her wrist. 

you groan as she slips a single finger inside you, whining at the welcomed intrusion. abby knows this is a slippery slope as much as you, maybe even more. it’s not lost on her what would happen if anyone were to find out, but especially your ex-best friend were to find out you loved getting fucked by her ex. 

“shut up and fuck me, yeah? you don't need to know any of that—” you shriek as she slips another inside you, effectively stretching you out as she pumps your slick, back into you as it drips over her fingers like fresh honey. 

“what was that, princess?” abby tilts her head to the side as she presses on your clit with the pad of her thumb. 

“nothing, i—” 

“hm, right. i guess the rumors are true.” 

“what rumors?” 

abby doesn’t provide any response as she fucks you into the stars, each thrust of her fingers effectively shutting you up from saying anything else. as you cry out for a release, she places deliberate kisses along your neck, her hot breath swarms goosebumps along your skin as your hips buck into her body. 

“heard a few…one from your roommate in particular.” 

oh fuck. 

the little shit knows. 

“what did you, f-fuck, hear?” abby chuckles when you can’t keep your thoughts straight. you’re close and she knows it as well when she presses her lip to your ear, it’s intentional, the cocky little shit knows just what you like. 

the first time she’s touched you and you’re already melting in her warm and needy hands. 

the sultry tone in her voice will haunt you whenever you sleep, you’ll see her in your dreams, those taunting pair of blues, the scarred cheek you love but she hates. when she says the words you fear, for some reason it sends you over the edge. 

“i heard you like moaning my name when you get yourself off, so why don’t you put on a show for me, princess?” 

fwb!abby who thinks about you, slumped against the lockers trying to catch your breath. the mantras of her name don’t leave her mind, how pathetic did it make her she couldn’t stop thinking of you. how you couldn’t escape her mind, even during practice, those stupid whimpers wouldn’t leave her. her mind can’t escape that night, the endorphins pounding her skull as she fucked you into oblivion. the secret you held close to your heart raw and exposed as you released over her pumping fingers — it all felt a little too real. a little too perfect. 

fwb!abby who tries to play it cool whenever you’re around. abby knows it’s her best shot of forgetting what happened, slipping back into normalcy. but what she doesn’t expect? how jealous she feels when she sees you chatting up one of her teammates. she suspects you might be doing the same, trying to find a distraction, anything and anyone to stop your mind from thinking of it. it’s the secret she holds close to her as she deciphers on why her blood couldn’t seem to stop boiling. she hadn’t been this possessed, the need for her sweet salvations to be found on each roll of her tongue. it’s agony as she watches you leave with them, but she just sips on her beer, calling it night at the same time as you. but her sheets will be ice while yours will be kept especially warm. 

the first thought entering your mind, this isn’t as good. she doesn’t touch you the way abby did, fuck, this girl’s mouth is eager to devour you, every drop not being wasted but you just pretend it’s abby. even if you feel slimy, a bit dirty, but it gets you where you need to be. 

when you ride the plastic cock, invisioning abby holding your hips, guiding them as you slide down and fuck yourself, chasing the high she gave you just a few weeks ago but you see golden-waves flowing on your navy-blue cotton sheets. your mind drifts to how the blue in the sheets would bring out abby’s eyes, how she might look up at you while you fuck her like it’s your right to. 

as if she belongs to you. 

the more you think of her, the easier it becomes to find your release, it comes to you quickly as you moan; you chase the high. but it still doesn’t feel as good as last time — not when you don’t have her whispering in your ear. telling you just how much you need it, whispering your dirty secrets like an oath. a string for her to pull, only one tug needed until you come apart for her like it’s the only purpose you have in life; you’re just here to please abby anderson. 

fwb!abby who doesn’t see you for a week straight. you’re avoiding her with all of you might. even going as far as missing one of her games which you never do. it pisses her off to no end and the final straw is her teammate talking about how much the two of you can’t stop fucking. yeah, god, she’s so perfect. sweetest i've ever tasted. it’s said in passing, quietly to one of her friends, not meant for abby. slamming the locker form, she sets her sights on you. she’s ending whatever the fuck this is. 

the knock on your door is harsh, spinning you out of your thoughts as you open the door to find her completely outraged. abby might as well be a bull with her nostrils flared, puffing out smoke as she only sees through a tunnel vision of red. you know why she’s upset, and you’re sure she’s heard about just who you have been spending your time with, making this all the more messy. 

“ashton? fucking ashton?” abby burls straight past the entrance, shoulder checking you in the process. 

“why does it matter if it’s her? or anyone? why do you care all of a sudden?” you go back to cleaning, as if you don’t have a very enraged woman standing in front of you. you try not to think of her sweet vanilla scent mixed with mahogany. the way she filled you up perfectly. 

“i don’t care.” abby nods as she showcases a bitter smirk. 

fwb!abby who has you pinned against the wall with her strong frame, pelvis pressed against hers, still sweaty from practice as she has you pinned against the wall. you’re not sure who kissed first, who grabbed the other closer, but she has you turned around, fingers plunging knuckle deep as she reminds you of that night. writhing against her as she whispers in her ear, “next time you crawl in her bed, remember this, when she’s failing to make you come apart. remember how easy it is for me.” 

fwb!abby who brings you back to her apartment. her lips pull the air from your lungs, suffocating you but lighting you ablaze. like a lioness when she paws at you, nearly ripping your closes to shreds with the claws she has buried in you so deep. abby is cocky about it as you pull off her clothes just the same, desperate, needy — with a angelic glint in your eyes she’ll have nightmares about. 

“princess, it will stay between us. alright?” abby groans as her baby blue dildo slips inside you. watching her defined abdomen clenched as she pushes, fully tilted inside you. “promise.”  

another secret to holster, keeping close enough to keep but not close enough where it would seep into your skin, surely to infect whatever she so craved to do. you expect everything to be a little rough, a means to an end — just a way for the both of you to fuck this out of your system — but abby’s delicate. doing her best not to completely lose it. 

you feel full as she hesitates to move, watching your face contort in divine pleasure, the way you try to move your hips, but her hands keep you in place for a moment longer. 

“baby, please, shit i need your—” a groan leaves your mouth as abby moves, thrusting her cock inside you. 

“yeah, you need it, princess?” 

it feels condescending, the stupid pet name is being thrown at you as a way to incite raw need, to instill such a primal emotion, and you feel it stirring the pits of your stomach. with each heartbeat, your chest flutters. 

your mind shuts off, all the worries that infect your mind like a disease, every reason that tells you this is a god-awful, terrifyingly horrible idea. there’s too many webs, you’re bound to be trapped up in her, with no way to come out of it. it’s the only truth settled within your soul but then she’s fucking you. it’s hard but slow. 

she’s taking her time, building you up so she has you right towards the edge. all you do is wrap your legs around her, bringing her close to you, her temple kissing yours as she loses herself inside you. it’s all more than you expected, quiet whimpers echo in her bedroom, her sanctuary she’s coaxed you into. 

“you look so hot taking my cock, pretty girl. fuck, it’s like it was made just for you but i have an appetite for something else.” 

you whimper as abby removes herself and the harness secured on her hips, until you feel her blonde bush and aching lips slide over yours. the woman above you can’t help but chuckle as your eyes roll back into your skull, a leg thrown over her toned shoulder as she slides perfectly against you. 

“you—” you gasp as she pushes her hips faster, you have no choice but to buck against her. “a-abs, oh shit, oh my fucking god.” 

quickly, you’re losing it as abby is being loud. “right in front of me all this time, fuck!” 

almost comes across as animalistic as she grunts, fucking your faster than anyone ever has, you’re so close when she grips your chin, demanding you to open. sliding her fingers inside of your mouth as you suck off your cum. effectively shutting you up in the process. 

“yeah, it’s too much, huh? are you sure you can take it, princess?” you nod your head as one thrust sends you over the end, your body twitching as you come. she soothes you through it, whispering your name over and over in your ear and it goes straight to your cunt. it’s too much but she eventually stops but you still feel her against you. everything becomes sticky and warm. 

the blunt of her nails begin to scrape lightly over the skin of your abdomen, enjoying how much your body twitches. you’re sensitive and abby chuckles.

“whenever you wanna fuck princess, just give me a call.” and after, she whispers so quietly you almost miss it, “i’ll gladly make this pussy mine any day of the week.”

[hrrtshape]

foods i ate in my better cr that now haunt my waking hours.

i have returned from the other side. the gilded penthouse doors have shut, the streets of new york have blurred into the mirage of memory, and yet......i am afflicted. by longing. by hunger. by the ghosts of meals past. my taste buds have been irreversibly colonised by another reality’s superior gastronomy, and now, in this lesser plane, i am left to rot, salivating over what i once had. let’s discuss.

　　　　　　　　　　　  ⊹　 ︶︶　 ୨୧　 ︶︶　 ⊹

　[ i , ] that one bagel that was a religious experience :  i’m talking about the perfect bagel. a bagel so transcendent, it made me believe in fate. it had the perfect chew, the kind that fights back just a little before yielding to divine softness. a smear of scallion cream cheese, the exact right saltiness, balancing that toasty, malty warmth of the bread. try finding that exact bite in this reality....impossible. i am forever chasing the ghost of that bagel.

　[ ii , ] the $24 salad that ruined all other salads for me :  new york, in any reality, is an absolute menace for making you pay obscene amounts of money for food that, logically, should be cheap. and yet, this overpriced, greens-based epiphany had no right being so good. it had the perfect ratio of crunch to creaminess, crisp little gem lettuce, buttery avocado (in this reality i for some reason...liked avocados??? came as a surprise!), these impossibly thin radish slices that made me feel like i was eating couture. the dressing..... i don’t even know what was in it. it tasted like wealth, people. it tasted like i had stocks in something lucrative. now every salad i eat in this reality may as well taste like sorrow.

　[ iii , ] the pasta that might have been a love letter :  there was this tiny restaurant, candle-lit, the kind of place that only seats like 10 people at a time, where i ate the most immaculate cacio e pepe of my life. it was poetry in pasta form. each strand coated in a glossy, peppery, pecorino-laced sauce that clung to it with the devotion of a lover. the pasta itself was handmade. you could taste the craftsmanship. it made me want to sit down with the chef and ask what great tragedy in their life had led them to perfect this dish with such aching precision. because surely, no one cooks like that unless they’ve known longing.

　[ iv , ] the coffee that altered my brain chemistry :  i had a latte so good, i saw colours. it wasn’t just coffee. it was a sensory event. the milk was frothed to the exact texture of a daydream, the espresso was rich but not bitter, caramel-like but not sweet. it was served in a heavy, warm ceramic cup, the kind that makes you want to wrap both hands around it and tell someone your deepest secrets. it made me feel like a person who writes letters on expensive stationery. it made me feel like my skin was clear, like i had purpose. now....i drink coffee and feel nothing.

　[ v , ] the slice of pizza that was more than pizza :  new york pizza is a spiritual entity. the slice i had wasn’t just food. it was a promise. the crust had that perfect crisp-but-chewy balance, the cheese melted in strands of longing, the sauce tangy and bright in a way that could cure seasonal depression. i folded it, i took a bite, and for a moment, i understood the meaning of life. even with lily moaning next to me about how good it was. in this reality, i put frozen pizza in the oven and am met only with disappointment.

 　　　　　　　　　 ‧　　 ₊　　˚　　 ⋅

i could go on..... i should go on. but the pain is too great. these meals have marked me forever, and now i am left to mourn them, to wander this reality’s restaurants like a forlorn ghost searching for something i will never find. if anyone needs me, i’ll be in the kitchen, staring at a sad, lesser bagel, wondering what could have been.

　until my next shift. 　　emma........

[menlove]

queer paul tome pt 1: everything not related to john

okay i've been saying i'd make this post forever and it's uh. long. so i decided to split it up into four parts so i can get this first bit out and let it stop haunting me and so it's not 50 miles long.

feel free to add your own if it's not here or shoot me an ask and i'll add it :)

disclaimer: i'm not definitively saying sir paul mccartney is queer. i mean i really firmly think he is but it's all just speculation. also, if he is, there's obviously a reason he's not out about it & he deserves to have his privacy respected. i just personally find the dominant narrative in the fandom & even in larger spaces that poor pining queer john was in love with tragically heterosexual paul completely unconvincing and neeeeeed to be insane for a minute here

if this pisses u off u can simply scroll on by i do not need an essay in my notes. make your own post if you disagree.

(paul doing this for whatever reason in beverly hills, 1974- also the same trip he saw john on bc sure i guess)

this doesn't include lyrics as the main argument bc i saw a post ages ago basically saying there's nothing outside of them and lowkey i took that as a challenge because there's SO much outside of his lyrics that point to him being queer.

that being SAID, this is going to be split into four posts: not john related (most important and thus first bc there's so much documented about mclennon & john being queer, but not paul by himself), john related, paul's relationships w other men (these ones aren't all like... concrete and that's why they aren't included here but w all the context that'll come before it his relationships to certain men are..... interesting), and finally lyrics last bc some of them you genuinely can't just ignore

part 2- john related part 3- other men part 4- lyrics (those will have links once i actually make them)

also, i'm sure people have made similar posts before- i haven't seen them (other than this one an anon sent while i was writing this up which is sooo interesting but does have a lot of dead links) but if you have one you want to share feel free!

time to get into it. i'm avoiding homework by doing this.

(sidenote: not including instances of him just flirting w men bc body language can be read a lot of different ways- but if y'all wanna add any i know they're a dime a dozen like w george m., mal, random reporters, robert fraser, etc)

1- "Just kidding, Linda..."

REPORTER: You're a very, very good looking man. PAUL: [sits up straighter, making a sort of campy gesture towards the crowd, turning into a point] Get that boy's name. [Drops his hand, smiling and leaning his cheek on his hand.] Just kidding, Linda. REPORTER: [unintelligible] PAUL: What? REPORTER: I said- do you have a secret, looking so nice for fifty years? PAUL: [grins, resting his chin on his hand again and batting his eyelashes] Yes, it's the drugs, you know.

(originally posted on here by @northernsongspeels who hasn't been active in a while) this one is so crazy to me. he's so obviously flirting with that man and he's apologizing to linda for flirting with that man. like it's a conversation they've had before.

2- "Yes, boys."

this video (originally posted by @ilovedig here)

PAUL: Yes, I think the main difference is that when you are that age- which I'm sure you remember, Tom- TOM: It's back there in the dim distant past, yes. PAUL: When you're that age, that's the kind of thing to do. I mean, what you're doing is you're going 'round and you're basically looking for girls or whatever turns you on and stuff. So, uh, yeah, I- TOM: Well- well could you give me the alternatives to girls? Are there others? LINDA: [scoffs] PAUL: Yes, boys. TOM: Oh! No.

3- "He's so good looking."

Paul McCartney first read the name and saw the photo (for weeks there was just one crazy photo of Elvis available in Britain) during a free period at Liverpool Institute. Again, it was a friend with the NME, and there was an advert for Heartbreak Hotel. "I thought, 'He's so good looking,'" Paul says, "he just looked perfect." Mark Lewisohn, All These Years Vol. 1 Tune In, sourced from the Anthology TV series by Lewisohn.

4- "A Nice Person Girl"

this fun little interview... (originally posted by @amoralto idk why the archive.org capture of it looks funky but the audio is still there) take it w a grain of salt bc it can also just read as a homophobic joke but like.

August 22nd, 1966 (Warwick Hotel, New York): As DJ “Cousin Brucie” Morrow conducts brief interviews with each of the Beatles, one by one, he asks Paul to settle the rumours that have been circulating in the press about the status of his relationship with Jane Asher. MORROW: Moving over here to Paul – someone just handed me a card. I guess this is… [focusing] Last year, when you were on my microphone here— PAUL: Ask me something about Rick Sklar. MORROW: Rick Sklar? That’s my boss. JOHN: Ask Paul about Rick Sklar. MORROW: Uh, Paul, last year when you were on my microphone, I think somebody – one of your staff – announced an engagement of you and Jane. PAUL: Uh… MORROW: Do you remember that? It was announced on the air. And then I remember we said something on the air and then thousands of people from the street went, “Oh.” What is it with you and Jane now? How – what is your relationship? Are you planning a marriage, planning an engagement, are you just boyfriend and girlfriend, what is it? Tell us the whole thing. JOHN: [mutters; inaudible] PAUL: Uh. We’re just queer, that’s the scene. [uproarious laughter in background] That’s the scene. Well I mean, I couldn’t say that on the air live, you know. JOHN: No, you’ll get into trouble for it. PAUL: No, the thing is, Cousin Bruce – um, we haven’t got plans to marry yet, you know. That’s the point. And that business about somebody saying we were engaged, nobody actually said it. It was just another one of those things where someone says, “Are they engaged?” and they said, “Well, whatever it is… [muttering]” “Yes, folks, they’re engaged!” And it wasn’t true. MORROW: Well, I’m sure there are a lot of girls who are very happy with this. What would you look for, in a girl? Say you did eventually want to settle down, what would you want to – what kind of girl would you like? What would you – what would you like in a gal you wanted to marry eventually, bring home to Mommy? PAUL: Uh… Female hormones. MORROW: Female. What’ll you go for, any – what, blonde, brunette, what? PAUL: Uh, you know, anything. Anything. Girls. It doesn’t matter if they’re blonde, brunette, or anything, as long as they’ve got it. MORROW: Would you want a nice person – what? A beautiful nice person girl. PAUL: Yeah, you know. A nice person girl. (transcription directly from @amoralto, bold mine)

and again this one COULD just be a lil homophobic joke but idk man his tone here is very different and the fact that he says he couldn't say that on air & john says he'll get in trouble is just. interesting. it's Interesting.

5- "A 26 year old queer never to get married."

Half an hour later it was very quiet, except for a few sobs, and then we decided that we had to see him just once more. We opened the gates and walked slowly in. Someone rang the doorbell. Waited, no one came, rang again. Rang again. Paul answered. We just stood there. God what do we say? "Yes, what do you want?" he said, as if we'd just come to borrow sugar. C. ran out. Someone asked if it was tomorrow, and he said, "Tomorrow." It went quiet again. "What's this - Heartbreak Hotel? What do you think I am a 26 year old queer never to get married? Oh, stick around kids!" We just looked at each other. Oh God, Paul, what have we done now. All we wanted to do was stand there and talk awhile. What was the point in shouting at us like that? We stood there, tears falling but there was no sound. "Apple Scruffs Come to Dinner" by Andrew Bailey, 1970 (x), bold mine

again, like the last one, this one is very... i think he was absolutely being homophobic here, but it's a very telling outburst. like he's yelling this harsh enough to make these girls cry.

6- Harry Harrison's "gorgeous tan"

moving onto this wild quote from many years from now by barry miles about george's older brother (bold mine):

"George Harrison’s elder brother Harry had been to Christmas Island and arrived back with a gorgeous tan in his army uniform and we thought, My God, he’s been made a man of. You used to see this quite regularly, people would be made a man of."

7/8- gender neutral language

let's get into some interesting gender neutral language he uses. now, would this be Particularly compelling with a modern celebrity? not really. but most people his age really don't talk gender neutrally unless it's to be vague On Purpose. like this bit from many years from now, where before this he'd been using exclusively "girl" and "she/her" pronouns talking about hookups, it suddenly shifts to very purposefully vague (bold mine):

With a lot of those people I met and related to, albeit for a short time, I've mercifully forgotten them and I don't really remember what went on, thank goodness. There may have been a few drinks involved and I was a little merry and, you know, you slip back to someone's flat... My main feeling really is one of relief. You do feel like some of it was outrageous. But I'm glad to have had a slightly outrageous period in my life, as long as it didn't hurt anybody, because I'd always felt maybe my character was too careful. I think the great thing was I never had any deep, dark secrets. That's what the papers wanted. They wanted me to be hiding a little Miss Whiplash somewhere, and for the flat to be in my name. But it was never that. It was always a one-night stand with whoever was around and wanted to party.

this next one take w a grain of salt bc the source Is cited but looking it up online only brings up tumblr blogs. the source does seem to exist but i'm being so real i don't care enough to go and buy the source but if anyone wants to and wants to fact-check it have at it. bold mine:

Favourite Drink: If I could only choose one drink it would have to be water. When I’m a bit hung over that’s all I can take. But I still like a Scotch and Coke. I can’t overdo it any more. Four’s my maximum, four and I’m anybody’s. (official program booklet for The Paul McCartney World Tour (1989-90): Lifelines. (1989))

what's also interesting about this one is it's when him and linda were married, which gives some credence to the rumors that they maybe had an open relationship (men or not). it also makes me think of the "just kidding, linda" thing lmao. she can't take her husband anywhere or he's going to be fagging it up the second he gets 4 drinks in him.

9/10/11- the "binary" (ft. a bit of john)

this infamous quote from the lyrics in his section on "hello goodbye" (bold mine) (x):

I'm attracted to the binary. I state that quite casually, but I think there’s actually a lot more to it than my just saying, ‘I’m attracted to the binary.’ Once you get down to the scientific biological level, in my core, I probably am the binary. All of us are probably more binary than we might realise.

context being that when he says "the binary" he means duality. there's a lot of interesting stuff going on in this article, though there's some more john related stuff i'll add here too bc it's super fascinating (sorry, easier to go here than the john section!):

‘Hello, Goodbye’ shows off a binary that we took great advantage of in The Beatles. With regard to John Lennon and myself, the great attraction we had for each other was that we each had a bit the other didn’t have. John could be quite cynical. I was his opposite, in that respect. [...] I think there definitely was a sort of ‘hello, goodbye’ about John and myself. But we loved it. We loved it because John could contribute his caustic wit and I could contribute something more upbeat. Not always, we each did what the other one did from time to time. But if you had to break it down – and though it is a bit crude to say so – there was a binary tension at the heart of our songwriting together.

12- big guys at the gym

onto something more lighthearted and also just ridiculous (x):

"If I'm in a gym and all the big guys have got big weights and they're doing all the big stuff, at the end I do a headstand," he said. "And they come over to me [and say], 'That's pretty impressive man.'" ["78-year-old Paul McCartney’s fitness routine includes headstands and yoga with Alec Baldwin" by Cory Stieg]

13- gay dreams

this infamous quote which i have a bit of a different take on that i'll expand on in a sec (bold mine)

My view is that these things are there whether you want them or not, in your interior. You don’t call up dreams, they happen, often the exact opposite of what you want. You can be heterosexual and be having a homosexual dream and wake up, and think, “Shit, am I gay?” I like that you don’t have control over it. But there is some control – it is you dreaming, it is your mind it’s all happening in. In a way my equation would be that my computer is fully loaded by now. Maybe in younger people there’s a little bit of loading to go, but mine’s loaded pretty much, so what I try and do is allow it to print out unbeknown to me. And I’m interested to hear what it’s got in there. (interview by Karen Wright for Luigi's Alcove, 2000) (x)

a lot of people use this to point to him being oblivious, which i do get, but i want to focus more on the line "it is you dreaming, it is your mind it's all happening in". like he seems interested and fascinated by the revelations we have in our dreams- hardly repressed or scared.

14- royston ellis' "break me in easy"

we've all been over the royston ellis poem and i don't want to just retype out everything that's already on this post so go check out @eppysboys' post on the royston ellis poem!

but tl;dr a bisexual friend of theirs in liverpool, royston ellis, wrote this poem called "Break Me In Easy":

Easy, easy, break me in easy. Sure I’m big time, cock-sure and brash, but easy, easy, break me in easy. Sure they’ve been others, I know the way…

which is about gay sex. he also told the boys that 1 in every 5 men was gay and paul worried that it might be him (this was back in 1960). he still remembered it line for line by 2006 which is just insane. all the sources for those are over on the linked post.

15- woody pecker

originally posted by @didwemeetsomewherebefore here (links to my blog bc the wayback machine was not cooperating right but as long as it stays up you can find the original here!)

PAUL & DONOVAN: How to suck a lollypopper, Sitting on a woodypecker, Dancing in the double-decker shoe, I don’t know, So, how do you do? PAUL: I don't know how you do it, Lordy, knows I try But every time I try to do it, My whole darn tongue gets ti(r)ed

this one is just so sillyyyyy and cute but it's just so full of innuendo like sucking on a lollypop and sitting on a woody pecker and your tongue getting tied (tired?) when you try to suck the uh lollypop. giggling his way through it with one of his boy best friends donovan too.

16- "i heard he was gay"

this fun little quote from body count by francie schwartz:

When the rotation of bike, gun, and other diversions left me alone with Billy, his first words were, "You went with Paul McCartney, didn’t you?" "I bet you just love it when people ask you about your father, don't you?" He was surprised, he half-frowned. "No, really, what's Paul like? I heard he was gay." "He might have gone that way, but he didn't. He really didn't dig fucking all that much, if that's any kind of an answer."

note here though that francie is a notoriously unreliable source on paul. she hates him and honestly makes some pretty homophobic digs at him & others pretty frequently. so it is interesting that she denies he's gay, but says he might have gone that way. given how short of a time they were together and how weird their relationship was, i wouldn't really expect him to be open about that with her- still, she noticed something there too.

17- homosexual handbook

paul was mentioned in the homosexual handbook by angelo d'arcangelo in 1968 under a list of famous homosexuals. it's very tongue in cheek and says this "may just be wishful thinking on (my) part"

and obviously not proof as the book takes a very playful and unserious tone. he does provide this little disclaimer though, which i think is interesting:

Some of the men on this list are self-acknowledged homosexuals. Some are not. All of them are generally thought to be gay. However, as many family men and notorious womanizers appear on these pages, we must—rather than question their forays into either or both sexes—congratulate them on their obvious virility.

because once again like... WHERE are these rumors about paul being gay? because the rest of this list, as far as i can tell (ngl i did not do a deep read there) are men who have/had gay rumors about them or were gay. this comes up more in the john post as well, but i seriously need to know just how many rumors there were about him being gay.

18- "the female hordes"

It was always obvious Brian was gay and we could talk to him about gay things, but he would never come out with, 'Hello, Paul, you’re looking nice today.' I was quite obviously un-gay, due to my hunting of the female hordes, and I think we all must have given the same impression. There had been a suggestion since that John had some homosexual thing with Brian, but I personally doubt it. All the intimate moments we shared were always about girls. (from Anthology)

i know putting one of his "un-gay" quotes here is counter intuitive but listen i have genuinely never heard a gayer thing come out of a man's mouth than "hunting of the female hordes" it sends me to fucking mars every time i read it. that's the most closeted shit i've ever read in my entire life. it sounds like what a gay man would say trying to come up with something a straight man would say. and i think paul's bi, he just desperately wants me to think he's never gotten pussy a day in his damn life with this quote.

as a side-note, "all the intimate moments we shared were always about girls". now what do you mean by that man..... like shared as in verbally told stories? or do you mean it was always about the girls when you guys were...... intimate? because those are two really different things and i need to know what the hell that's supposed to mean

19/20- this poor man just wants to flirt with and kiss men can we let him

okay tumblr has nerfed me and won't let me add any more videos from tumblr but there's a video of drunk paul almost kissing ringo jokingly. posted by @stewy here and as long as it's up you can reblog it here- thank u for the contribution to my red stringing lmfao

pringo for once thank god but. i don't even have anything to say except to point and think of a slur. drunk as hell flirting with your best friend what's better than that.

and then this whole interaction between paul & elton john where they kiss on the mouth

and i could so buy that this is a straight man and gay man just being comfortable together except well see above and see the other posts but also paul's very much adapting a softer, "campier" tone around him and calling him babe/darling in a very, again, gay way. not as in he's gay For elton john lmfao but this is how to old gay friends would greet each other do you see what i mean do you understand me......

anyway that's the end of part 1 join me next time (whenever the fuck i decide to avoid doing homework again um) this man has sucked a dick i'm so sure of this. (not really don't sue me for libel paul love ya)

[honeyryewhiskey]

mirrored souls

or, dean dreams of what he believes he can never have. warnings ! angst, hurt/some comfort, dean's feelings are hurt, unexpected pregnancy, tough conversations, two ppl with the same fears j's note ! hey so let's not even talk about the fact that this is neither of the two fics i posted snippets of lol idk what possessed me to write 5k fucking words for this i'm sorry i just want to baby trap dean winchester erm idk enjoy? it's sad but maybe pls dont take my word for it i'll continue this and let them be happy also i stopped proof reading half way through bc it is my bed time <3 5k words

He’s had this dream every night for weeks. 

The sun is golden, thick with warmth, stretching over endless fields of green. It settles on his skin like an old friend, seeps into his bones, loosening the ever-present tension in his shoulders. The air is clean, carrying the scent of wildflowers and summer, and for the first time in his life, he feels safe. Like he could lie back in the grass, close his eyes, and let the world move on without him.

Then, he hears her.

A laugh—small and weightless, like wind chimes in a summer breeze—rings through the stillness. It stops him cold, strikes something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

He turns, and she’s there.

She can’t be older than four, standing barefoot in the grass, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes—green as polished emeralds, too big for her little face. His eyes.

But everything else—her delicate nose, the slope of her cheekbones, the way her wild hair frames her face—that’s you.

She tilts her head, smiling in a way that makes something inside him shatter. Then she reaches for him, small fingers wrapping around his calloused hand like she’s always belonged there.

And just like that—like the break of a wave, like the snap of a thread—she’s gone.

Dean wakes with a sharp inhale, the remnants of warmth already fading, replaced by the cold press of reality. His chest aches, heavy with something deeper than longing. A quiet, creeping fear slithers in, curling around his ribs.

Because she has his eyes and your face—a combination that will never exist.

You left. And you haven’t come back in months.

It was always cat and mouse with you—years of fleeting moments, an unspoken desire for more that neither of you had the courage to face. You’d cross paths, use each other's bodies to release some tension, but never linger long enough to ignite anything real. 

Until about eight months ago, when everything changed. You stayed longer than just a weekend. Dean had you in his arms for four months—four months that felt like a lifetime of stolen moments, of finally letting down walls you both had built so high. But when it all started to feel too real, when the weight of it all settled between you like an unspoken truth, you pulled away. You told him it was too much, that you needed space, that you couldn’t do it anymore. You needed to breathe, to step back before it swallowed you whole. And with that, you walked away, leaving him to sift through the pieces of something that was never meant to last.

His heavy hand slams down on the bleating alarm clock beside his bed. The sharp noise cuts off, leaving only the ragged sound of his breathing in the dark. He drags a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his tired eyes, but it doesn’t do anything to clear the remnants of the dream—the sunlight, the laughter, the way she looked at him like he was her whole damn world.

Dean exhales sharply and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Another short night, another dream of something that doesn’t exist, of someone who will never be real. He tells himself it’s just a trick of the mind, a byproduct of too many years spent running on empty. But the truth—the one he won’t say out loud—is that the dreams never started until you left.

And maybe that’s what makes them feel more like a haunting than a fantasy.

He’s spent each day the past four months trying to shove it down, burying it under booze and hunts and half-hearted distractions. But it doesn’t matter how many times he tells himself he’s over it, that he saw it coming. Because he did. He knew you would run the second things got too real, the second you got too close, too comfortable, like maybe you wanted this life with him.

And then, just like his dream, you were gone.

You never said it outright, but he knew—deep down, you were always more like him than you wanted to admit. Built for the road, for the chase. Love wasn’t something you stayed for.

Except you never really left, not completely.

Every now and then, his phone would ring, and it’d be your voice on the other end—casual, distant, asking about a hunt, about a lead on something nasty you were tracking. Always avoiding the bigger conversation, never asking how he’s been, never giving him the chance to ask where you are.

And Dean let it happen. Let you keep him at arm’s length. Because at least this way, you were still something in his life.

But now, sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, the dream still fresh in his mind, it pisses him off.

He stands, yanking on a t-shirt and running a hand through his hair before heading for the door. He just needs coffee—something to shake off the lingering ache sitting heavy in his chest.

But the second he steps into the hall, Sam is there, hovering with that anxious look that never means anything good.

“Hey,” Sam starts, lifting a hand like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “Before you go in there, just—don’t freak out, okay?”

Dean’s stomach tightens, his muscles tensing. The look he cuts Sam with makes the younger brother’s eyes widen, searching for words to mediate and settle the storm brewing at either side of him. “Sam, what the hell are you—”

Before Sam can answer, Dean hears it.

The sound of pacing. Quick, uneven steps against the kitchen floor. His body goes still, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t need to see you to know.

You’re here.

Dean’s pulse pounds in his ears. His stubborn rage choking out the glimmer of childish hope that sets his nerves on fire. He stares at Sam, waiting for some kind of explanation, but Sam just shifts on his feet, uneasy.

That’s when another sound cuts through the silence—your voice.

Muffled, pacing, like you’re muttering to yourself between shallow breaths.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he pushes past Sam. His mind is already racing, his thoughts a tangled mess of you, his dreams, his heartache and the damn voice in his head telling him to grip you tight enough so that you can’t leave him again. Whatever this is, whatever brought you back, he’s not in the mood for it. Not today. Not after all this time.

But when he steps into the kitchen, the world tilts on its axis.

You freeze mid-step, eyes wide, hands curled tightly around the edge of the counter as if you’re holding yourself together, bracing for something. For him, maybe. Your posture is rigid, your whole body taut with tension. You look… different. There’s an unreadable heaviness in the way you stand, the nervous bite of your lip as you chew it—like you’re preparing for a blow, for him to lash out, to reject you. 

A heavy silence falls over the room, thick and suffocating. His heart hammers in his chest, but there’s no anger now, no easy target to aim it at. Just this painful, aching pull between what he wants and what he’s afraid to hope for.

“You…” He’s barely able to get the word out. His throat feels tight, words caught somewhere between anger and something much softer, something more dangerous. He’s not sure which one is scarier.

You glance at him, then quickly look away, the uncertainty in your eyes like a crack in a mirror he never thought he’d see. Dean feels something in his chest twist—familiar, painful, like it’s been waiting for you to come back and break him open all over again.

His mind is a whirlwind. He wants to be angry—hell, he’s had four months of anger built up over your disappearing act. But standing here, with you so close, he realizes just how torn he is inside.

He wants to scream at you, demand to know why you didn’t come back sooner, why you couldn’t have just stayed. But that’s not the real question, is it? Because deep down, a part of him knows it wasn’t just you who ran. It was him, too. He shut off long ago, convincing himself it was easier that way. He was easier that way.

But you? You always seemed to slip through his defenses.

Dean stares at you, struggling to find his voice, his hands suddenly feeling useless at his sides. The walls he’s built up for his entire life—years of anger, bitterness, and pain—are cracking, piece by piece, and he has no idea how to stop it.

Dean crosses his arms, trying to shove down the storm already brewing inside him. “Well,” his voice is rough with sleep and something dangerously close to hurt. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Your spine straightens, and just like that, the tension shifts. Whatever nerves had you pacing seconds ago are buried under the sharp edge of your own attitude. “Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly plan on it either.”

Dean scoffs, a bitter chuckle, the undertone to the eye roll he throws you. “Oh, great. That makes me feel real special.”

“I…” You hesitate, fingers digging into the edge of the counter before you let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing here, Dean. I don’t know if this is the right thing, or if I’m just—” you stop yourself, biting your lip again. You were never as good as he was at hiding your pain. It’s evident now, in the vulnerability in your eyes that cuts through him, raw and unguarded, and it makes everything inside him spin faster.

Sam clears his throat. “Why don’t I give you guys some space?” He glances between the two of you, clearly ready to escape the tension.

Dean doesn’t look at him, just stares at you as you stand firm, the scowl on your face trying desperately to cover the sadness in your eyes. The fact that you’re asking for anything at all should piss him off. After months of the half-hearted check-ins that only ever came when you needed something, after the way you left—why should he give you the time of day?

But he can’t say no.

And that scares him more than anything.

Sam nods to himself when neither of you protest and slips out of the kitchen, leaving you and Dean in thick, suffocating silence.

“Why are you here?” His voice comes out quieter than he intended, but the question hangs in the air, laced with something deeper, something that sounds too much like hope. A falsehood he’s terrified to acknowledge.

You take a shaky breath, your shoulders slumping just slightly, as if the weight of being in the same room as him is too much to carry alone.

Dean takes a step toward you, his feet heavy on the floor, his chest aching. His instincts shout at him to pull away, to protect himself from the inevitable hurt, but something else—something buried deep inside him—begs him to go closer.

The words come out before he can stop them, quieter now, barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can do this again, are we gonna keep pretending we have nothing to talk about?”

You wince, a flicker of pain crossing your face, and it rips through him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, but he can’t stop the words. He can’t stop the fear, the resentment, that’s built up over all this time.

"I don't know if I can just act like nothing ever happened between us. Like you didn't leave me. Like..." His voice breaks off, his throat thick with emotion he’s been swallowing for far too long. He’s not even sure who he’s trying to convince anymore, you or himself.

His hands are trembling now, and he clenches them into fists, fighting to keep the storm inside him contained. But every time he looks at you, sees the way you’re standing before him, so tired and lacking the fire that he always adored. That you’re here now when he never thought he’d see you again, it pulls him under a wave of emotion he can’t quite place.

“I don’t know how to do this, not after everything,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse. “You can’t just waltz back in here and expect me to be okay with it.”

Your eyes fill with regret, but there's something else too—a quiet understanding. You know what you’ve done. You know what this looks like, but still, you're standing here. And that small, painful spark of hope flickers in the pit of his stomach.

“Can we just sit and talk, please?” Your voice is soft, pleading. And this time, you don’t look away.

Dean stands there, his whole body tense, his mind screaming conflicting words in the crosshairs—walk away, stay. But something in your gaze, in your quiet desperation, tugs at him. For a moment, he’s paralyzed—conflicted in the most unfamiliar way.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he nods. “Fine. But we talk,” he jabs a finger at you, his brows set with an intensity that makes your breath catch in your throat, “really talk. No more running.”

You nod, your shoulders relaxing, just slightly, and Dean wonders, not for the first time, if maybe—just maybe—he’s still capable of believing in the possibility of this. Of you.

His eyes narrow, the weight of years of unresolved anger and hurt pressing down on him. But despite it all, despite everything you put him through, he can’t seem to dig his heels into this anger. Not when you’re standing here, so close, with those big, pleading eyes that always seemed to strip him bare.

The years of touch and go, the broken promises, the words left unsaid—they all float between you, a suffocating fog that neither of you knows how to break. But Dean’s tired. Tired of fighting this pull, this pull toward you he can’t seem to ignore, no matter how many times you leave.

With a frustrated sigh, he crosses the kitchen, the hard floor beneath his boots clacking louder than it should. He grabs two chairs from the worn wooden table, scraping them across the linoleum as he sets them down. Wordlessly, he nods toward the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he mutters, his voice rougher than he meant it to be.

You stand there for a moment, the air between you thick with things left unsaid. And then, quietly, you take the seat next to him.

Dean can feel the weight of the moment in every fiber of his being. He doesn’t want to look at you. Not yet. Not until he’s ready to hear whatever it is you came to say.

The silence stretches on, thick and uncomfortable, as you sit side by side, neither of you knowing how to begin.

Finally, you clear your throat, a small sound, but it’s enough to break through the tension. “Look, I know I don’t have the right to ask you for anything. But… can we just talk, like we used to? No games. No running away this time, okay?”

Dean stares at the table in front of him, his fingers tapping restlessly against the edge. Your words hit harder than he expected, and for a second, his chest tightens with something raw and unfamiliar.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore, you know?” he says quietly, almost to himself. “Every time you leave… it’s like you take a piece of me with you. And I’m just left here picking up the pieces, wondering if you’ll ever come back.”

You wince at the admission, and it hits him harder than he wants to admit. He doesn’t know why he said it—maybe because this is the first time in years that you’re actually sitting here, facing him. Maybe because it’s the first time in years that he feels like you might actually be willing to stay.

You reach out, placing a tentative hand on his, stilling the tapping. And for a brief moment, his breath catches.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Dean,” you say softly. “I never wanted to be another person who hurts you.”

to forget the months of silence, the aching space you left behind. He wants to pull you close, bury his face in your neck, and pretend none of it ever happened—that you never walked away, that he never let you.

But reality crashes down just as fast.

He can’t let himself go there, can’t let himself believe this is something he can have without it slipping through his fingers. So instead, he exhales sharply, shoving that fragile part of himself deep down where it belongs. His jaw tightens, and when he finally speaks, his voice is rough, edged with his angry armor.

“Then why did you leave?” he grits out, his voice quiet but commanding. He needs to know. Needs to understand why the person he thought he might finally let himself love disappeared without a trace.

You pull your hand back, lips pressed tight. “I—”

The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, like the weight of months spent apart. Dean’s still trying to wrap his head around what’s happening, why you’re here, why you’re sitting beside him, but something shifts in your expression.

You take a deep breath, eyes falling to your lap before lifting to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words soft but full of weight. “I’m sorry for always running off. For disappearing when things got too real. I know it’s not fair.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t know what to say, what to feel.

“I was scared,” you continue, voice breaking just a little. “I still am. I…” Your words falter, but then you press on, searching his eyes for understanding. “I was consumed with this fear of losing it all. That I’d attach myself to you and this life would rip you away.”

The quiet admission sits heavy in the air. Dean feels his heart thudding faster beneath his rib cage. A pang of regret washes over him, for never admitting he shared that fear. That he thought he would be the thing that rips you apart. And maybe if he had, you wouldn’t have felt alone in those thoughts. 

You run a hand through your hair, a nervous gesture, and he watches the movement, the tension in your body. “I didn’t think I could do this. I didn’t think we could do this. I don’t see a world where something like that survives,” you shake your head, lost in the thoughts that shuffle through as you try to find your words, “Where… where we get a happy ending.”

Dean feels his chest tighten, his pulse speeding up as he takes in what you’re saying. The words hang between you, both of you holding your breath. And for a long, painful moment, the only sound in the room is the distant hum of the refrigerator, a constant reminder that time is still moving, even when it feels like everything’s frozen in place.

“I’m not saying that I don’t want it, Dean,” you add quickly, your voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to believe it’s possible. But I didn’t come here to ask for you to take me back.”

Dean stares at you, his pulse hammering against his ribs. There it is—that damn crack in your voice, the one that always cuts through him like a blade. He wants to be angry, to hold onto the bitterness that’s been festering since you left, but it slips through his fingers the second he sees the way you’re looking at him. Like you’re scared. Like you don’t expect him to want this.

Like you don’t expect him to want you.

His throat tightens, his fists clenching at his sides as he fights the urge to reach for you. “Then what do you want?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “If you’re not here to ask me for anything, then why come back?”

You open your mouth, then close it, searching for words. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jacket, your shoulders curling inward, like you’re bracing for him to tear you apart. And damn it, that does something to him, because he’s never wanted to be the reason you look like that.

Dean drags a hand down his face, trying to ground himself. His mind is a battlefield, waging war between the fear clawing at his insides and the need to fix this—fix you. But how the hell is he supposed to do that when he’s still not sure how to fix himself?

“You don’t know how to believe it’s possible?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, join the damn club.” His chest feels too tight, his voice breaking under the weight of it. “You think I had some fairytale idea of us, sweetheart? That I thought this would be easy?” He lets out a breath that’s more of a laugh, humorless and hollow. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’d be any good at this. But you didn’t give me the chance to figure it out, did you?”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. And God, he hates that. He hates seeing you cry. Hates even more that he’s the reason for it.

“I was scared,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like shattered glass. “I am scared.”

Dean swallows hard, his anger flickering, giving way to something deeper, something more painful. He’s scared too. He’s scared as hell. Of not being enough. Of screwing this up. Of losing you all over again.

But when he looks at you—when he sees the way you’re trembling, barely holding yourself together—it hits him. He’s not the only one drowning in this.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair before finally, finally stepping forward. His hands hover for a second before settling on your arms, grounding you. Grounding himself.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, softer now, “I guess we can be scared together.”

You drag the backs of your hands across your cheeks, trying to contain the tears that just won’t stop flowing. “No, Dean, you don’t get it—” you cut yourself off with a groan. Your breathing is coming out uneven as anxiety pulls at your every nerve, and suddenly you can’t sit still. You can’t do this. 

You’re up on your feet again, pacing slightly as you try to steady your breathing. 

Dean watches you, his stomach twisting as you distance yourself. There’s a wild, frantic energy in the way you move, your arms wrapping around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together. Your breath is uneven, shaky, and those damn tears keep slipping past your lashes no matter how hard you try to blink them away.

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for you again, to do something—anything—to stop that panicked look from overtaking your face. It melts his resolve, steadies his rising temper.

His voice comes quieter this time, hesitant. “Hey—what’s going on?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, shaking your head as if you can will away whatever storm is raging inside you.

Dean’s chest tightens. His mind is running through every possibility, each one worse than the last. “Sweetheart,” he tries again, the pet name easing off his tongue as if no time had passed since he last called you that, “talk to me.”

"I... I didn't catch it in time, I'm sorry." You start, your voice barely more than a whisper, the words thick with something he can't quite name. Your eyes squeeze shut as if the simple act of speaking is too much.

Dean’s chest tightens, a knot of confusion twisting in his stomach. “What the hell are you talking about?” His tone is gentle now, trying to coax it out of you, but the moment you raise your eyes, he sees it—the fear, raw and trembling beneath the surface.

He’s on his feet again, closing in on you like you’re a scared animal that’ll take flight from any sudden movement. 

“I just thought it was stress making me miss my period again, but…” You choke, your voice cracking as if admitting it out loud is tearing something inside you apart.

Dean’s breath hitches, and his heart races, but he doesn’t dare interrupt you, his own confusion giving way to a growing sense of dread. He takes another step toward you, but you flinch, eyes shimmering with tears that slip through your heavy breathing.

You finally break, the tears turning into sobs that shake your shoulders. You shake your head, wiping at your face again, as if trying to push it all away. But it’s too late now.

“I’m scared, D.” You gasp the words out, the weight of them crushing you. “I’m so scared.”

Dean’s chest tightens, a cold sensation creeping down his spine, even as his heart lurches in his chest. He can feel the tremor in your voice, the rawness in every syllable, but he can’t make sense of it. The world seems to slow, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place—but not quickly enough for his mind to catch up.

“What… What are you saying?” He asks, his voice quiet, strained with confusion and something that feels dangerously close to panic.

You glance up at him, eyes wide and glassy with tears. You open your mouth, but the words seem stuck, lodged in your throat. The silence between you is deafening.

Finally, you take a deep breath, almost like you’re gathering the strength to face something unbearable. “I’m pregnant, Dean.” The words fall from your lips in a broken whisper. “I’m pregnant.”

Dean freezes. His entire body goes still, as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. The weight of your words hits him like a freight train, and for a moment, everything goes silent except for the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

Pregnant.

His mouth goes dry, his thoughts scrambling, trying to make sense of it all. The pieces click into place—the missed periods, the way you looked at him when you walked in, the way you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

His dreams.

 He takes a half-step back, his mind too far behind, too rattled by the weight of what you just said.

And then, slowly, it hits him—this isn’t just a shock; it’s a bombshell. One that could tear everything apart, and yet, at the same time, it pulls something from him that he hasn’t felt in a long time. The edges of his world begin to blur. He’s scared. He’s terrified.

“Are you… are you sure?” His voice comes out rough, almost panicked, like he’s waiting for you to tell him this is some sick joke, but he knows it’s not.

You nod, sniffling. "I took a test, I went to the doctor and they told me I was already four months along." you whisper, choking back a sob. "I didn’t know what to do."

Dean steps closer, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you. But you flinch again, the space between you thick with everything you’ve never said to him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you. I could have just called, I should have—” Your voice cracks, and you finally meet his gaze, eyes full of everything—regret, fear, and a raw, aching vulnerability that threatens to break him.

Dean's heart races, the panic starting to crawl up his throat. He wants to scream, to tell you that he’s terrified—that he doesn’t know how to be a father, that he’s too broken, too fucked up to raise a kid. The thought of something happening to you, to your child, terrifies him in ways he can’t even put into words. But you’re standing there, so small, so vulnerable, looking at him like he’s the only one who can fix this. And damn it, he has to be strong.

He closes the distance between and pulls you into his arms before either of you can second guess it. His hands are warm and steady on your back, but inside, his mind is a storm. His pulse is erratic, his breath shallow, but he holds you close, trying to give you the comfort he doesn’t know how to find for himself.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair, his voice like a lighthouse to steer your sinking ship. “Everything’s gonna be okay. You’re not alone in this.”

You shake your head against his chest, a shaky breath escaping. “I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know what to do.”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression soft but full of intensity. His thumbs pushes away your tears, warm and rough against your skin. “You don’t have to know right now,” he assures you, trying to convince himself as much as you. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. I’m here, okay? We’ll get through this.”

Inside, though, his mind is spinning out of control. He doesn’t know how to be the man you need. He doesn’t know if he can even be the father this child deserves. But in this moment, he’s all you have. And somehow, he knows that no matter how badly he’s freaking out, no matter how scared he is, he’ll find a way to make this work—for you, for the little life growing inside of you.

He gently strokes your hair, pressing his cheek to the top of your head, grounding himself in the act. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers again, his voice thick with the promise of something more than just words.

But inside, the panic churns, a rising tide he can’t escape. He holds you tighter, pretending for your sake that everything will be fine, even as the weight of the world presses down on him.

edit to add tags why do i always forget tags @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @ultravi0lence14

[00valentina-writes00]

Ambessa x reader with gut wrenching mommy issues? 😭 I swear, something in that woman just triggers my mommy issues and IT MAKES ME WANNA START BAWLINGGGGG.

At this point everything I ask for is gonna be about Ambessa (if that’s not a problem) but I know you’ll literally get this JUST RIGHT like you always do. Thank you!! 🖤🖤🖤

(It’s never a bother to write for Ambessa, although, at this rate I’m going to have to make a part two to my Masterlist)

✞⛧ Ambessa with a girl that has horrendous mommy issues ✞⛧

✞⛧ You were raised in an environment where love was a rare currency, a mother who prioritized power and status over affection. It left you feeling neglected and deeply insecure about your worth.

✞⛧ Your mother’s coldness haunted you, leaving you with a deep-seated need for reassurance, for someone to show you what genuine care could look like.

✞⛧ With Ambessa, you find yourself drawn to her commanding nature, but at times, it also triggers something more vulnerable in you—something raw. You see shades of your mother’s harshness in Ambessa’s strength, but at the same time, you’re desperate for the comfort she could provide.

✞⛧ Sometimes, you catch yourself comparing Ambessa to your mother, wondering if she’ll leave you too, just like she did. It’s an insecurity you try to bury, but it surfaces in small ways—lingering doubts, tearful moments, and anxious thoughts.

✞⛧ Ambessa doesn’t always understand the weight of your trauma. At times, she’ll be blunt with you in a way that stings, and you retreat into yourself, silently wondering if it’s just a matter of time before she gives up on you.

✞⛧ When Ambessa shows a rare moment of softness, you’re both relieved and terrified. You desperately want to believe that she could care for you in the ways you need, but the wounds from your past make it hard to trust.

✞⛧ You sometimes freeze when she raises her voice, even if it’s just to give a command in battle or during training. The sound of authority in her tone echoes the way your mother would speak to you.

✞⛧ Ambessa notices your hesitation and softens, but you’re often too afraid to fully show her your insecurities. You never want to appear weak in her eyes, so you bottle it up until it becomes overwhelming.

✞⛧ When you have a bad day, when the weight of your past hits hardest, Ambessa catches you in a rare moment of fragility. You curl into yourself, and she knows—though it’s unspoken—that you’re craving something only a mother’s love could provide.

✞⛧ Ambessa is quick to take charge when she sees you struggling with your emotions. She doesn’t fully know how to comfort you in a way that feels right, but she knows how to protect, how to provide a sense of stability. She doesn’t hesitate to wrap you in her arms, even if it’s a bit awkward.

✞⛧ You often crave validation—“You did well,” “You’re enough.” These simple affirmations mean everything to you, but they’re difficult for you to ask for. It’s a weakness you fear exposing.

✞⛧ Ambessa’s strict, no-nonsense nature sometimes feels too close to your mother’s indifference. In those moments, you shut down emotionally, unsure if you’re just too much for her to handle.

✞⛧ There’s a hidden fear that Ambessa will grow bored of you—she’s powerful, commanding, and might tire of your clingy need for affection and reassurance. Your mother’s abandonment runs deep, and it’s hard to shake the feeling that you’re not enough for someone like Ambessa.

✞⛧ You’re often afraid of disappointing Ambessa, and the thought of it triggers your deepest insecurities. Even small failures make you wonder if you’ll push her away, if you’re too fragile to be loved properly.

✞⛧ On bad days, when the memories of your mother’s harshness flood in, you find yourself trying to be the perfect partner for Ambessa—often to the detriment of your own well-being. You fear showing weakness because it feels like you’re doomed to repeat the same cycle of neglect.

✞⛧ When Ambessa is harsh with you—maybe even unintentionally—there’s a part of you that recoils, like you did when your mother’s demands were never met with affection. But Ambessa’s different, even if it doesn’t always feel that way.

✞⛧ Ambessa is a woman of few words, but her actions speak volumes. You’ll catch her softening in small ways, checking in with you when you seem distant, a look of concern crossing her face when you’re unusually quiet.

✞⛧ She doesn’t always know how to be tender in the way you need, but she tries. There’s a sharpness to her affection—a strength in it—that speaks to her own understanding of love.

✞⛧ Ambessa’s own experiences with family—especially with Mel—make her fiercely protective of you. She sees your vulnerability and tries to help you process your emotions, though she’s not always equipped to navigate your past trauma.

✞⛧ There are times when you’re upset, and you’ll push Ambessa away, unsure if you even deserve her comfort. But she’s patient. She lets you come to her in your own time, though it hurts her to see you struggle in silence.

✞⛧ Your relationship with Ambessa is complicated by your need for control—an attempt to shield yourself from the pain of abandonment. You’re scared of losing her, but you’re also scared of the intimacy that comes with truly being loved.

✞⛧ Ambessa doesn’t often coddle you, but when she does, it’s rare and meaningful. She understands that there’s a part of you that craves maternal warmth and tries to provide it in her own way, even if it’s a little awkward for her.

✞⛧ You find yourself needing to be needed by Ambessa—sometimes to the point of obsession. When you can’t provide her with something she needs, you feel like you’ve failed her, just like you think you failed your mother.

✞⛧ Ambessa understands that you struggle with your own worth and often takes charge in a way that reassures you—taking care of things so you don’t feel overwhelmed. She’s protective, though sometimes that feels like a reminder of your helplessness.

✞⛧ There are nights when you lie awake, worrying that your need for love will make you too much for Ambessa. You wonder if you’ll eventually drive her away with your fears and neediness.

✞⛧ Ambessa is not a woman who easily shows her emotions, but she takes your insecurities seriously. When you voice your concerns, even if it’s through tears or silent anxiety, she does her best to reassure you—not with soft words, but with firm action. She’s not going anywhere.

✞⛧ Your relationship with Ambessa forces you to confront your fears head-on—your fears of being abandoned, of being unloved, of being too much. She doesn’t coddle you, but she teaches you, slowly and surely, what it means to stand tall despite your brokenness.

✞⛧ Through it all, Ambessa’s care is unspoken. She doesn’t feel the need to constantly reassure you, but her presence in your life is unwavering. She won’t abandon you the way your mother did, and that truth is something you must learn to believe.

✞⛧ The more time you spend with Ambessa, the more you start to trust her. You see the glimmer of care in her eyes when she watches over you—silent, but deeply rooted in the strength of her loyalty. It’s not like what your mother gave you, but it’s real, and it’s yours.

[thedensworld]

Time Is Brewed | L. Sm

Genre: angst, time travel, fantasy, exes au!

Summary: After discovering that the old brewing machine he had just purchased allowed him to travel back in time, he tried to fix his relationship with you.

Seokmin had already visited the past three times this week. If he told his best friends, Mingyu and Myungho, they wouldn’t believe him. As always, they would tell him to stop being delusional. But hey, being delusional had led him to run a successful café in a prime location in Hongdae!

This time, Seokmin found himself back on the same day—the day he decided to quit his managerial job. That familiar knot of anxiety settled in his stomach as he stepped into the office. But something was different. Something stronger. He wasn’t the same nervous wreck he had been years ago. No. He was ready for this.

He handed in his resignation letter the same way he had back then—hand outstretched, a nervous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His boss took it, eyes scanning the paper. And then the magic moment arrived.

Seokmin cleared his throat. "You gave me plenty of chances to grow, and I’m grateful for that," he said, voice smooth, not a quiver in sight. Who was this confident guy? Oh right, it was him. "But you're wrong. You are wrong to say I won’t succeed without this company."

Those words—he had swallowed them down so many times, had watched them burn in his throat, unsaid. But now? Now they slid out like butter. The tension he didn’t even know he was carrying was gone, evaporating into thin air, leaving only the crisp taste of freedom.

His boss blinked, clearly startled. Good.

The silence between them stretched on, but Seokmin didn’t even flinch. He was done. He had finally spoken up.

And then, just like that, the weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying started to lift. He walked out of the building with his box, each step feeling lighter than the last. The door closed behind him with a soft whoosh, as though it were sealing away everything he no longer needed.

Outside, the air tasted different—fresher, like the world was offering him a second chance. He walked toward his car, a grin tugging at his lips. He wasn’t leaving something behind; he was heading somewhere, toward something.

He sat in the driver’s seat and gripped the steering wheel. The world seemed to pause around him. The weight of his past—all of it—felt distant now. Almost like someone else’s.

For the first time in forever, Seokmin wasn’t weighed down by the fear of what was to come. He wasn’t haunted by the what-ifs. No, now all he could feel was that little spark of satisfaction deep in his chest. He had finally done it. He had stepped away from a life that had never felt quite right.

His chest felt lighter. His head felt clearer. And hey, wasn’t that the definition of freedom?

Seokmin let out a long breath, not realizing how much he had been holding in. "Finally," he murmured, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

For the first time in ages, he wasn’t looking back. He wasn’t looking at anything. He was just moving forward.

And that felt, well... pretty darn good.

"Now, I should go back to the present," he murmured to himself.

But—

Oh?

"Why am I still here?" he muttered in confusion.

Usually, he could return to the present whenever he wanted. But now? Something was stopping him. His fingers tightened around the wheel. Was it because he was in the car?

He quickly stepped out and stood under the warm afternoon sun.

Still here.

A wave of panic surged through him. What if he couldn’t return this time? He had worked so hard to build and manage his café for the past seven years. He couldn’t just be stuck in the past.

"Seokmin?"

The familiar voice made his heart skip a beat. He turned quickly, and there you were—walking with a group of colleagues before they left you to approach him.

"Are you leaving for somewhere?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Seokmin’s heart pounded in his chest at the sight of you. It had been so long since he last saw you with short hair. He had almost forgotten that you worked in the same building as him. He never expected to run into you while revisiting this moment in time.

"Y/n.. Hi…" he greeted, but his voice came out awkward.

You let out a soft chuckle. "Why are you acting so weird?"

Seokmin bit his lower lip. He just couldn’t tell you that in the future, you would date him, love him, and then break his heart after five years.

Shaking his head, he let out a small, nervous laugh. "It's just…" He hesitated, holding his breath. Could he say it? After a moment of deep thought, he exhaled and finally admitted, "I kinda miss you, I guess."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Sorry? You miss me?" you echoed, confused. "We literally saw each other this morning in the elevator."

You laughed, thinking he was joking. But Seokmin wasn’t. He might joke about a lot of things, but when it came to you? Never. You just didn’t know.

"Hey…" You stepped closer, your brows knitting together in concern. "Are you okay? You look a little red, Seokmin."

His breath hitched at your sudden closeness. Before he could react—

Darkness.

And then—

The familiar scent of coffee beans and the soft hum of a jazz tune playing in the background.

Seokmin found himself back in his dimly lit café, sitting at his usual spot. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to process what had just happened.

He was back.

But for the first time since discovering his ability to travel through time, a strange, lingering feeling settled in his heart.

Seokmin took a deep breath before sighing heavily. Seeing you again—even if it was in the past—was harder than he had expected. He didn’t think his heart would race so much from reliving an old conversation.

He remembered that day vividly. The day he resigned. The day he first told you he was leaving the company. And, unknowingly, the day that sparked everything between you two. It had started as a simple chat, just two coworkers talking. But that conversation had brought you closer.

A series of rapid knocks pulled him back to reality. He blinked, turning toward the glass door, where Mingyu stood with a deep frown on his face.

"I was knocking like crazy while you just sat there daydreaming. Long day, man?" Mingyu asked, stepping inside as Seokmin unlocked the door for him.

Mingyu walked over to the table where Seokmin was sitting and set down a couple of plastic bags, the weight of them making a soft thud against the wood.

"Myungho's on his way with food," Mingyu added, already pulling out his phone and scrolling through it like the conversation was over.

Seokmin reached for the drinks Mingyu had brought. They were heavy, and judging by the labels, definitely on the expensive side. He raised an eyebrow.

"Are you planning to get wasted in my café tonight? In case you forgot, I have to open at seven in the morning," Seokmin said, eyeing his friend with mild exasperation.

Mingyu sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair. "Relax, man. We'll take it slow. We won’t get wasted—you know me." He threw Seokmin a playful wink before turning his attention back to his phone.

As the three of them gathered, Mingyu immediately took charge, arranging the food and drinks with an excitement that had no real reason behind it. He always got overly invested in things like this. Meanwhile, Myungho—the calmest of the three—watched in silence as his two friends bickered over something as trivial as street food plating.

"Put the tteokbokki in a bowl, obviously," Seokmin argued, gesturing toward the steaming dish.

Mingyu scoffed. "No way, a plate makes it easier to pick up!"

"And the tangsuyuk sauce?" Myungho finally chimed in, sipping his drink. "Poured or dipped?"

Seokmin and Mingyu both turned to him at the same time.

"Dipped."

"Poured."

They glared at each other, neither willing to back down.

Classic.

But just as Seokmin prepared to defend his stance, Myungho’s voice cut through the playful atmosphere.

"Did you get the invitation?" he asked suddenly.

Seokmin turned to him, momentarily distracted. "What invitation?"

Mingyu let out a sigh, shaking his head as he watched Seokmin successfully pour all the sauce over the tangsuyuk. Defeated, he dropped his chopsticks and leaned back in his chair.

The three of them sat in a small circle, their laughter fading as the conversation shifted.

"So you really didn’t get it," Mingyu mumbled, nodding to himself.

Myungho pulled out his phone and turned the screen toward Seokmin, showing him a digital invitation.

You're getting married.

The words glowed against the screen, and as Seokmin scrolled through the details, the color drained from his face.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged a quick glance, guilt settling over them. This gathering hadn’t just been a casual hangout. It had been arranged for one reason—to soften the blow, to distract Seokmin from the inevitable heartbreak.

Seokmin’s hands tightened around the phone before he slowly slid it back across the table. He looked at his friends, a chuckle escaping his lips, but there was no humor in it. Only disbelief.

"Woah…" His voice was quiet, but the betrayal in his eyes was evident. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Is it him? That guy?"

They knew exactly who he was talking about—the so-called "best friend" who had played a part in your breakup.

Mingyu shook his head. "Not that one."

Seokmin let out a bitter laugh, his grip on his drink tightening. "So it's another guy, huh? She's quick, though." His words were muttered, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than them.

A heavy silence fell over the table.

Myungho sighed before raising his glass. "Let’s not talk about other men," he said, his tone firm as he held his drink out for a toast.

Mingyu followed, clinking his glass against Myungho’s. They both waited for Seokmin.

For a long moment, Seokmin didn’t move. His heart pounded against his ribs, beating twice as fast, as if it was ready to burst.

Then, finally, he exhaled, forcing a small smirk onto his lips as he lifted his glass.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Screw that."

And with that, their drinks clinked together—a silent agreement that, for tonight, they would drink away the pain.

"I’M SERIOUS!!!"

"That machine has taken me back to the past four times already!" Seokmin slurred, his words tumbling over each other as he waved his hand toward the vintage brewing machine sitting proudly on the counter.

Mingyu let out a loud laugh, his own face slightly flushed from the alcohol. He might have been drunk, but not that drunk—not to the point where he’d start believing Seokmin’s wild claims. "Where the hell did you even get that?" he asked, barely able to stifle his laughter.

"From an old man across the road," Seokmin explained, his words slightly incoherent. "I was just trying to help him, but he insisted I buy it—for very cheap, I swear."

Myungho chuckled, clearly amused by the drunken storytelling. "Alright," he humored him, leaning back in his chair. "So where exactly did you travel to?"

Seokmin perked up, turning to Myungho with an appreciative look. At least one of his friends was paying attention.

"First," he began, raising a finger. "Remember our road trip to Busan after we graduated?"

Myungho nodded, recalling the memory.

"That was one. Then I visited the day I broke my mother’s vase when I was six." He sighed dramatically. "Got scolded all over again, by the way."

Mingyu scoffed, swirling the drink in his glass. "Wow, what a life-changing experience."

Seokmin ignored him. "And then, I went back to the time my sisters ganged up on me to tease me mercilessly." He shuddered at the memory, throwing a side glance at Mingyu, who was looking at him with pure judgment.

"And the last one," Seokmin continued, his voice growing softer, "was the day I resigned. Seven years ago."

Mingyu chuckled once Seokmin finished his tale. "I told you to stop daydreaming. You drank too much, now your brain’s broken." With that, he took another shot, shaking his head.

Seokmin was ready to throw a punch at Mingyu, but Myungho, ever the peacekeeper, reached out and held him back.

"Did you change anything?" Myungho asked instead.

Seokmin froze at the question, caught off guard. "I don’t know... I didn’t visit to change anything. So…"

"But is there something you want to change?" Myungho pressed, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. "I mean, isn't that the natural instinct? If you could go back, wouldn't you want to fix something?"

Seokmin fell silent.

Mingyu, ever the skeptic, mouthed to Myungho, You actually believe him?

Myungho simply giggled and shook his head. Mingyu covered his mouth, trying to suppress his laughter as Seokmin sat there, lost in deep thought.

Was there something he wanted to change? A regret so strong that he’d risk altering the past?

Then, after a long pause, Seokmin exhaled.

"There’s one thing," he admitted, his voice quieter now.

Both Mingyu and Myungho looked at him, their amusement fading slightly.

"There’s something I want to fix," Seokmin said, looking up at his friends with newfound determination.

And for the first time that night, neither of them laughed.

*

Seokmin was pacing around, his footsteps echoing in the quiet of his cafe. Today was one week before your wedding day. He could still see the date written on the elegant invitation in his mind. He sighed, a weight in his chest that he thought had long since lifted. But deep down, he knew he hadn’t moved on—not really. His heart still ached for you, even though you had broken it more times than he could count.

The cafe had just closed, a long day finally over. He had worked the after-lunch shift too, his staff shorthanded. After bidding them goodbye as they went home, Seokmin lingered by the counter, cleaning up the remnants of the day. His eyes, however, were drawn to the brewing machine sitting in the corner.

It had been a week since he last used it. The discovery that it could send him to the past had shaken him. After that morning, he’d told his staff to leave the machine alone, insisting it was just a decoration—something for the aesthetic. He couldn’t risk anyone else getting sucked into its mystery, let alone the confusion of being sent back to the past.

But tonight, it called to him.

With a resigned sigh, Seokmin walked over to the machine and began making his coffee. He didn’t know why—he wasn’t in the mood for it, not really. But it felt... right. He prepared the coffee the same way he always had, the routine grounding him. Once he was finished, he sat at a table, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.

Taking a deep breath, he let his mind wander, the way it often did when he needed an escape. Seokmin was always a dreamer, his thoughts effortlessly drifting toward places and moments he longed to revisit. His eyes fluttered closed as he imagined the soft, familiar surroundings of his old apartment. He could feel the weight lifting off his body as he let the image grow sharper, clearer.

Slowly, almost absentmindedly, he raised the mug to his lips and took a sip of the warm coffee. But when he opened his eyes, the world had shifted. The cafe was gone, and in its place was the worn wooden dining table of his old apartment. The warm glow of the lamplight bathed the room in a cozy, nostalgic hue. In his hands, the red mug had changed too, filled not with coffee but with hot chocolate—the one he always made for himself after a particularly long week at the cafe.

He remembered this moment, so clearly. It had been a quiet evening after an exhausting week, his body sore from hours spent on his feet. He had come home that night, craving comfort, craving something familiar. And here it was, as if the past had pulled him back in.

For a moment, Seokmin let himself just be there, soaking in the memory. But deep down, the question gnawed at him. Could he change anything if he stayed? Could he find a way to stop this—to stop you from marrying someone else?

"You're home."

He could hear your voice, and though he expected it, the familiar ache in his chest didn’t lessen. He had been here before, so he knew what was coming next.

A fight.

Arguments.

Yells.

Tears.

He remembered it all too well—the tension that always seemed to hang between them.

"You remember home today?" Your voice was laced with sarcasm as you leaned against the fridge, eyes locking with his.

In the past, he would’ve said, "Don't start it."

But now, when he thought about it, he realized it was always him who started it. All of your frustration, your anger—it had been triggered by his absence. He hadn’t been home for three days, choosing to stay at the cafe to pour himself into work for the five-year anniversary. His team was counting on him, but he had let that responsibility push you to the side.

"I'm sorry," Seokmin mumbled, his voice low, but sincere.

Your frown softened a little, though there was still a flicker of something in your eyes—a question, a need for something more than just the apology he had offered. You didn’t seem to fully believe it yet.

"Why are you home, then?" you asked, arms still crossed tightly over your chest, a guarded expression remaining on your face.

Seokmin paused, his old reflex kicking in. The Seokmin from before would have answered defensively, “Can’t I? It’s my house too. I pay the rent.”

But now, a more mature version of him stared back at you, a version that had grown, that had learned, that understood the weight of words and actions.

He gulped, swallowing the bitterness that tried to crawl up his throat, before answering, "Because... because I miss you." The words slipped out, almost painfully, and he could feel the lump in his throat. He fought the tears threatening to fall, but he could feel them—hot, sharp—and you seemed to notice.

Seokmin set the mug down on the table, his hands trembling slightly. He wiped his face quickly, trying to regain his composure, but it was no use. He had already cracked.

And before he knew it, you were there, pulling him into an embrace.

The warmth of your touch, your familiar scent—it hit him like a wave. He hadn’t expected to break down so quickly, but here he was, clinging to you as if he could somehow undo all the hurt he had caused, all the time lost between the two of you. He hadn’t come here for this, but it was happening anyway—this rush of emotions, this sudden rush of longing.

You pulled back just enough to brush a hand through his hair, your fingers gentle and soothing, sending a ripple of calm through him.

"You must have had a hard time preparing for the event," you murmured, your voice soft, understanding. Your touch was comforting, like a balm to the rawness he was feeling.

Seokmin pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a desperate intensity. "I'm so sorry... Forgive me, please."

You looked at him with concern, cupping his cheeks with a tenderness that made his heart ache. "Hey, you don’t need to apologize this much. You know I'll forgive you..."

And then, you kissed him. Just a soft, fleeting kiss on his lips. The butterflies that erupted in his stomach were almost overwhelming. After a year without your touch, your kiss felt like a sweet, familiar melody, bringing him back to life in an instant.

"You know I’ll always forgive you," you whispered, and in that moment, Seokmin’s heart clenched painfully. He had forgotten what it felt like to hear those words from you. Had you always been this forgiving? He couldn’t remember, but right now, it felt like everything.

“Don’t cry, baby... I’m sorry too…”

Your words hit him like a wave. You were apologizing? He almost couldn’t believe it. You had always been the tough one, the one who hid your emotions beneath a hard exterior. You never apologized for the fights, not unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then, it was rare. But now, here you were, admitting you were sorry too. It was a side of you he hadn’t seen in so long.

"I'm sorry that I acted like that earlier," you added, your voice thick with emotion. "I was just... worried."

And just like that, the warmth of the moment began to slip away. Seokmin felt the coldness creep back into his bones, like a shadow settling over him. The sound of the jazz music he always played in the cafe swirled around him, pulling him back to reality.

He was back in the present.

This wasn’t the past.

And yet, somehow, this feeling—this hope—remained, flickering in his chest.

*

Seokmin was surprised when he saw your best friend walk into his cafe. He watched as your best friend placed his order while Seokmin was busy fulfilling other customers’ requests at the dessert counter. After a brief moment, your best friend found a table, sitting down with his phone in hand, seemingly lost in thought. Seokmin could feel a slight tension in the air, but he brushed it off as he prepared the order: an Americano and a slice of carrot cake.

He walked over to deliver the order, trying to maintain his usual calm demeanor. "Seungkwan, right?"

Seungkwan looked up in surprise, his gaze shifting around as he realized where he was. His eyes widened slightly at the realization that he was in Seokmin’s cafe—the cafe owned by his best friend’s ex.

"Oh, Seokmin. How are you?" Seungkwan asked, the air between them suddenly feeling awkward. Seokmin made an effort to ease the tension.

"I'm good. How about you? Still working in fashion editorial?" Seokmin asked, trying to be warmer to someone who, in the past, had felt like a potential threat to his relationship with you.

Seungkwan blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. "Actually, I haven’t worked in fashion for almost three years now. I’m in TV show production now," he said with a slight shrug.

Seokmin, embarrassed by not knowing, quickly took the business card Seungkwan offered. It had been a while since they had spoken, and Seokmin only remembered Seungkwan’s involvement with the fashion industry. He felt a little sheepish, but Seungkwan waved it off.

"It’s okay, no reason for you to know that. Anyway, your cafe is doing great," Seungkwan added, his eyes scanning the bustling space, clearly impressed.

The two of them sat at a table together, a rare moment where Seokmin found himself truly getting to know Seungkwan. He had always been your best friend since college, but the few interactions they had shared had never gone beyond awkward pleasantries. Seokmin now realized that he barely knew the person who had been by your side for so long.

In fact, he remembered the last time Seungkwan had been in his life. The memory stung, but he pushed it down as they continued their conversation, both men navigating the strange space between them.

“You ungrateful bastard.” Seungkwan’s words were sharp the last time they had ever saw each other.

Seokmin's eyes widened as he stepped into his apartment after a week of staying in the cafe. He had barely any clothes left there and needed to change. His mind was still trying to forget the argument that had taken place the last time he was home. It was like any other argument—filled with tension, unspoken words, and frustration.

There had been countless times Seungkwan was mentioned during arguments. Seokmin didn’t know him well—just that he was a friend of yours from university. Despite meeting him a few times, there had always been a lingering, uncomfortable atmosphere between Seokmin and Seungkwan, one that others could feel but no one would openly acknowledge.

But when he stepped into the bedroom, everything seemed to freeze. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then stared again, certain that what he saw couldn’t be real. There, in his bed, was Seungkwan, your best friend, lying on his side of the bed.

It didn’t take long for the familiar anger to rise in Seokmin’s chest. His thoughts raced back to every argument, every moment Seungkwan had been mentioned, and the air of discomfort between him and Seungkwan.

He tried to shake it off, but the image of Seungkwan in his bed was burning into his brain, and the frustration, the years of pent-up tension, exploded.

“What is this?” His voice was thick with disbelief, his hands gripping the doorframe.

Your gaze flicked nervously from Seokmin to Seungkwan, and before Seokmin could react, you were moving towards him, pulling him out of the bedroom. “It’s not what it looks like,” you said quickly, but your voice trembled with uncertainty.

Seokmin’s eyes were wide, his heart pounding. “What do you mean ‘it’s not what it looks like’? Why is he in my bed?” His words were clipped, his frustration quickly building. He couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening.

You kept your voice low, trying to stay calm. “Seokmin, listen to me. It's a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Seokmin’s voice rose, unable to contain the anger. “What part of my bed being taken by him is a misunderstanding?”

You sighed deeply, stepping back slightly to avoid his fiery gaze. “He’s my best friend, Seokmin. He needed somewhere to sleep. We weren’t—” You cut yourself off, realizing how it sounded.

Seokmin’s face darkened. He laughed bitterly, the sound bitter on his tongue. “You think I’m stupid? You want me to believe you’re ‘just sleeping’?” He stepped closer to you, his voice shaking with emotion. “Are you cheating on me with him? Is that it? This whole time, while I’ve been working my ass off, you’ve been with him?”

You took a step back, stunned by his words. “No! I’m not cheating on you!” you pleaded, the frustration in your own voice rising. “Seungkwan’s my friend, my best friend. Why does it always have to be this way?”

Seokmin was pacing now, rubbing his hand over his face, trying to hold it together. His emotions were getting the best of him. “Because I saw it with my own eyes, Y/n. I saw him in my bed, sleeping next to you—” He swallowed hard, trying to get the words out. “What if I had walked in and seen something else? What if I had found you in the middle of... whatever it is you’ve been doing?”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head frantically. “Seokmin, that’s not what’s happening!” You reached for him, trying to calm him, but he stepped back, avoiding your touch.

Seokmin let out a strained laugh, one filled with pain and betrayal. “Just sleeping? That’s your excuse? What do you expect me to believe? You’ve been so cold lately. So distant. And now this? I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“I’ve been distant?” you shot back, the words sharp. “You’ve been gone for days, Seokmin. Days! And now you come back here accusing me of—of what? Cheating?”

Seokmin’s fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking, his breath coming faster now. “Don’t act like this is my fault. You can’t even look at me the same anymore. Every time I try to come home, it feels like I’m stepping into a house full of secrets and lies. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I’m not the one who’s changed, Seokmin!” Your voice cracked, the weight of your words taking their toll. “You’ve pulled away. You’ve been gone, busy with the cafe. You didn’t even have time for me, for us. And now, you show up and this is what you do—accuse me of things that aren’t true!”

The argument grew louder, more intense. Words flew like daggers, each of you trying to hurt the other before the pain could sink too deep. Seokmin was on the verge of breaking down, but his anger was keeping him from seeing clearly. You were both caught in a whirlpool of hurt, accusations, and unsaid words.

Then, as if on cue, Seungkwan appeared in the doorway. His eyes were bleary from sleep, his head clearly pounding from the night before. He stepped out into the living room, rubbing his face and looking between the two of you.

“What’s going on?” Seungkwan’s voice was groggy, his confusion evident. He hadn’t expected to find a warzone when he came out of the room.

Seokmin whirled on him, his anger still burning hot. He grabbed Seungkwan’s shirt with both hands, his voice low and threatening. “What the hell are you doing in my bed with my girlfriend?”

Seungkwan blinked, still half asleep. “Relax, man... We were just sleeping.”

The words barely registered before Seokmin’s fist flew through the air, landing a punch on Seungkwan’s jaw. Seungkwan stumbled back, the shock of the hit taking him by surprise.

“Seokmin, stop!” You screamed, rushing forward, but in his anger, Seokmin pushed you aside, not realizing what he was doing.

You gasped as you hit the floor, but before Seokmin could even react, Seungkwan lunged, his fist connecting with Seokmin’s face. The force sent Seokmin stumbling backwards, his lip splitting from the impact.

“Get the hell out of here, you bastard!” Seungkwan shouted, his chest heaving with adrenaline as he shoved Seokmin toward the door.

Seokmin, dazed and bleeding, stood frozen for a moment. His heart pounded in his ears, the adrenaline still surging through his body. But as Seungkwan pushed him out, his own words haunted him.

“You ungrateful bastard.” Seungkwan’s words were sharp, final, as he slammed the door in Seokmin’s face, leaving him outside in the cold, heartbroken, and alone.

*

Seokmin took a sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through his body, but as he opened his eyes, something felt... off. The familiar scent of freshly brewed espresso and sugar filled his senses, yet the details around him seemed different.

He wasn’t in his apartment, where he had specifically visualized it. Instead, he was in his café—a year ago.

The table in front of him was the same, scuffed in places where he had absentmindedly tapped his fingers while brainstorming new recipes. The dessert counter was still small, a far cry from what it had become over time. The soft hum of the café's old refrigerator buzzed in the background, a sound he had long since tuned out.

Seokmin’s brows furrowed. Why am I here?

Just then, his phone vibrated. A message.

Y/n: Can you come home? I have a really bad stomachache.

Seokmin stared at the screen, a strange sensation creeping up his spine. He knew this message. He had received it before—exactly one year ago.

Now he remembered.

That night, you had asked him to come home, but he hadn’t. He had stayed at the café, drowning himself in dessert recipes, convincing himself that work was more important. He had ignored your message, promising himself he’d check on you in the morning.

But the morning had come, and by then, something had already started to break between you.

Seokmin clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his phone.

This was the moment. The turning point.

If he went home tonight, would it change anything between you?

He exhaled, forcing himself to think. Why had he chosen to stay at the café back then? What had been so important that he ignored you?

He had spent months after your breakup searching for answers—wondering why you had grown distant after five years together, why your warmth had slowly faded, why you had let someone else—Seungkwan—fill the space he had left empty.

Was that why you pulled away? Because you had already found someone else?

Seokmin shook his head. He had spent so much time blaming you, convincing himself that you had betrayed him. But deep down, he knew the truth—he had left you alone long before you ever looked elsewhere for comfort.

He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He wasn’t going to give another man the chance to take his place.

Wasn’t that why he had returned to the past in the first place? Because he didn’t want to lose you? Because he couldn’t bear to see you with someone else?

Without hesitation, Seokmin grabbed his keys and sprinted out of the café, the cold night air biting against his skin as he rushed toward your apartment.

"Y/n..." he called softly as he stepped inside, his heart hammering in his chest.

His breath caught when he saw you curled up on the couch, clutching your stomach. Your face was pale, and beads of cold sweat clung to your temple.

Seokmin crossed the room in long strides, kneeling in front of you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was tight with worry as he reached out, scanning your expression. His fingers brushed against your forehead—it was damp, too cold.

You barely lifted your gaze to meet his. “I don’t know… It hurts so much…” Your voice was weak, barely a whisper.

Panic surged through him. He had no idea the pain had been this bad. Had you been suffering like this all night, alone?

Without another thought, Seokmin scooped you into his arms, holding you close.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he said firmly, his mind made up.

This time, he wouldn’t leave you waiting.

Seokmin sat in the cold, sterile hospital hallway, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles turned white. The scent of antiseptic burned his nose, the bright fluorescent lights overhead only worsening the pounding in his skull.

The image of you, unconscious on the hospital bed, your skin sickly pale, was burned into his mind. He hadn't realized it was this serious. Hadn't known you had been suffering like this while he was too caught up in his own world, his own ambitions.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Please, just let her be okay.

The sound of footsteps made him lift his head, and he shot up when he saw the doctor approaching.

"How is she?" Seokmin asked immediately, his voice rough, desperate.

The doctor sighed, pulling down his mask before speaking. "She's stable now, but..."

Seokmin's heart pounded harder. The pause stretched too long. "But what?"

The doctor gave him a solemn look. "She was pregnant."

Seokmin felt the words hit him like a truck, his breath catching in his throat. Pregnant?

His vision blurred for a second, his mind racing back through time—had you known? Had you tried to tell him?

"But due to excessive stress and prolonged neglect of her symptoms," the doctor continued, "she suffered a miscarriage."

The word rang in his ears, shattering something deep inside him.

A miscarriage.

His legs felt weak, his hands trembled. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

There had been a baby. His baby. A life that had barely begun but was already gone.

Seokmin stumbled back onto the chair, his body cold, his mind reeling. He gripped his hair, exhaling shakily.

He had been so blind. So selfish.

All those times you had asked him to come home. All those moments when you had reached out, needing him. And he had ignored you, stayed at the café, convinced himself that his time, his dreams, his work mattered more.

And now, there was no going back.

His baby was gone.

And you—how were you supposed to handle this? How much pain had you endured alone while he had been too distracted, too distant to see it?

"Hey, do you know I'm never into women? I always have a boyfriend." Seungkwan’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable hitting him like a hammer to the chest.

Seokmin sat there, unmoving, the weight of those words settling deep in his bones. His breath hitched as the realization sank in—how wrong he had been.

All the accusations. The doubts. The fights.

All the times he had glared at Seungkwan, convinced that he was the reason for your distance, the reason you weren’t looking at him the way you used to. He had let his insecurities twist everything, had let jealousy consume him until all he saw was betrayal where there was none.

And while he had been drowning in his own delusions, you had been suffering in silence.

He pressed a hand over his face, his fingers trembling.

"I'm not cheating on you."

Your voice from that night played in his head, softer now, weaker. He could still see the way your face had crumpled at his accusations, the way you had begged him to believe you.

But he hadn’t.

He had let his pride win. He had let his anger control him.

And now, here he was—watching you lie in a hospital bed, pale and weak, after losing the baby he never even knew existed.

Guilt clawed at his throat, suffocating him.

"I should have been there."

But he wasn’t.

And now, it was too late.

*

Mingyu watched as Myungho sprinted down the hospital corridor, his breathing ragged, his face a mix of panic and frustration. Neither of them had expected to receive a message from one of Seokmin's staff, informing them that their friend had been found passed out in his café that morning—with ten empty espresso cups scattered around him.

Myungho raked a trembling hand through his hair, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Is it because of her wedding? Is that why he did something this stupid?" He turned to Mingyu, eyes desperate for an answer, but Mingyu looked just as lost, just as shaken.

Seokmin, their bright, ever-smiling friend, had nearly died of a heart attack.

Mingyu let out a heavy breath, rubbing his hands over his face as he sank onto one of the waiting chairs. His fingers fidgeted, betraying the unease thrumming through his body. "The wedding is tomorrow," he muttered, voice hollow.

Myungho stiffened at the words. He knew it. They both did. But hearing it out loud made it feel more real, made Seokmin’s pain more tangible.

Mingyu swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Doctor said if they hadn’t found him sooner, it could've been fatal."

Myungho clenched his fists. "That idiot," he cursed under his breath, his voice cracking. His eyes burned with unshed tears, the weight of almost losing Seokmin settling heavily on his chest.

Seokmin's eyelids fluttered open, the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room coming into focus. His body felt heavy, his head pounding as if a jackhammer was drilling into his skull. His mouth was dry, tasting faintly of bitter coffee and regret.

Before he could fully register his surroundings, a sharp gasp filled the room.

"Seokmin!"

Mingyu and Myungho rushed to his side, their expressions a mix of relief and frustration. Mingyu gripped his arm tightly, as if making sure he was real, while Myungho hovered nearby, his jaw clenched.

Seokmin blinked sluggishly, his throat constricting as he croaked out, "Where am I?"

Mingyu scoffed, shaking his head. "Where do you think? You're in the hospital, you dumbass." His voice wavered, trying to mask his emotions with irritation, but his grip on Seokmin’s arm gave him away. "You nearly died."

Seokmin groaned, attempting to sit up, but Myungho immediately pressed him back down with a firm hand on his chest. "Don’t even try. You drank ten cups of espresso in one go, Seokmin. Ten! Do you have a death wish?!"

Seokmin closed his eyes briefly, letting their words sink in. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he asked the only question that mattered to him.

"Did she get married?"

The room fell silent.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged glances, their expressions darkening.

Seokmin's hands clenched the sheets, his breath growing unsteady. "Tell me," he pleaded, his voice cracking.

Myungho sighed, rubbing his temples. "Seokmin—"

"Did she or did she not get married?!" Seokmin's voice rose, desperate, raw.

Mingyu exhaled heavily, then finally muttered, "Not yet."

Seokmin's heart lurched. He wasn't too late. Not yet.

Ignoring the dizziness washing over him, he tried to push himself up again. "I need to see her."

"Are you insane?!" Myungho nearly shouted, pushing him back. "You almost died, and the first thing you want to do is chase after her?!"

Seokmin grabbed onto Myungho’s wrist, eyes wild with determination. "I have to stop it." His voice was barely above a whisper, but the conviction in it made both of his friends freeze.

Mingyu sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You don’t even know if she wants you to stop it, Seokmin."

Seokmin swallowed hard, his chest aching. He knew that. He knew he had no right to do this. But he also knew one thing for certain—

"I need to see her."

Mingyu let out a long breath, gripping his knees as he tried to process Seokmin’s words. Myungho, on the other hand, looked like he was on the verge of throwing something.

"Are you even listening to yourself?" Myungho snapped, glaring at Seokmin. "You just woke up from almost dying, and your first thought is running after her wedding? What the hell do you think is going to happen?"

Mingyu leaned forward, rubbing his temples. "Even if you do see her, then what? Do you expect her to come back to you just because you showed up? Do you think this is some kind of drama where the moment you say ‘don’t marry him,’ she’ll run into your arms?"

Seokmin’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His mind was clouded, tangled between desperation and the overwhelming guilt crushing his chest.

"This isn’t about what you want anymore, Seokmin," Myungho continued, his voice quieter but firm. "She’s about to start a new life. Whether or not she’s happy with it, that’s not something you get to decide."

Seokmin’s breathing became uneven, his heart pounding against his ribs. "But what if she’s making a mistake?" he murmured.

"And what if she isn’t?" Mingyu shot back. "What if she’s already moved on and you’re the only one stuck in the past?"

Seokmin’s fingers curled into the hospital blanket. That thought—her moving on, being happy without him—made his stomach twist painfully.

"I need to know," he whispered, voice barely holding together.

Mingyu ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "You’re being selfish, man. You don’t need to know. You want to know. And there’s a big difference."

Myungho sighed, looking away for a moment before turning back to Seokmin. "You think this is love, but it’s guilt eating you alive. You regret everything, and you think if you see her, if you stop her, maybe it’ll fix something in you. But it won’t."

Seokmin clenched his jaw. "I just—"

"You just can’t accept that you lost her."

The words cut deeper than Seokmin expected. His vision blurred slightly, his throat tightening.

Seokmin’s breath hitched, his shoulders trembling as he gripped the blanket beneath him. His head hung low, strands of hair falling over his eyes, but it did nothing to hide the way his body shook. A choked sound escaped his lips, something between a breathless laugh and a sob, as if he himself wasn’t sure whether to scream or cry.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged a glance, their own expressions heavy with helplessness. Neither of them had an answer—because if moving on was easy, Seokmin wouldn’t be here, collapsing under the weight of what-ifs and regrets.

"I ruined everything," Seokmin whispered, his fingers pressing into his temples. "I should’ve come home that night. I should’ve listened. I should’ve believed her." His voice cracked at the last part, and his body folded in on itself.

He sucked in a sharp breath, but it did nothing to steady him. The dam he had been holding back for so long finally burst. A sob tore from his throat, raw and painful, his hands clutching at his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

"I thought I was doing the right thing." Another sob. "I thought I was protecting us." His words were barely coherent between gasps. "But I— I pushed her away. Over and over. And then when I finally—when I finally wanted to fix things, it was too late."

He pressed his fists against his eyes, trying to stop the flood of tears, but they kept coming. "She waited for me," he rasped. "And I never came."

Myungho, usually the colder one, exhaled and sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He placed a hand on Seokmin’s back, firm but gentle. "You can’t change the past, Seokmin," he murmured. "No matter how much you regret it. You can't change anything."

Seokmin let out a bitter, broken laugh through his tears. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do?"

Mingyu kneeled beside the bed, gripping Seokmin’s wrist, grounding him. "You grieve, man," he said softly. "And then, one day, you start again."

Seokmin squeezed his eyes shut, his body wrecked with sobs. He had spent so long running—running from his emotions, from his mistakes, from the truth. And now, there was nowhere left to run.

All that was left was the ache in his chest and the cruel reality that no matter how much he cried, no matter how much he wished, he could never turn back time.

*

"No one can change things but themselves."

Seokmin let out a quiet chuckle as he read the faded tagline on the back of the vintage brewing machine. He ran a hand over its worn surface, the once-polished metal now dulled with age.

He pulled it from the counter, his fingers tightening around the handle as he lifted it. There was a strange sense of finality in the action, as if he were physically removing a part of himself from the past. He exhaled slowly. It was time to say goodbye.

It had taken him a month to come to terms with the truth. No matter how much he wished otherwise, he couldn’t change the past. Even after experiencing what felt like a second chance, he realized that some things were simply meant to happen. His mistakes, your choices—they were both pieces of a larger story that he had no control over.

He couldn’t be selfish anymore. You had your own life, your own decisions. And he had to respect that.

After being discharged from the hospital, Myungho had insisted he move in with him, at least for a while. “You need someone to keep an eye on your dumbass,” Myungho had said, dragging him into his apartment without giving him a chance to protest. Mingyu had taken over managing the café in his absence, making sure everything ran smoothly while Seokmin recovered.

Their support had been the reason he didn’t completely fall apart.

And now, standing in his café once again, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time—strength. Not just physical strength, but the kind that came from acceptance.

He was back.

And this time, he was ready to move forward.

Seokmin froze for a moment as he spotted the old man standing across the road, watching him with a knowing look. The same old man who had sold him the vintage brewing machine all those months ago—the one who seemed to have known more than he let on. Seokmin blinked, still trying to process the bizarre turn of events.

The old man raised his hand and waved, an almost mischievous grin on his weathered face. Seokmin's heart skipped a beat.

He made his way over, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. “You finished using it?” The old man asked, his voice gravelly, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. “Can I get it back?”

Seokmin hesitated for a second, the weight of everything that had happened still lingering in his chest. He glanced down at the machine in his hands, the one that had been his link to the past. "You know it too?" Seokmin asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "This machine... it can send anyone back in time?"

The old man’s smile widened, and he nodded knowingly. "I always knew," he said with quiet certainty. There was something in his eyes—a kind of ancient wisdom—that made Seokmin feel like he was standing before someone who had seen far more than he let on.

Without waiting for any further conversation, the old man reached out and took the machine from Seokmin’s arms. Despite his age, the man was surprisingly strong, and Seokmin couldn’t help but watch in awe as the old man effortlessly carried the machine.

For a moment, Seokmin stood there, frozen, as he watched the old man walk away, the heavy sound of his steps receding in the distance. It felt surreal—like the end of a chapter, yet Seokmin couldn't shake the feeling that it was only the beginning of something far more complex.

As Seokmin stood there, watching the old man walk away, he couldn’t shake the nagging question in his mind—the tagline he had read on the back of the brewing machine. It had been on his mind ever since he first set eyes on it, and now, with the machine being taken away, it felt like there was a final piece to the puzzle that was still missing.

"Hey," Seokmin called out, his voice catching the old man’s attention before he disappeared completely. The old man turned around, a knowing smile playing on his lips as if he had been expecting this.

“What’s the tagline about?” Seokmin asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "The one that says, 'No one can change things but themselves.' What does that really mean?"

The old man chuckled softly, the sound a raspy yet warm laugh that seemed to carry the weight of countless untold stories. He looked at Seokmin with a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

"It takes two for everything," the old man replied, his voice low and deliberate. "You couldn’t be the only one who wants it."

Seokmin stood in silence, the brewing machine now a distant memory in his hands, and the words of the old man echoed in his head. “It takes two for everything.” Was he truly ready to let go? To stop trying to control the outcome?

As the seconds ticked by, he realized that maybe, just maybe, the key wasn’t about turning back time, but about moving forward.

Seokmin’s phone buzzed with a new message. It was from Myungho.

Myungho: You're home already?

Seokmin frowned at the screen, his frustration rising. He quickly typed back:

Seokmin: Stop texting me like a creepy boyfriend!

Not even a minute later, his phone rang. It was Myungho calling this time. Seokmin groaned, rolling his eyes before answering.

“Why do you keep bothering me? What do you want, Myungho?” Seokmin grumbled as he headed back to the cafe, trying to shake off the exhaustion that clung to him.

“Mingyu texted me, saying he saw your cafe lights still on!” Myungho said with a teasing tone, clearly amused.

Seokmin, now annoyed, rubbed his temples. “I’m just done recycling, okay? What the heck, how does Mingyu know my lights are still on?”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and then Myungho’s voice came through, dripping with sarcasm. “CCTV?”

Seokmin froze mid-step, eyes widening in disbelief. “Ya! How dare you guys monitor me with my own CCTV?! We should’ve had a talk about this! You’re creepy, you know that?”

Myungho let out a laugh, clearly unfazed by Seokmin’s outburst. “Just get home already. I’ll text you in an hour!”

Seokmin scoffed, shaking his head in amusement as he made his way toward the cafe. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Before Seokmin could respond further, Myungho ended the call with a cheeky, “Don’t make me come over there and check on you myself!”

Seokmin chuckled in disbelief, muttering to himself. “As if I needed another reason to feel like I’m being watched…”

Seokmin woke up slowly, feeling the weight of Myungho's arm draped over his chest. His mind was still foggy as he tried to process the situation. Had Myungho come over last night? He had no memory of it, but the warm pressure on his chest was undeniable.

“Go away, Myungho,” he mumbled, trying to shift the arm off him and pull the blanket back over himself, desperate for more sleep.

But just as he was about to drift off again, a sharp slap landed on his cheek. His eyes snapped open in shock, his heart racing. He turned to see you standing by the bed, a frown plastered on your face, looking down at him with a mix of confusion and frustration.

“Myungho? You dream about your friend?” you asked, your tone biting.

Seokmin’s heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat. His mind couldn’t keep up with what was happening. Y/n? His eyes blinked rapidly, still disoriented from sleep.

He quickly turned his head toward Myungho, expecting to see his friend there, only to find the bed next to him empty. His eyes darted back to you, wide with surprise.

“Y/n?” Seokmin whispered, his voice cracking with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

You raised an eyebrow, still standing in the doorway. The shock on his face must’ve been evident because your expression softened slightly, your concern starting to show. “I should be asking you that,” you retorted, your arms crossed over your chest. “Why the heck were you thinking i'm Myungho? Were you two—”

“No!” Seokmin interrupted quickly, his face flushing red. He sat up straight, heart pounding. “No, it’s not like that. I… I thought it was Myungho… but it was you…” He trailed off, still struggling to make sense of the situation. “What are you doing here, Y/n?”

You stared at him for a moment, your gaze shifting from confusion to something softer, but still tinged with frustration. A small sigh escaped your lips before you spoke again.

“Why am I here?” you asked incredulously, a bemused look crossing your face. “What are you talking about? I'm your wife, Seokmin. This is my house!”

Seokmin’s breath hitched in his chest. His mind was reeling, unable to catch up with the rush of confusion, panic, and overwhelming guilt. He ran a hand through his hair, still stunned by the situation. His thoughts felt like they were slipping away from him, like he was in a dream, but everything was too real.

“Y/n…” Seokmin’s voice trailed off, still searching your face for some kind of explanation. “How did we— why did I—” He couldn’t find the right words. The mixture of emotions was overwhelming. Was this real? Had everything really led to this?

You shook your head slightly, your expression softening as you walked closer, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. "Seokmin, what’s going on? Why are you acting like this?"

Seokmin stared at you, the words stuck in his throat. He could feel the weight of everything crashing down on him—everything he had been running from, everything he had tried to avoid. But in that moment, with you sitting so close to him, so real, it all felt too much. Too real to escape.

Seokmin blinked, his mind racing as he looked down at his own finger. He felt the weight of a wedding band there, the same one he saw on yours. His eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest.

"We're married?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words couldn't quite sink in. "How?"

You rolled your eyes, clearly frustrated by his confusion. "A month ago, Seokmin! Stop being ridiculous or you’re going to be late."

Seokmin could hardly process what you said. "Late for what?" His mind was still trying to catch up, the fog from his sleep mixing with a heavy sense of disbelief.

You stood up from the bed and walked toward the door, tossing over your shoulder, "Your branch cafe opening, of course. We’ve been planning it for weeks now."

His eyes followed you as you left the room, still reeling from the whirlwind of information that felt too surreal. A month ago? He ran a hand through his hair again, trying to piece together the puzzle. He couldn’t remember any of it—the wedding, the plans, none of it. Everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers, like he had missed an entire chapter of his own life.

Seokmin hurriedly followed you, still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. "But I didn’t… I didn’t drink any coffee, and I’m sure I didn’t return to the past," he muttered to himself, almost as if convincing himself.

You stopped in your tracks and glanced back at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Seokmin, you’ve been acting strange all morning. Maybe you should just focus on today, alright? You’ve got a cafe to open."

"But I—" He was cut off by the sound of his own phone buzzing in his pocket. The reality of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. His mind had been clouded with confusion, but now it was clear—there was no going back.

"I know you're a newlywed, but please don't be late for today!" Mingyu's voice came through the phone, laced with frustration.

Seokmin froze, staring at his phone in disbelief. What was happening?

His thoughts were still spinning, trying to make sense of everything. Newlywed? A month ago? The cafe opening? The weight of it all was sinking in slowly, but it felt like his mind couldn’t keep up. His fingers tightened around the phone, and he felt a rush of panic creeping in.

"Mingyu… what’s going on?" Seokmin asked, his voice shaky as he stood in the hallway, still unsure of the reality he was facing.

On the other end, Mingyu sighed heavily. "Are you serious right now, Seokmin? You’re supposed to be here in an hour. Get it together."

Seokmin’s heart pounded in his chest as his mind raced. What did he mean, 'get it together'? Everything felt like a blur—like he had woken up in someone else’s life. The wedding ring, the cafe opening, your presence beside him—it was all too much to process.

Seokmin glanced over at you, still standing in the doorway, your arms crossed with a gentle but knowing expression on your face. You had your life figured out, but he… he was stuck in a whirlwind of confusion.

"Seokmin," Mingyu’s voice cut through his thoughts. "You need to snap out of it. You're really scaring me now."

Seokmin closed his eyes, trying to focus, but the weight of everything pressing on him was overwhelming. How could he have missed all of this? How could he have forgotten?

"Okay," Seokmin finally said, taking a deep breath and trying to steady his racing thoughts. "I’ll be there."

He hung up the phone and looked at you, the one person who seemed to know what was going on. "I—I don’t know what’s happening," he admitted, his voice softer now. "But I need to figure this out, Y/n."

You smiled slightly, the corner of your mouth lifting as you walked toward him. "One step at a time, Seokmin. Let’s get through today, and then we’ll talk."

Seokmin nodded, still in a daze, but he felt a strange sense of reassurance in your words. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as lost as he thought.

*

Seungkwan stepped into your place, drinks in hand, and immediately noticed something on the kitchen counter. "That's cool," he remarked, eyeing the vintage brewing machine with curiosity.

"I didn’t know you were into vintage stuff," he added, raising an eyebrow as he set the drinks down.

You rolled your eyes playfully, brushing him off as you arranged the coffee table in front of the couch, placing the food you had ordered earlier. "It's just for display," you said, trying to downplay it.

Seungkwan chuckled and sat down on the floor, pulling bottles out of the bag with a grin. "Is it really okay to drink here? Your boyfriend won’t be home, will he?"

You sighed, glancing at him as you adjusted the arrangement on the table. "I told you, he hasn’t been home for days. I don’t know what to do anymore," you admitted, the frustration in your voice barely concealed.

Seungkwan looked at you, concern flickering in his eyes. He set the bottle down and leaned forward, his tone softening. "Let’s forget about him for now, okay? Tonight’s about you. Let’s drink, relax, and leave all the stress behind."

His words, filled with sincerity, brought a small but genuine smile to your face. "Yeah," you said, finally letting yourself breathe a little easier. "Tonight, we forget about everything else."

"So, I went back to the past, where he came home, and I didn’t act like a crazy bitch asking where he was or what he was doing. I saw how hard he was working for our future," you said, your words slurring slightly, but there was an undeniable sincerity in your voice.

Seungkwan watched you closely, his gaze thoughtful. "Do you always know why he worked so hard on the cafe?" he asked, his tone soft but probing.

You nodded, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Yeah, it’s his romantic dream. I knew that all along, but I still acted like an asshole." Your voice faltered slightly, regret creeping in as you admitted your mistakes. "I let my insecurities get the best of me."

Seungkwan fell silent for a moment, processing your words. Then, almost as if he was speaking to himself, he muttered, "Maybe I’m just jealous... that I couldn’t make my dreams come true the way he did. He has something to fight for, something to believe in."

There was a quiet vulnerability in his voice, one that made you pause. You glanced at him, recognizing that his words weren’t just about your boyfriend. He, too, was struggling with his own battles, hidden beneath layers of laughter and bravado.

The day you found out you were pregnant, only to lose it in a heartbreaking miscarriage, felt like a cruel twist of fate. It was the morning where the two of you finally sat together, yet Seokmin was still letting you go, giving you space to breathe but also unintentionally distancing himself further. Maybe that’s how it was meant to be. Even after you returned to the past, even after you tried to fix things, it felt as if nothing would change. The bond you once had was slipping away, like sand through your fingers.

As you stood by the trash, about to dispose of the old brewing machine—the same one that had brought you back to the past—your thoughts were tangled with regret and confusion. That’s when you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps, and you looked up to find the old man, the one who had given you the machine, standing there near your place.

"Oh, you're here..." you murmured, surprised yet not entirely shocked.

The old man smiled faintly, as if he’d been expecting this moment. "Can I get it back?" he asked gently, his voice carrying a quiet understanding.

You nodded, the weight of his words from before still lingering in your mind as you handed the machine back to him. It felt as if he had been a silent witness to everything that had transpired.

Before he walked away, he turned to face you one last time, his gaze penetrating yet wise. "Do you know," he began, his voice a low murmur, "you can’t change someone unless they themselves want to change?"

His words hit you like a heavy realization. He was right. It shouldn’t just be you who wanted change; it had to be him too. It had to come from both sides. The problem had never been about fixing things alone—it was about the both of you, working through it together.

With that, the old man walked away, leaving you standing there, holding onto the truth he'd just given you. A truth you didn’t know you needed to hear.

The end:)

[dear-satan]

Beginning Of the End III

player 230/Thanos x Reader

★ word count: 10K

★ CW: fem!reader, reader is a player 457, funding issues, fraud, mention of cigarettes, alcohol and drugs, mentions of death, blood, normal squid game stuff

★ previous part, next part

Player 001's voice changed everything.

You stood there, even though the voting had ended a moment ago. You felt like you were still dreaming. Like the nightmare you woke up in would never end. You even pinched the bare skin on your hand. The momentary pain only confirmed your belief that it wasn't a dream or a nightmare, but a terrifying reality that you were stuck in by your own will.

Tomorrow more innocent people will die, and you didn't have the strength to keep playing.

You didn't want to keep playing.

So tomorrow you'll die too.

"Is everything okay, honey?" his voice brought you back to earth. His shaking hand gently touched your cheek. "Are you feeling bad? Why are you ignoring me?" the questions he asked you made you angry and feel helpless. You looked at his name tag first - a blue O. Looking at it, you felt like he betrayed you in the worst possible way. But then you looked at his face, his eyes. His dilated pupils almost covered his unique, for an Asian, blue irises.

It was too much.

"Are you kidding me?" You said it quietly at first, far too quietly for Su-bong to hear. "Are you fucking kidding me?!" You pushed him away, your chest moving at a rapid pace. "You're high." It wasn't a question. "You're fucking high, having the time of your life when people around you.. When WE almost died and you're asking me if I'm okay?!"

His jaw clenched. You watched as he swallowed the unspoken words, a lump growing in his throat. He always acted like this when he was high. He couldn't get a word out when you first screamed at him not to take.. To be clean. But he never listened. Never. And you knew he wouldn't listen this time either. That your words will only echo empty, one he wouldn't remember when he sobered up.

That's why you didn't continue.

Barely holding back tears, you shook your head. You turned around and walked away, leaving him in the middle of the hall. You sat down on your bed with a loud sigh. You felt helpless against everything - the world, life, your boyfriend.. And your love. You thought Su-bong would press X with you. That he would follow in your footsteps just this once, when you were playing for your life together, and not for money.. Not anymore.

But he didn't go.

You weren't even disappointed, because he hadn't done it in a long time. Su-bong had disappeared somewhere, along with his stupid jokes, songs written just for you. It's funny that you only noticed it now.

Damn blue O.

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・

The morning was really hard. If you could, you would stay under that thin blanket all day. But you couldn't, and you knew it.

Players, another game will start soon. Get ready and remember to follow the rules.

“I wonder what's in store for us today.” a foreign girl crouched next to your bed - a 380 player with a blue O on her right chest. She looked in front of her for a moment before turning her head toward you and bestowing a small, but really sincere smile. “I hope there won't be that big doll. Disgusting, it will haunt me every night.”

For the first time in a long time, you laughed. “Yeah, me too.”

“You are with player 230, right?” She asked “Sorry, I don't want to be nosy but…I saw your argument yesterday…. And, he's really an asshole.”

Your smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared. You started searching with your eyes for purple hair. He was sitting on his bed with player 124. “He quickly found a friend,” a lump appeared in your throat, but you ignored it. “Yes, we… We have been dating for a long time. We live together but…. You know, debts came up. Senseless investment in crypto, loans, loss of work…. You know.”

“You agreed to invest in crypto? You seem more reasonable than him.” was curious, which you couldn't blame her for.

“Yes.” the lie was heavy ”We let ourselves be made like children.”

“I see.” The 380 player only nodded, looking ahead again.

“But you're right, he's an asshole.” You added quickly, at which she laughed quietly..

“You know, if you want we can stick together.” She looked at you again. You saw the warmth in her eyes and the will to survive that you lacked. “Me, you, and player 125 - we'll make a nice team.”

For a while you steamed at her without any response. The thought of the team filled you with some form of hope. But what about Su-bong? You couldn't leave him alone, you weren't a horrible heartless girl thinking only of herself. “I…” you looked at Thanos once again. You were angry, so terribly angry at his behavior. But something inside you told you that he could handle it and, despite everything, he would be beside you. “Gladly.”

“Great!” she got up from the floor and extended her hand toward you, ”I am Se-mi.”

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・

Going through the pastel corridors again was much worse than the first time. Guards stood in every possible place, guarding you with guns in their hands. It's funny how false a sense of security they tried to give you at the very beginning.

You entered a huge square, similar to a classroom for kindergarten children. Two large rainbow circles were painted on the ground. Everything about the messy place was candy, looking seemingly safe. But wasn't that exactly how you were supposed to feel? Safe?

Players, you have ten minutes to assemble a team of five.

The announcement was loud, too loud for you. You immediately looked at Se-mi and Min-su with whom you formed a team of three. You started looking around for potential companions. Unfortunately, people matched up in teams really fast leaving you with fewer and fewer options.

“Damn, I didn't find anyone,” you groaned disappointedly. Time was slowly running out.

“I didn't manage to find anyone either,” Min-su also said, still looking around.

Se-mi opened her mouth, but before she could say anything a familiar voice interrupted her, causing all three of you to look toward its owner. “Señorita, excuse me.” Thanos' smile widened as your gazes met, “I noticed that you were looking for two players. Here we are, Thanos will grace your team with his presence.” he couldn't be serious..

You rolled your eyes amused when 380 commented on his artistic nickname. When Su-bong greeted Min-su then approached you. The warmth of his body eminated enough to send a shiver through your body.

“Still angry?” he asked, cautiously nudging your hand with his finger as if he feared your repulsion.

“Still high?” you answered with a question to a question, but did not move away.

Thanos laughed while shaking his head. His hand grasped yours and lifted it to place a gentle kiss on your skin. “Don't be angry, this is the last game.” you didn't know , whether to believe him. “After it, I'll vote for X, you'll see. We will return to our home. Safe and sound with our money.”

The time to find a team was over, and all the teams were sitting in the middle of two rainbow circles. The game you would play was titled Six-Legged Pentathlon, during which you would play five, smaller games - ddakji, biseokchigi, gonggi, paengi chigi, and jegi. You started to determine who would play what - you chose ddakji. You were really good at it, considering that you won over the recruiter almost immediately. Se-mi chose biseokchigi, claiming that in childhood she had won against every kid in the yard. The boys divided among the other three games, each choosing what they felt most comfortable with. They were, after all, games from your childhood, nothing new so theoretically winning was really easy.

The game had begun. You all sat close together. Thanos' hand was on your knee as you watched with precision as the guards pinned the legs of the first two teams. They had five minutes to pass each competition and reach the finish line. That complicated things. Five minutes is really not a lot of time, considering the possible failures with each game.

You swallowed saliva, squeezing Thanos' hand. Fear set in your body again. “I can't handle it, I can't do it.”

“If you talk like that, we'll definitely lose.” Nam-gyu looked at you, and more at the red X on your chest. You saw something along the lines of contempt in his gaze, and you didn't know why. After all, you had never spoken to him before. “Get it together.”

"Nam-su-"

“I'm Nam-gyu.”

“After all, I did say that.” Su-bong clenched his jaw. His hand squeezed your knee. “Change your tone when you speak to her. Is that clear? Because I don't like to repeat myself.”

Player 124 only muttered something under his breath, turning his head away. “Sure, bro.”

・・・・★・・・・★ ・・・・

The paper square seemed extremely heavy when you held it. Your ankle was pinned to Thanos' ankle. The black material was fastened far too tightly, bruising you with every step. You took a breath and threw at the pink square - it didn't fall over You bent over picking up the blue square and threw again - this time it hit next to it. Your breathing sped up, you heard Nam-gyu's nervous voice and Se-mi's disappointed groan. Your hands began to tremble.

“Hey hey hey.” Su-bong leaned over and handed you a paper square, “Relax. You can do it. . Take a deep breath and throw it again.” His tattooed hand stroked the top of your head.

You nodded and closed your eyes. Time seemed to stop as you took air into your lungs. Your heart slowed down and when you were ready, you opened your eyes, throwing the paper square once more.

You've succeeded.

Joyful cheers spread through the room and your team moved on. Se-mi handled the biseokchigi effortlessly, as did Min-su in the gonggi. At the spinning top there was a problem, but Nam-gyu turned it around on his second attempt. You were at the very end, Thanos' game remained. By the high he was on, he seemed not to notice the time pressure when the last 40 seconds. But he bounced the damn ball five times. Crossing the finish line was like having a weight lifted off your back. Your legs were splayed and you immediately hugged Thanos standing next to you.

“Thank you.” You groaned inhaling his scent.

He just picked you up and turned you around, hugging you as if he had completely forgotten how soft and comfortable your body is. “It's all right now señorita, we're going home.”

taglist: @ttokyocat @itsvaleriegarza @jdbxws @hyunjinieandlix @chrisstyle @the-iridescent-phoenix

[hauntedjellyfishwitch-blog]

Blankets & Burdens

Summary: Sometimes, just sometimes, she catches him flinch.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader (No use of Y/N)

TW: Very brief mentions of childhood abuse. Brief mention of Merle (He's always a warning). Mostly fluffy with just a sprinkling of angst.

A/N: This is a chapter from a Daryl series I'm writing, but I wanted to see if it would be of interest to anyone before I start posting chapters.

-

Daryl is great in a fight, hell of all people she’s ever met if she wanted anyone to fight with it’d be Daryl, he’s quick and instinctive and strong, but sometimes, sometimes she catches the flinch. Not the usual flinch of being hit, the flinch that tells for a split second he remembers. The flinch of the little boy he used to be, the flinch that makes her see him scared and sad and alone. The flinch that makes her see fucking red.

He barely bats an eyelid at walkers, they’re as easy to him as Squirrels now, but when the bigger man’s fist is millimetres from his face she sees him flinch as if watching it in slow motion. She barely remembers moving until she finds herself standing over his lifeless body with her hands bloody. He’s easily almost double her size, hefty as well as strong but fingertips drip onto the ground with a deafening thud that she should barely be able to hear.

There’s a tremor in her hands as she looks at them, she’d like to blame the cold for it but she knows it isn’t the weathers fault. It’s been hotter than Satan’s asshole for weeks, so why they had to go hunting on the coldest day of the damn apocalypse she’ll never know but she hasn’t turned down an invitation for his company yet. He asks if she wants to join and the easy answer of yes rolls off her tongue before she’s even thought about his question. She’d say yes to anything as long as he asked.

“Thanks”

His voice startles her out of her thoughts, and she knows him well enough to know that’s on purpose, so she raises a fleeting smile in his direction suddenly feeling warmer just for having looked at him. She clenches her fist to try and calm the movement in her hand, just missing the way his gaze flicks down and back up in time to clock it. He’s observant to an alarming degree.

“Always”

Daryl’s arm cracks loudly as he pulls the blade out of the mans torso, grunting as he adjusts it in its socket to make sure he hasn’t just dislocated it. She nods towards it as he awkwardly hands her the machete back, trying to ignore the fact his fingers touch hers, trying to ignore the way it electrifies him or the way she shakes.

“You okay?”

“’m fine”

He brushes her off as if the joint doesn’t sting, as if his whole body doesn’t hurt already when he wakes up, as if any of them have been okay since everything started. Sure, the prison is a million times better than being on the road, but its not exactly comfortable and he doubts anything will ever be safe again; what’s a little shoulder pain if not another inconvenience on top of a never ending plethora of inconveniences.

-

There’s a fire going that night. It burns just outside the courtyard where they’ve dragged a handful of chairs to hide, enough behind a building to be out of the line of sight from the walkers gathering by the fence. He watches for a moment as she tries to warm herself up, still delicate hands running the length of her arms as she stares at the flames in front of her. He’s been surprised that she’s managed to stay gentle in all of this, always a smile or a laugh for him but her face looks haunted.

He watches her more often than he’ll admit to, though he’ll admit to exactly zero watching if anyone dared to ask, which they wouldn’t because he still looks terrifying to most people. He’s definitely not in love with her, no way, he definitely doesn’t lay awake at night thinking about how he’d like to grow old with her. Zero thinking or watching, if anyone asked, thank you very much.

He toes his boot on the concrete as he tries to decide if he should leave her alone. He doesn’t, of course, because he can’t. Hasn’t been able to since he found her in a cabin in the woods with more holes than walls. Excuse after excuse to be close to her, and okay there’s a tiny spark of hope in him that feels like she seeks him out too, but he’s never allowed himself to entertain the blossom of it for more than a split second before his low self-esteem takes over.

“Ya alright?”

“Yeah”

Her voice sounds far away, quiet and floating in the middle distance as she stares through the fire without turning to look at him. He sits on a chair next to her, tapping his fingers against his jean covered knee to stop from reaching out to hold her hand or something equally embarrassing.

“Ya sure?”

“I didn’t even blink”

“Huh?”

“Saw you flinch and I just wanted him off you, didn’t even hesitate”

“Yeah” he doesn’t know what to say, he’s had the same urge for her countless times. He never hesitates; he likes the group, he really does despite his disposition, but he thinks they’d probably have to think twice if it was a decision to save him. He doesn’t have a response for knowing she wouldn’t.

“People talk you know? Stuff about your brother”

He grunts in acknowledgment, but he doesn’t have a response. Of all the places he thought this conversation might go, Merle never crossed his mind.

“I think maybe we’re not as different as you think we are. I saw the way you flinched, I…recognised it” She pauses for a beat, flicking her gaze up to him, catches the way he chews on his lip before she continues “I don’t know who or what-“

“I ain’t gon-“

“I’m not asking. I’m just sorry that’s not something you got to tell me in your own time”

He’s taken back by the care in the sentence, though he shouldn’t be. She’s given him pause numerous times with the amount of consideration she shows. He’s not the only observant one between them.

She shivers violently, bopping the soles of her trainer covered feet on the ground to make her body shake.

“Ya alright?”

“Freezing. Can’t get warm, been cold for fucking hours” She tries to laugh but he hears the way her teeth clench as she grits the sentence out. They’ve been back since before sundown, she should have warmed up by now.

“Ya want my jacket?”

“No, I think I’m going to bed” She pauses as she stands. Rests her hand on his shoulder with a firm but gentle squeeze, he resists the urge to gasp at how cold her hands are “Thanks though”

-

The gentle tap of knuckles against metal makes her lift her head. It’s quiet enough not to wake her if she’d been sleeping, and that alone tells her its Daryl before he even draws back the makeshift curtain. For all of his gruff exterior, considerations seeps from his every pore even without trying.

“Brought ya a blanket”

His voice is low, hushed and gruff at the edges but he holds it out to her like a kid who might get scolded for it. She shuffles up slightly, smiling at him in the dim light from the hallway.

“This your one?” She asks, knowing there’s hardly spare anything in this place anymore, taking it and bunching it up under her nose to inhale the smell of him, knowing it’ll look like she’s testing her theory instead of relishing it.

He doesn’t answer which is in itself an answer, she shakes her head, holding it back towards him.

“Jus’ take it”

She studies the way his sock clad feet twitch against the floor, the slightly wringing of his hands in front of him, nervous and shy in a way that’s so him but shouldn’t be.

“Want to share with me?”

“Nah, it’s okay”

She opens the blanket covering her with her free arm, refusing to take her eyes of his face to see if she’s imagining what’s been under the surface with them. It’s minute really, a split second that she’d have missed had she not been looking for it, but his eyes flick down to her bare legs, jaw clicking in what looks like restraint. She tilts her head to the side like a dog trying to understand a situation that seems familiar but isn’t.

“’Cause you don’t want to, or ‘cause you think I don’t?”

He doesn’t answer. Her options are push him out of his comfort zone or take his only blanket and neither seem like a great option, but he hasn’t stopped looking at her and he doesn’t seem like he wants to make a Daryl sized hole in any of the walls.

“Won’t even touch you if you don’t want me to”

A pause, a scoffed laugh under his breath. She expects him to ignore the tease entirely. He’s shy, tentative, she’s not even sure he feels anything like she does but he accepts the invitation with a stiff nod, closing the curtain behind him so the light blurs out. She can just about make out the solid shape of him as he steps forward.

He’s quiet at the best of times, hunting trained steps that are softer than they seem they would be, but he barely makes a sound until he’s sitting on the edge of her cot. Shaky sigh leaving barely parted lips as he eases his legs up onto the bed; sliding under the blanket she offers; throwing his own one on top of them both haphazardly.

“Didn’t say that, did I?”

He lifts his arm up, above her head, sucking in a sharp quiet breath when she burrows into the crook, resting her head on his firm bicep and avoiding his shoulder. Its not like he was expecting her to face the wall or anything, but he’ll never stop being shocked by the casual affection she offers.

“Don’t want to hurt your arm”

He huffs, using his other hand to shift her into a slightly more comfortable but closer position so her head Is resting on his chest. He studies the top of her head like it holds all the answers, like if he can just focus on the tip of her nose that he can see past her hairline he can magically work out what this means.

“Why ya s’ kind to me?” He whispers, as if he hasn’t spent all day caring for them all, hasn’t given up his blanket and his bed to keep her warm. He thinks she might have drifted off before she answers, soft voice low and drenched in the threat of sleep. Comfortable. Warm.

She moves a hand up to his chest, rests it over his heart so she can hear the steady thudding under her palm, presses her lips to the cold skin on his cheek

“Why don’t you think you deserve it?”

“Go t’ sleep”

A snort, dismissive in a way she normally wouldn’t let him get away with. Normally he’s not wrapped around her though, normally the beginnings of rest aren’t pulling behind her eyelids whilst he holds her.

“Goodnight Daryl”

[pursued-by-the-squid]

vii. stage fright

pairing: gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 12.5k

ao3 | masterlist

“You should eat.”

Rolling over onto your side reveals Gi-hun, standing over your bed with a frown. “I’m not hungry,” you mumble before returning to your original position.

“You need to keep up your strength.” The mattress dips down by your feet and the bed creaks softly as it adjusts to Gi-hun’s weight. He seems to start a sentence a few times, his inhalations quiet yet sudden, but whatever it is he wants to say seems impossible to speak aloud. In the end, he relinquishes himself to an awkward pat on your foot.

How many times have the two of you been here? Each of you lost to your own grievances, trying so hard to push through the fog and failing every time. How many times has he texted you a reminder to get to bed early, to be careful when you go out the next morning, to eat something filling before class? How many times have you tried to do the same in return?

“I’ve lost my appetite,” you tell him, even as you’re moving to sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. “The thought of eating anything makes me feel sick.”

Gi-hun nods once in comprehension, his eyes suddenly softer as he watches you. “I understand,” he murmurs. You try not to think about how much it makes your heart flutter knowing that he cares.

It’s that very understanding, you think, that leads you both to the meal line. Neither of you wants to eat, but neither of you wants the other to go hungry. Eating will keep his mind sharp, it’ll make him faster and stronger, and it will do the same for you of course, it’s just that you can’t stop thinking about all those people… All that blood…

Try not to think about it, you tell yourself, but it’s so much easier to say than it is to do. Everywhere you look is a reminder of just how dire your circumstances are. The ominous piggy bank hanging overhead, the player count, the blood still on Gi-hun’s face, each of them a ghost intent on haunting you. How can you possibly–?

“[___]?”

One moment you’re lost to the horror of it all, and the next you find yourself blinking up at the face of the last person you would have ever expected. “Young-il-nim?”

Your first thought is that you’re imagining things, so traumatized by the first game that you’ve fully lost it, but then – oh, then he’s smiling and he laughs, and it’s him, it’s really him.

“Oh my God,” you cry, throwing your arms around him in a desperate embrace. “What are, what are you doing here? How did you-? Why did you-? Shit, are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

Young-il chuckles to himself as your trembling hands go scrambling over his shoulders and chest to check for injuries. “I’m alright,” he assures you, as if he hasn’t a care in the world. But then his expressions shifts and he ducks his head to try and catch your eyes. “But what are you doing here? You don’t belong in a place like this.”

A brief image of the masked man invading your home comes to mind before you banish it. You shake your head. “It’s a long story,” you sigh, “and difficult to explain. I…” Words are lost to you. You have so many thoughts buzzing inside your brain that it’s difficult to think clearly, to conjure up the shapes and sounds you need to explain yourself.

“It alright,” he says after a moment. You catch him glancing to the side, meeting Gi-hun’s eyes over your shoulder, before looking back to you. “Eat first. I’ll find you after and we can talk then.”

He nods his head respectfully to both of you before walking off, food in hand and the numbers ‘001’ sewn to the back of his jacket. Something twists painfully in your gut, probably the knife he’s just lodged between your ribs.

“Who was that?” Is it your imagination or does Gi-hun’s voice sound deeper than before?

“A friend.” But now the words are sour on your tongue. Because Young-il was the one to break the tie. Young-il was the one to trap you here for another game. Young-il was the one who stood up against everything Gi-hun has been fighting against, and your face is awash with shame because of it.

“Young-il-nim.”

From his spot on the steps, he’s forced to tip his head back to meet your eyes and for a moment, you almost forget the reason you’ve sought him out. His hair is different, you suddenly realize. It swoops over his temples, soft and boyish, and it changes his face just so. All those harsh edges you’ve grown accustomed to are rounded out, less garish despite the fluorescent lighting and the terrible circumstances. And still, the blue patch on his chest marks him as a traitor. It may as well be soaked in your own blood and Gi-hun’s for what it’s worth.

He smiles and gestures to the empty space on his left with his elbow. “Come and sit.”

How can he be like this? How can he sit there and look at you with such blatant fondness, how can he still have an appetite after the things you’ve both just witnessed?

Your voice comes out much harder than usual once you finally find it. “What are you doing?”

Confusion flickers in his eyes. “Eating?”

“No. Here. What are you doing here? Why did you vote to stay?”

Young-il glances down at the X on your jacket, nodding, and the light-hearted tint to his smile finally fades. “I’m sorry.”

Your legs kick into gear before your mouth does, bringing you to the step just below his. You can’t quite bring yourself to sit beside him, to allow yourself that familiarity or closeness when his betrayal still sits heavy in your stomach, but this is not a public conversation either. You’re not here to embarrass him.

“You’re angry.”

“Can you blame me? People died, I almost–”

“I know,” he sighs as he hangs his head. “I know.”

“So why?”

Young-il’s expression turns distant, serious. “It’s complicated.”

Yeah, there seems to be a lot of that around here. But there’s something more, something he’s not telling you. He’s usually decent enough at keeping his more intense feelings close to his chest, but for once you find that you can see the intricacies of his heart quite easily. Regret and uncertainty are the most obvious to you, yet there are others lingering in the creases of his eyes and his mouth, things you don’t know how to put into words but that strike you as profound all the same.

“Your business, is it… Did something happen?”

A shadow passes over him, then, that flicker of something cold and distant that you’ve seen only once or twice before. He nods thoughtfully. “You could say that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His mouth curls into a frown. You might almost consider it a gesture of concern. “And make you worry needlessly? There’s nothing you could’ve done even if I had.” He looks over your shoulder again, surveying the room, his throat bobbing near your eye level. “I could ask the same of you, but I’d wager I already know the answer.”

You huff, irritated and frustrated and a million other things, turning so he’s behind you as you open your dinner. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t come here for the money.”

The toe of his shoe nudges into your back, drawing your attention. “You let that recruiter talk you into it?” Young-il tsks. “What have I told you about talking to strangers?”

He’s only teasing, of course. You know that. But even as a joke, the words hit too close to home. You’ve never told him about your encounter with the ddakji recruiter. You’ve never told him about how you met Gi-hun. You’ve never told him that since coming to Korea, every problem you’ve faced has arisen in part because you were stupid enough to engage with a stranger. Before now, you never had any intention of telling him any of it.

You eye the dinner tin in your hands. It smells good enough, but you still feel a bit queasy. You’re not sure if you’ll be able to keep it down or not.

“It wasn’t the recruiter that got me here.” It’s easier to tell him when you can’t see his face, for some reason, when you’re pretending that it doesn’t rip you apart just to admit the truth. Poking your utensil at the rubbery looking egg in your tin, you let out a sigh. “Someone took me.”

The muscles in his calf go tight against your back. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I was kidnapped. One of them.” You nod in the direction of the dinner line. “The men with the masks.”

His voice is softer when he replies. “You didn’t call the number like the rest of us?”

“No. I promised Gi-hun that I wouldn’t, but I guess… I guess it didn’t matter, in the end.”

Glancing down at your food is a challenge, actually eating it is even harder. It tastes like sawdust in your mouth and the instant it hits the back of your throat, you gag, very nearly spitting everything out on the floor. You don’t, thankfully, but it takes a long swig of water to ensure that the food stays down.

“Why would the soldiers want to kidnap you?” he asks once several long minutes have passed. You can hear the low clinking of his dinner tin behind you as he presses the lid shut.

Your first instinct is to claim ignorance, and it wouldn’t even be a lie if you did. You have no connection to these games, no desire to play, and no reason to stay. Gi-hun provides you with everything you need. But that’s just the problem, isn’t it? Gi-hun is the sole connection you have – you shredded the ddakji woman’s business card ages ago, the night you swore to never play the game again, and you shredded the last one too.

Your attention narrows in on a single grain of rice, as if it holds all the answers you seek. “I can’t help thinking it’s because of who I know,” you admit, reluctantly.

You glance up and over your shoulder in time to see Young-il fixing his eyes on something across the room – Gi-hun. “Player 456?”

You nod quietly in agreement.

“Isn’t he the one who’s played before?”

Another nod.

“So, he’s a friend of yours, then.”

The distant recollection of a night long since passed floats across your mind’s eye. That night seems so long ago now. Sure, it’s been a couple years, but it feels like even longer now that you’re here, as if the businesswoman and the ddakji are memories of another life.

“He warned me about this place, told me he didn’t want me dragged into all of this. That’s why I called you, you know – that one time, a few months back? I thought someone from this place had killed him and you were the only person I could think of to go to when I thought he was gone. And then last night, before the soldier, he came to say goodbye and I thought…”

You’d thought a lot of things. But you hadn’t thought of something like this ever happening.

“I guess it doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m stuck here now.”

It isn’t something that you mean to imply, but there’s an unspoken ‘no thanks to you’ that haunts the space between you. It’s not entirely his fault. Young-il has his own problems that he has to work through, that much is clear, and he has no way of knowing all the chaos going on in your personal life. If you have blame to place, it can’t rest solely on his shoulders, but that doesn’t make the reality of his vote any less painful or disappointing.

The stairs behind you groan as Young-il stands, the long shadow cast by the overhead lights falling lengthwise across your body. “You know,” he begins, steadily easing himself to the ground level on step at a time, “if your friend has played before, maybe we stand a better chance at winning the next round.”

Huh. That hadn’t even occurred to you. You were so busy being scared out of your mind that you hadn’t stopped to think there might actually be some hope. It’s slight, of course, and mostly obscured in your mind by the splatters of blood and lifeless bodies you saw on the field today, but the hope is there nonetheless. If you can survive the next round, then…

“Do you think there’ll be another vote?”

“Yes,” he nods, “after each game.”

Your shoulders suddenly feel a little lighter. “Then we could make it long enough to get out of here, vote a second time and go home.”

Young-il purses his lips in consideration. “Maybe.”

Before he can elaborate any further, a shout echoes across the room. It starts somewhere over his shoulder, near the middle or front of the room where a group of three younger men have gathered. You and Young-il both turn toward the sound just in time to see one of the men fall to the ground while the other two loom over him, slamming their feet into his body over and over again, and every time he tries to stand, they smack him down. They’re hitting him hard. The man on the ground isn’t fully screaming, but he’s clearly in pain.

You’re on your feet before you even realize it. There’s nothing you feel you can do, not without risking one of the attackers turning their vengeance onto you, but it flips your stomach to see someone being beat so mercilessly. You cast a quick glance around the room – none of the other players nor any of the soldiers stationed near the doors look inclined to intervene.

“God, they’re gonna kill him,” you mutter, more in disbelief than anything else. Isn’t someone going to stop them?

Someone, apparently, means Young-il. When he first moves, you think he’s trying to get a closer look. Because of course he’s intrigued by the violence, you think with a slight roll of your eyes. God forbid he, or anyone else here, do something actually useful, but he surprises you. Instead of observing, he acts.

“Boys, what are you doing in the middle of dinner?” His voice cuts through the cursing and the flurry of fists and feet against skin. One of the men left standing, the one with the purple hair, glowers at him as he approaches. “No fights during mealtime. There are elders present. Mind your manners. And two against one? Aren't you embarrassed?”

You’ve… never heard him speak like that before. With you, he’s often quite easygoing, soft when he needs to be and rarely ever stern unless he’s concerned about something. But with these men, he does speak sternly. His body moves with the ease of a man who has no doubts about his own strength or perception.

The man with the purple hair – Thanos, you think you’d heard – curls his mouth into a sneer. “You're lecturing me when you ended up in this shithole too?” As he advances on Young-il, you’re immediately taken aback by the amount of disrespect – he’s gesturing rudely, swaggering into Young-il’s personal space, quirking his eyebrows as if to suggest that there’s nothing about Young-il that he takes seriously. “Dude, stop running your mouth and take care of your own damn kids.”

You’re so stunned, you almost forget to breathe.

Young-il is equally surprised. Even from far behind him, you can see the way his body stills. “What did you say to me?” You can’t see his face, but honestly, you don’t need to. You can hear it all in his voice, can read it in the line of his shoulders.

“I said save the lecture for your own damn kid–”

The speed with which his arm shoots out is startling. You don’t even see it, really. One moment, Thanos is yapping his face off, and the next, Young-il has his fingers digging into the tendons of his throat. He twists his arm just so and the other man bends unnaturally at the waist to accommodate him. Then the other player – 124 – surges forward with a swear and you feel your heart leap into your throat, terrified your friend has just gotten himself into a fight that he cannot possibly win, but then Young-il kicks him in the shin and 124 goes sprawling on his back.

When you’d asked yourself if someone would do something to stop those two, this isn’t what you’d had in mind. Young-il isn’t ancient or decrepit by any means and he clearly thinks he can handle himself, but these men are younger than he is. What if he gets–?

His fist smacks right into Thanos’ chest, doubling him over as Young-il takes the opportunity to loom over him instead. This will be it, you think, a surprisingly swift punch to the sternum and it’ll all be over. He’s already proven himself, already made a fool of both these players.

Thanos raises a hand quietly, begging for him to stop. Only he doesn’t. Your feet are already carrying you to the floor, your dinner abandoned as you watch Young-il grab his hand, twist, and use the momentum to slam the other man into the ground. For a moment, they’re both frozen like that, Young-il lowered onto one knee with his fist raised while the other chokes and squirms helplessly beneath him.

You’re no longer worried about the poor player that had started this whole fight, you’re worried about the man who had attacked him. He’s choking and Young-il won’t let go. You can see his entire body shaking, his face flushing as his mouth twitches, his fist rising higher. He’s gonna kill him instead.

“Young-il!”

There’s no way he can’t hear you, but you’re terrified that he’ll ignore you anyway. He wouldn’t kill this guy, would he? He doesn’t seem the type. But the grip he has on Thanos’ throat is too strong, too intentional, and you’re just about to rush in and pry him off the man when he finally lets up. The other player takes a deep gasp, hands clawing at his neck as he recovers the breath Young-il had squeezed out of him, and then the entire room is bursting with applause. For the life of you, you cannot fathom why.

How long have you known him now, a couple years? Never, not once, in all that time has he ever said or done a single thing to make you look at him as anything other than what he is – your friend, a lover of coffee and fine art, a dedicated businessman with a tragic past and a penchant for terrible jokes. He was and always has been Oh Young-il, nothing less and nothing more. But as he clambers to his feet, his head bowed bashfully as he accepts the praise offered to him, you find yourself wondering if there isn’t just a bit more to him than he’s let on.

And though you’d never admit it, you’re also a bit… flushed. Seeing him react so effortlessly, witnessing the strength you never knew he had – it’s stirred up a bit of warmth in the pit of your stomach. You don’t really want to consider what that says about you.

He returns to you some moments later with his eyes averted. There’s something lingering on his tongue, perhaps an explanation, but he seems hesitant to give it and you’re equally hesitant to ask for it. Still, you’d be a fool to overlook how deeply Thanos’ words had affected him.

“Are you alright?”

Young-il nods as he passes, taking your attention with him. “I’m not hurt,” he assures you. He’s moved to pick up your dinner tray, as well as his own, stacking them on top of each other in his hands.

You reach for your water bottle before trailing after him, following his path to the front of the room where the trash cans are. “That’s not what I mean.” He’d told you to lecture your own kids, you think, and you snapped. He became someone else entirely, someone you don’t recognize, and that worries you. It also eerily reminds you of someone.

If he intends to respond, he shows no sign of it. He makes light work of your trays, emptying them of any leftover food before handing them and the utensils over to the nearest guard, a Circle Mask manning what remains of the dinner station.

“Young-il-nim.” You try to catch his eye when he turns to you once more, but he’s remarkably evasive, which only serves to further unsettle you. “Are you going to ignore me, or…?”

And that, at last, is enough to grab his attention. His shoulders drop with the weight of his sigh. “What do you mean, [___]?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d actually think he was upset with you.

“I mean, you…” There’s a flash of fists in the back of your mind, of Thanos choking. “I’ve just never seen you do that before.”

He lifts an eyebrow, then, as his expressions shifts from irritation to derision. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

Is that what he thinks? That you’re bothered? “No. But I didn’t think you were going to stop and that worried me.” It’s more honest than you had intended to be and you feel stripped bare because of it, like Young-il can see right through you because of your vulnerability.

You wish you knew what he was thinking. While you’re at it, you wish understood your own thoughts just as much as you wish you could fathom his. This – beating a younger man to a pulp simply because you’d expressed concern over an unfair fight – feels like something you should’ve known about, though you can’t help feeling like that’s a pretty ridiculous expectation to have. When would it have been relevant to reveal his secret self-defense moves? And why? Is it even fair of you to feel wary of him when it was your instigation that had prompted him to act in the first place?

Something dark flickers in the very depths of his eyes, something you don’t understand, but it’s gone before you can linger on it. His attention settles just past your shoulder, in the direction you’d seen Gi-hun and Jung-bae go to pick at their meals, and then he looks to you once more. Whatever darkness you thought you’d seen is long gone.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?”

Gi-hun and Jung-bae have settled in the far corner. You’d noticed earlier that some of the other players had gathered around them at one point, likely asking any number of questions now that they knew a previous winner had returned. They’ve even made a new friend, from what you can tell – a very expressive younger man with long hair, number 388 – though Gi-hun seems less enthused about the younger man’s presence than his friend does.

You have no reason to hesitate when it comes to introductions. Gi-hun is your friend as much as Young-il is, yet you still feel the pull of uncertainty in your gut at the idea. They’ve been separate for as long as you’ve known them. Young-il is more of a school friend than anything; the coffee dates (not that they’re dates because they’re not), your initial meeting, all of it had happened on campus. Gi-hun is your strangely wealthy friend who keeps to himself and lets you fire weapons in the depths of his abandoned motel. One of them is clearly more normal than the other. And only one of them has kissed you thus far, so there’s also that.

You try not to think about it. Every step you take brings you closer to Gi-hun, who has not pulled his eyes from you for more than a second, not since Young-il suggested the introduction. Every step brings both halves of your life closer and closer together, and you feel a bit nauseous because of it.

It’ll be fine. You don’t even have anything to worry about. It’s not like Young-il’s betrayed everything that Gi-hun stands for with a single vote. It’s not like Gi-hun still hasn’t addressed the fact that he kissed you last night and he’s about to meet the only other person in the world that you could possibly consider kissing after him. Not that you would.

Ah, shit. Here goes nothing.

If it’s shame that begs you not to lift your eyes in Gi-hun’s presence, then that’s something you’ll be keeping to yourself. “Young-il-nim, this is Jung-bae-nim and–”

“You said you've played these games before, sir.”

Your mouth is still hanging open, Gi-hun’s name still caught between your lips as Young-il quite literally talks over you. He’s never talked over you before, not ever. And neither does he stop. He waits only for Gi-hun’s acknowledgement – a hesitant inclination of his head – before finally continuing, and he doesn’t even spare you a second glance when he does.

“I pressed the O button because of you. Honestly, I was scared. I wanted to quit and leave. But you made me think maybe I could play just one more game.”

And you’re not offended in the least by his startling new rudeness. Not at all. Certainly not enough to snap your jaw shut with an audible click.

Jung-bae’s eyes suddenly alight with excitement. “Some of the other players said that!” He turns eagerly to his new friend with a grin, then nudges his elbow into Gi-hun’s ribs. “You see?”

Gi-hun is not amused and for once, you feel comforted by that. You don’t shrink when his gaze lingers on you, you return it confidently, if only because you’re less irritated with him than you are with Young-il. He braces his forearms atop his knees, his arms stretching out as he looks back and forth between you.

“If you had pressed the X,” he finally says, “everyone here would've made it out alive.”

Young-il hums lightly in response. “That's right. I was the last to press the O button,” and it’s remarkable, really, how unashamed he is to admit it. “But there were 182 more people who wanted to stay.”

“And there were also 182 people who wanted to leave. [___] included.”

Three sets of eyes settle upon you. Oh. You don’t like that. You don’t want to be brought into this discussion and you certainly don’t want Young-il to be looking at you like that, like he’s only just noticed you exist. You don’t like that everything you thought you knew has suddenly been flipped on its head, without rhyme or reason, and you don’t like that you’re left trying to fit the pieces back together entirely blind.

Gi-hun raises a brow. “You are friends, aren’t you?”

“We are.” He smiles and for the briefest moment, you feel like you’re watching a stranger rather than your coffee companion of two years. “But you’re a previous winner, Gi-hun-ssi. Why would you allow a friend to come here if it’s so dangerous?”

You don’t think much of him using Gi-hun’s name – why should you? But for Gi-hun, it seems to startle him. His eyes sharpen as they flicker across Young-il’s face, studying, searching, and then, “How did you know my name?”

You blink, pausing to look between the pair as you suddenly realize that you’re not sure you’ve ever explicitly used Gi-hun’s name before, not with him.

Young-il, to his credit, takes the inquiry in his stride. His smile falters for a moment as he tries to explain himself. “Oh, I… I heard [___] using it earlier, in line for dinner, and I thought I might try it.”

Did you? You can’t remember, though you aren’t sure that it really matters. You’ve loudly proclaimed Gi-hun’s name a handful of times since your reunion earlier today, so even if you hadn’t said it in line, it’s likely that Young-il noticed and made the connection himself. He’s always been perceptive like that.

Young-il leans in, his voice lowered and his face softened with an unspoken apology. “Does it bother you?” Just like he’d asked you only minutes prior.

A chill starts at the base of your spine. The air is thick with tension, both men gravitating toward one another as if there’s some grand competition going on that you’re entirely unaware of. You don’t like that either.

But before the tension can rise any higher, Jung-bae jumps in and attempts to diffuse the situation. His hands go fluttering about in the empty space between them, using some clever turn of phrase to smoothe out all the surface level ripples that have already transformed into waves rocking against your boat. A truce is formed, superficial at best, but it clears the air enough for you to breathe and for that, you’re grateful.

He keeps thinking about tomorrow. He keeps thinking about the sugary sweetness of dalgona on his tongue and the possibility of a pistol lodged against the base of his skull.

Gi-hun closes his eyes and takes a breath. It doesn’t change anything. The light from the pig lingers behind his eyelids as much as the thought of watching you bleed out and die does. The cool chill of a late night still clings to his bones, even among so many bodies. Or perhaps it’s Gi-hun who is cold. Perhaps he’s already dead and this is merely a delusion brought on by a half-sane mind in its final throes.

That would certainly be easier than the truth, wouldn’t it?

The stairs that lead to his bed creak beneath the weight of a foot, then another, and Gi-hun opens his eyes to see you standing close enough to touch. From this angle, the light doesn’t catch your face; you’re simply haloed, some bright and shining thing that he’s dragged with him into the pit of damnation.

“Hello.”

He hates that you sound so timid. You sound like the fragile student he once met in a snowy alley, not the passionate and bright-eyed person he knows you to be. But then, he supposes that it’s hard for you to find that spark he’s grown so accustomed to when you’re trying desperately to claw yourself out of a grave that is constantly demanding to swallow you whole. Unfortunately, he knows the feeling.

“Hello,” he replies. It feels forbidden to smile when he’s blockaded by memories and ghosts, but for you, Gi-hun finds that he can do all kinds of things. Even attempt a smile.

“Can I sit with you?”

Eyes darting first to the timer behind your head and then to the small stretch of open mattress by his feet, he nods haltingly, drawing his legs in so they’re folded atop on another. “Of course.”

There are no butterflies fluttering in his stomach when you sit on his bed. There’s no distant tremor in his hands or the drifting of his mind to far off places, imagining the sort of things he’d allowed himself only two nights ago. This isn’t the Pink Motel. He doesn’t know why he expects to feel the same stirrings in his gut that he usually does when he shares his space with you.

Then he remembers kissing you and he ducks his head in shame.

You take the far end of the mattress as expected, but it rather feels like you’ve placed yourself on the far end of a canyon. “I don’t want to talk,” you tell him, voice soft and uncertain. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just… don’t want to be alone right now.” Your feet dangle listlessly over the edge of the bedframe. “I can’t sleep.”

Gi-hun recalls feeling the same way on his first night. So much of this is painfully familiar. He almost wonders if Sang-woo’s spirit is watching him now, studying him from somewhere among the beds or lurking in the Squid Game field. He keeps expecting to see him every time he turns a corner. What would he think of the man that he’s become? The mattress squeaks when you adjust your posture and Gi-hun suddenly finds it hard to breathe. What would Sang-woo think of you?

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, so why does he care?

“I’m sorry.” Your apology draws him blinking from the recesses of his mind. “For everything. I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

Of course it isn’t, but why on Earth are you apologizing? “It isn’t your fault,” he starts.

“Maybe. But I still feel bad.”

Following the path of your attention leads him to a bed several paces away, closer to the main floor than his own bed. Your friend Young-il is settling in for the night, one of his legs drawn atop the mattress with the other hanging off as he contemplates something far beyond Gi-hun’s reach. And for the first time in months, probably since the night he followed your friend out of the university parking lot and all the way to his hotel, Gi-hun feels angry.

It’s a different kind of anger than the one he’d directed at you just today. That was an anger born of fear and helplessness and the realization that he’d put you in danger, born of his own guilt and his own affection for you. This? This is not that.

He’s not entirely sure what it is, but he knows that he feels it whenever you look at Young-il or Young-il looks at you. You have nothing to feel guilty for. You haven’t done anything wrong. It isn’t your fault that Young-il voted O and it isn’t your fault that you’re here, and he hates that you feel otherwise.

“You aren’t the one who should be apologizing.”

There’s more he could say, more that weighs on him, but he isn’t sure how to express it. He isn’t even sure if he should. What if he loses you tomorrow? And what if he doesn’t? What if the game isn’t dalgona? What if he’s the one who dies and you’re left alone with only Jung-bae and Young-il to protect you? A bitter piece of his heart flares up at the thought and he pretends not to think about what might happen if Young-il were to die instead because that’s not the kind of man he wants to be.

Instead, Gi-hun shifts around on the mattress until he’s mirroring your posture, his legs dangling over the side as he moves the pillow and blankets around. “Stay here tonight,” he says in response to your voiceless question.

Your eyes flash wide for a second. “With you?” And if he thinks that you sound either horrified or intrigued by the prospect, Gi-hun tells himself that it doesn’t matter either way.

“I’m not sleeping.” He’s going to be watching over you for as long as he can manage. It’ll be a good distraction and it will keep you safe, and he needs both right now more than he needs anything else. “It isn’t good for you to sleep alone here. And someone should keep watch.”

What little light is reflected in your eyes shimmers like water in a glass. “Watch for what?”

For the murderous bastards who like to take out their competition while they sleep, what else? But he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t want to scare you and he knows already that detailing the horrific possibilities of the Games right before you go to bed is a recipe for disaster.

“Sleep,” he insists. The bedding is nicely arranged now, as nice as he can make it for you, even though he wishes he could do more. What if you get cold in the middle of the night? What if you overheat in your jacket? Or you get thirsty? He can’t fix any of those problems. He can only give you his protection and pray that it’s enough.

Your protest is already half spoken by the time he’s drawing himself out of bed and prompting you into the space he’s just vacated. It takes some maneuvering and no small amount of whispered requests, far gentler than Gi-hun actually feels under the weight of his memories pressing in against his skull, but finally he manages to convince you to lay down. He tucks himself into the farthest corner of the bed, hoping that your legs have enough room, that you won’t mind him being so close for so long, and he watches the minutes on the display steadily count down.

There are less than ten minutes until lights out when Young-il decides to approach him. “Gi-hun-ssi,” he nods respectfully, his hands already pressing against his thighs as he takes the steps one at a time. His eyes wander over your sleeping figure and Gi-hun has to fight himself not to snap and make a fool out of himself simply because another man happened to look at you.

“Asleep,” he says, if only to fill the empty space with something other than his animosity.

Young-il nods in understanding. “I’ll be quiet, then.” A beat. “Could we talk?”

No. “Sure.”

The narrow space between rows of beds is taken up entirely by Young-il’s body. Perched upon the highest step, it places him at about eye level. Gi-hun’s not entirely sure he likes that. “I think I was out of line before,” Young-il finally sighs. “I'd like to apologize. I'm sorry.”

What he wants to do is tell your friend that he doesn’t care for, nor does he accept, his apology. What he wants to say is that he doesn’t like the way Young-il looks at you, all appraising eyes and quiet confidence, and he doesn’t like how Young-il has stolen almost all of your attention since the moment he appeared. He wants to say it all, but he doesn’t because his mother raised him better than that and Gi-hun has never been one to be purposefully rude except on very rare occasions.

This isn’t the time or place. So, he’s gracious. He bows respectfully to Young-il and allows the apology to settle in the space between them, even if the peace it offers is fraught. “No, I laid all the blame on you.” Even if I was right to do so. “I was out of line.”

And that, he hopes, will be the full extent of it – whatever it is. He’s not interested in having a full conversation with anyone right now, but even if he was, Young-il would be at the bottom of the list. He’s strange in a very off-putting way; quiet, observant, he makes you laugh sometimes, from what he can remember, and he’s able to fight off two younger men and make it look easy. That’s not normal. And then there’s the way that you had followed him during dinner like an alley cat chasing after scraps. You don’t do things like that.

“May I ask you something?”

It takes a minute, but Gi-hun eventually relents, inclining his head just slightly.

“Why did you come back to this place? You said you won and made it out.”

He swallows heavily. “I did.”

“Then why return? You got all the money, didn’t you? Did you spend it all?”

He spent some of it. He wanted so badly to let that money rot in the bank and to never touch a single won, but then Il-nam had happened. Then you had happened. Then so many things kept happening and he thinks that somewhere along the way, he lost sight of what he had set out to do. To remember, to protect.

“That money doesn't belong to me,” he mutters, and it’s like he’s back on the Squid Game field, watching the rain mix with the mud mix with the coppery tang of metal and blood. “It's blood money for the people who died here. The same goes for the money up there.”

“You don't have to think of it that way,” and where he expected to find judgement, he instead finds some gentle, understanding thing tucked behind the corners of Young-il’s words. “It's not like you killed those people and saving that money won't bring them back to life.”

Maybe it’s just the ghosts lingering in his head and his heart. Maybe he’s just a sentimental old fool, but there’s something about the way Young-il says it that reminds him of Sang-woo. He closes his eyes and wishes, probably for the millionth time, that he had been the one to die here three years ago, not Sang-woo. Not Ssangmun-dong’s golden child.

Young-il exhales through his nose, drawing Gi-hun’s attention and prompting him to open his eyes again. Where there had once been a glint of determination, now Gi-hun sees something far more vulnerable. It’s suspiciously disarming. “Not all of us have the luxury of mixing our morals with our money, Gi-hun-ssi. Some of us,” he says, and his voice begins to waver, “are forced to play the hand we’re dealt, blood money or not.”

Curiosity gets the better of him. “And what sort of hand were you dealt?” It isn’t asked unkindly. Gi-hun recognizes regret when he sees it and there’s no need for him to be cruel, but he does want to know.

Silence expands between them, permeating every atom of space until it’s so overwhelming Gi-hun thinks he might collapse beneath its weight.

Finally, Young-il speaks. “My wife.” And Gi-hun suddenly feels like he’s going to vomit. All this time, he’s been seething over a married man who happened to have befriended you. What kind of asshole is he?

“My wife was very sick. Acute cirrhosis, the doctors said, and she needed a liver transplant.” The slight waver in his voice becomes stronger, fluctuating as Young-il finds the strength to continue his explanation. The explanation Gi-hun demanded of him. Now he suddenly wishes he’d never opened his mouth to begin with. “When she was going through the tests, we found out she was pregnant. The doctor suggested a termination, but she wouldn’t listen. Said she'd give birth even if it killed her.”

Gi-hun realizes with a start what Young-il’s clenched jaw and sudden stillness means. He knows because he’s been there before, forced to pour his grief out to whichever person demands a little too forcefully to know what haunts him in the late hours of the night. God, he’s such a prick.

“I couldn’t save them,” he says, and his voice finally gives way. Unshed tears catch in the glow of the money pig and Gi-hun feels like he’s just had his throat torn out. “I need that money to pay off the debts. The hospital bills, the funerals – it costs something, Gi-hun-ssi. Perhaps it is blood money, but it’s still money.”

He can’t imagine. In some ways, he doesn’t have to. Ga-yeong is still alive and he stopped loving his wife a long time ago, but they’re no longer a part of his life. They may as well be dead to him – he knows he’s dead in their eyes anyway. Just another corpse slipping through the cracks of a broken world.

I’m so sorry. He doesn’t have to like Young-il to say it and mean it, but even still, the words stick in his throat. Just moments ago, he had imagined this man dead on his back, unable to touch you or taint you. He’d let his personal feelings get in the way of what really mattered. Young-il could pull a knife on him this very moment and it still wouldn’t justify anything that Gi-hun’s thinking or feeling about him, and he needs to remember that. He needs to remember what he’s here for.

He glances over at you, watching your face as you snore lightly. It’s a poor imitation of a similar situation that feels so far away now, it can only be a dream. The motel. His bed. You, safe and secure. His. That had never been the plan. But then again, he’d never had a plan when it came to you. For all the good it did you both.

He shouldn’t have kissed you. He wanted to, but he shouldn’t have done it in the first place. It should have stayed a secret desire known only to the depths of his shattered soul and the bullet he still deserves to bite. All it’s done is complicate matters. It’s made him twitchy and on-edge, made him grind his teeth down to the bone and search for enemies where there are none. It’s made him turn on a man who could very easily have been a friend if he weren’t so busy being blinded by his own desires.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s relieved that the words finally come.

Young-il merely shakes his head. He’s probably heard the same turn of phrase too many times to count by now. “It’s forgiven.”

The timer overhead flashes a one minute reminder and just like that, the spell is broken. Reality comes crashing down upon shoulders. There’s an awkward exchange of glances and half-hearted smiles, murmured farewells, and then Gi-hun is left with his legs dangling off the side of his own bed and the sound of your steady breaths.

The lights click out.

Slowly, so as not to wake you, he leans his weight back against the bedframe and positions himself so he’s facing the wide-open stretch of floor in the center of the room. The X and O carved there are the only lights that still remain, casting his surroundings in faint shades of blue and red, so faint that he can hardly make anything out.

He sighs. It’s going to be a very long night.

In-ho watches the soldiers as they work. It’s strange to be here once more, to be a part of the Games after so long. When he had made the decision to enter, it had mostly been on a whim, an impulsive choice driven from the frantic desire to control, to break, to bend you, Gi-hun, and the Games to his will. He hadn’t stopped to consider all the additional benefits he might reap from this harvest.

Already, a ridge has formed between you and Gi-hun. Something changed in him last night, In-ho had seen the shift, though he still doesn’t know what to make of it. Gi-hun had allowed you to sleep in his bed – and how common a recurrence is that, exactly? – but has hardly spoken a word to you since. Every time you try to meet his eyes, he smiles faintly, nods, and withdraws into himself, and the pain of that dismissal is written all over your face.

That hadn’t been entirely intentional. It is beneficial, no matter how confounding, and he plans to utilize it as best he can because Thanos rattled him last night. That bratty remark about his children had sent him over the edge and it had only been the sound of your voice that was clear enough to cut through the maelstrom of his fury, to bring him back to himself. That had rattled him too and, much like the gallery, In-ho had handled it poorly. He was too short with you, too fixated on a philosophical spar at Gi-hun’s expense, and had unintentionally pushed you away as a result.

He needs to fix that. Curious how the opportunity presents itself almost immediately.

The arena is presented, the instructions are given, and the timer is set. Gi-hun is entirely unprepared.

“Aren't we playing the dalgona game?” demands another player – number 100, who In-ho is sure he saw lurking about and asking questions of Gi-hun over dinner yesterday. But what truly catches his attention is the mention of dalgona.

It takes everything he has within himself not to laugh. Had Gi-hun really expected all the games to be the same as before? While In-ho hadn’t anticipated that Gi-hun would be so keen to rejoin the Games, he and every other Front Man in the world prides himself on his ingenuity. It’s a part of the job description. VIPs aren’t interested in the same old tricks each year. It would be foolish – no, truly stupid – to assume that the Front Man would not alter the Games to discredit or disadvantage Gi-hun in his mission for vengeance.

“No,” Gi-hun finally says as he hangs his head, “it doesn't look like it.”

“What's the game then?”

Yes, Gi-hun, tell us what game should come next. Show us all how carefully thought through your plans are.

Dark eyes trembling with uncertainty flicker aimlessly across the stretch of dirt beneath their feet. “I'm not sure.”

So when Player 100 turns on Gi-hun and demands, “What? You said you’d done this before! Was that all bullshit?”, In-ho is not surprised. Players turning on one another is an inevitability that Gi-hun should have accounted for.

Still, his obvious discomfort and shame is another victory mark on the scoreboard In-ho hides at the back of his mind.

“I'm sorry,” he says, pleading for compassion from a man who has clearly never said a kind word to anyone in his life.

“Sorry won't cut it!”

Gi-hun is trembling now, his entire body flinching with every cruel word flung his way. He folds in on himself like a child folds under the weight of a parent’s belt, and In-ho watches. Will he not stand up for himself? Is he content enough in his self-loathing to take abuse from a man who would kill him in an instant if the opportunity arose?

“You talked like you knew everything! All these people believed your bullshit! What are you going to do, huh? Will you take responsibility?”

He thinks to insert himself into the fight, to diffuse the tension and endear himself further to Gi-hun and his cause, and perhaps even regain your trust in the process by defending the man you so clearly love. But for once in his life (or rather, for the second time), In-ho is too late.

“Excuse me, sir.” There is no feigned politeness in your voice, no deference to your elders in your words or tone. If anything, the tacked on ‘sir’ sounds more like a slap in the face than a term of respect. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

Player 100 blinks back his shock, tripping all over the practiced insults he is so eager to distribute. His face goes red and his mouth falls open, gaping like a fish, until he finally manages to compose himself a few moments later. “This has nothing to do with you.” He closes in on you then, and In-ho sees it before you do, all the rage that’s beginning to boil over, the quivering fists and bared teeth, and he feels the shock of it in his stomach.

“Then it has nothing to do with you either,” you retort, and you go so far as to take a step closer to the man. Are you insane? “You don’t get to talk to him like that.”

It isn’t instinct that drives him to press his chest into your back. It isn’t instinct that pushes him to glare a pseudo-bullet hole into 100’s head. It is simply the movement of a chess piece across the board. “That's enough,” he utters, and the word is final.

And he expects to be rewarded for it. It was a calculated move, intentional and deliberate down to the weight of his body against yours and the timbre of his voice. That’s why he feels so unmoored when, rather than turning to thank him, you immediately rush to Gi-hun’s side. That’s why he’s left blinking at the empty space you’ve left behind and wondering what crucial part of his plan he’d missed. There is no other reason for the taste of bile in his throat or the slamming of his heart against his ribcage. None.

He takes no pleasure in your rejection, either. That’s what he chooses to believe. When Gi-hun accepts your comfort for a few treasured moments only to then pull away when he’s had his fill, to not allow you to dote on him, your reaction is so immediate and so blatant that the entire group can see it. Jung-bae and Dae-ho at least have the courtesy to look away and offer you a second of privacy; In-ho does not.

You chose this and he wants you to know that he knows. He does not look away when your eyes land on him. He does not soften his gaze. Rather, he tilts his head as if to say, I stood up for you. What has Gi-hun done?

The next ten minutes are unbearably awkward. The five of you already constitute a team, so no need to search for any further additions. Dae-ho officially introduces himself, only to immediately stick his foot in his mouth by inquiring exactly how everyone knows each other. Your eyes land on In-ho, then slide over to Gi-hun, and none of them answers. If he were watching this from the observation deck, it might almost be humorous, but he’s not and it isn’t. In truth, it’s painful.

Jung-bae is in the middle of a remarkably boring re-enactment of the time he and Gi-hun had gone out for soju as teens when another player approaches. In-ho has never been so relieved by a distraction in all his life.

“Excuse me,” she says sweetly, “can I join you?”

Jung-bae already seems displeased by having his story interrupted, but he softens his frustration for the girl’s sake. “Sorry, we’ve already got five people.”

“Please.” She takes a step closer, pushing herself slightly into the loose arc the five of them have formed, and takes a turn looking at each person. There’s something about her that gives In-ho pause, something he can’t put his finger on. “Help me. I’m pregnant.”

The girl rests her hand on her stomach, just over the little swell of life below her ribcage, and for a moment In-ho is very far away. He sees the hospital bed, the IVs and faded scars of needle pricks along Min-jung’s arm, he sees her sallow face, and he feels the same blinding needing to protect, defend, defy. To save. It passes quickly enough, but leaves him off-centered and irritable. Vulnerable.

He casts his eyes to Gi-hun first, curious to see just how the mighty hero of the Games plans to handle the situation. He flounders, of course, and In-ho isn’t surprised. Jung-bae is the one to break the news, apologetic and kind, but with the weight of the world on his shoulders because they all know they’ve created a decent team. They all know what it means to turn her away. That’s why it surprises him when yours is the voice that rises in response.

“I can… I can find another team.”

He and Gi-hun both share the same exclamation. “What?”

Your face practically folds in on itself with the force of your emotions. You don’t hide your compassion very well, but neither do you hide your fear – you’re uneasy about leaving the security your team offers you, however false it may be, but you’re equally uneasy about putting a pregnant woman at risk. And while he would never admit it aloud, In-ho finds himself sympathetic to your predicament.

Gi-hun’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, his frustration written into every crease and dimple in his skin. “It’s safest for you to be with us,” he asserts, reluctantly.

“But Gi-hun-a, she’s pregnant!” As if Jung-bae hadn’t already elected to turn the girl away.

He looks to Gi-hun once more, studying, noting every twitching tendon and flicker of regret that cuts across his face. What will you choose, Seong Gi-hun? Which horse is most likely to win the race?

“It’s alright,” says the girl with her soft doe eyes and pregnant belly. In-ho does not see his wife in her. He doesn’t. “I’m sure I can find another group.”

“No!” you exclaim, scrambling forward to take her hand in both of yours. Then your voice drops, it softens and shakes with the certainty of your sacrifice. “No, you should stay with them. They’ll keep you safe.”

You guide her to stand in the perfectly sized space between himself and Gi-hun, your brows now furrowed as you seem to be searching inside yourself for something. Then your chin tilts up and your gaze lands on Gi-hun. Several seconds tick by as you survey his face, so raw and exposed in a way In-ho isn’t sure he’s ever seen on you before.

The cold slice of bitterness cuts across his lungs at the sight. What can Gi-hun do to save you beyond sacrificing someone from his own carefully constructed team? You should be looking at him like that. He is the only one here with the power to save your life, the only one who might possibly be swayed by your fear and desperation.

“Gi-hun-a.”

And something deep within In-ho’s stomach twists in delight. He knows better than to raise his expectations after the countless hundreds he has seen fight and die in this very room, but logic cannot always outweigh intrigue, not for him.

Jung-bae leans forward, casting his old friend a smile. Sweat is already beading along his hairline. “Let them both stay, Gi-hun-a. I’ll go find another team.”

That something in his stomach lifts higher until it’s crackling like a firework behind his ribcage. Another gamble. The stakes are higher, but so is the reward. The question is whether or not Gi-hun still feels inclined to betting on horses the way he once did. In-ho already knows the answer, but it’s Gi-hun’s self-realization he wants to see, the inward understanding and acceptance that In-ho found for himself years ago. Which of your pawns will you sacrifice first, and which of them will come back when the clock runs out? Who deserves to live, Gi-hun? And who deserves to die?

It is Jung-bae who makes the decision in the end, and the loss of Gi-hun’s conflict is admittedly disappointing, but the Game hasn’t started yet. There is still victory to be found and In-ho will find it. The Front Man always does.

Ddakji. Biseokchigi. Gonggi. Spinning top. Jegi.

You’ve never played a single one. There are games that are similar enough in your home country, but the rules or the materials are slightly different. Different enough that you don’t have nearly as much confidence in your ability to successfully play any of these games as you wish you did.

Ddakji is a blatant no. Even though you’d managed well enough against that businesswoman all that time ago, it still feels wrong to play. You promised Gi-hun you never would again and that suits you just fine. The pregnant girl, Jun-hee, takes it, much to your relief.

Gonggi goes to the boisterous gentleman, Dae-ho. He says he grew up playing it with his sisters and seems confident in his skills, which is more experience than the rest of you have put together.

“That leaves biseokchigi, spinning top, and jegi.” Gi-hun looks to you. “Which do you think you’d be better at?”

You try very hard not to look as deeply panicked as you feel. “Which one’s the easiest?” It’s not a question that inspires very much confidence, you know that, but in truth you’re not sure you’d be very good at any of them.

Young-il and Gi-hun share a rather pointed look, which doesn’t help your confidence in the slightest. Defeat already feels imminent. You should’ve picked another team, at least that way your friends would be more likely to survive. Jun-hee and her baby, too.

“Don’t say that,” Young-il chides when you find yourself admitting as much. He rests a gentle hand upon your shoulder. “We’re a team, [___]. We’ll work together.”

“That’s right,” Gi-hun nods. “Why don’t you watch the first round and see how they’re played? You can decide which one is best for you.”

And it would have been such a brilliant idea if the first team to go hadn’t been brutally slaughtered. And the second team too. How are you meant to have any faith in yourself when the Korean-born players ahead of you keep getting themselves shot because they can’t throw a damn rock? You haven’t even had a chance to see jegi played yet because no one has made it that far.

“Don’t panic.” But no amount of kind and quiet compassion from Gi-hun, or even Young-il, is enough to calm your nerves. “[___]. [___], look at me. Look.”

You hesitantly lift your eyes to meet his. For a moment, all you can see are the bodies dropping to the floor behind him, the blood, you can hear the screaming and the gunfire. But then he reaches for your hands and holds them tightly.

“Think back to when you were a child. What kinds of games did you play? What were you good at?”

You try very hard to do as he asks. At the very least, it’s a distraction from the death that looms all around you. Searching your memories doesn’t offer as much hope as you would’ve liked – nights spent playing board games or reading, or the few activities you were decent at when you would go to recess. There’s not much that transfers over. Until, quite suddenly, you remember something.

“I used to skip rocks,” you tell him, a smile finally winning over the despair that’s been clinging to you like a second skin. “At the lake. I was good at it, too. That’s close enough to biseokchigi, isn’t it?” Just by watching the other players, the actions look comparable enough. It takes a certain amount of precision to make a rock skip smoothly over the water, as it takes a certain amount of precision to hit a target.

Gi-hun nods amicably. “Good. That’s good.” He squeezes your hands one last time before finally releasing them and you miss his touch immediately. He keeps you grounded whenever he’s near. “Young-il-ssi. Which one are you better at – jegi or spinning top?”

“I’ll take whichever you pick for me, Gi-hun-ssi.” There’s a softness to his voice, something that you wouldn’t have expected to hear in the midst of all this bloodshed. But Young-il continues to surprise you, as he has since you met him.

Gi-hun seems as surprised by Young-il’s deferment as you are, though he doesn’t speak on it. You can see him trying to work it out in his head before finally giving up. “Then… I’ll take jegi.”

The decisions are made just in time for the next round of teams to start playing. You can’t make out the team on the opposite end of the room, but you recognize one of the players on your side – Hyun-ju. She’s teamed up with several others you haven’t spoken to yet, but the mother player and her son are with her. That’s good. They all seem to have a good head on their shoulders and while you aren’t happy that Hyun-ju voted O, you don’t want her to die either. You end up rooting for her louder than any of the others on her team.

It's a close call. The woman playing spinning top makes several mistakes when it’s her turn and it very nearly costs the entire team their lives. There are several stretches of awful, agonizing seconds where you forget to breathe. So many people have already died today. You don’t want Hyun-ju to die, you don’t want her team to die. You want to believe there’s even the slightest glimmer of hope for the rest of you.

They make it to jegi. Everyone turns around. There are only seconds left on the clock. You can’t look. You can’t bear to watch their bodies get riddled with bullets. Everyone around you is shouting and jumping, and then the clock runs out and there’s no gunfire, no bullets, no blood sprayed across the rainbow track.

You open your eyes to see one of the soldiers unlocking the restraints on Hyun-ju’s ankle. And then you feel Dae-ho jerking you by the shoulder and spinning you around so he can hug you. They’re alive. Jun-hee looks up at you with the truest smile you’ve seen on her yet. You don’t realize until your eyes start to sting that you’re crying.

They’re alive. There’s hope!

Things don’t seem so bleak after that. More players die, yes, but more players survive too. You have to keep your chin up so you don’t fall back into your despair. Despair won’t keep you alive. You and Dae-ho huddle together at one point so he can practice his gonggi skills. Jun-hee sits quietly beside you both with a hand on her stomach, content to watch you both. You try to strike up a casual conversation with them, something to draw your minds away from the dwindling player numbers, but your heart isn’t really in it. Neither is theirs. You’re all too preoccupied to care that much.

When he takes a moment to think on it, In-ho is genuinely surprised to realize that he’s enjoying himself. When another team wins, the celebration is contagious. More than once has he found himself grasping at Gi-hun’s shoulder, his mouth cracked open to laugh and shout, his heart pounding with the joy of community and the relief of hope.

Hope.

He sees it on your face as clear as day. As often as he has found himself cheering and clinging to Gi-hun, he has felt you do the same to him. Both of them, in fact. Your smile has seared itself into his brain, your hands have clutched at his jacket and Gi-hun’s shoulder, and In-ho has found himself truly lost to the rush of it all.

The Games hadn’t been like this when he had been the victor. There was no camaraderie in the arenas he’d spilled blood in. Hope was a fleeting thing for him even then. He’s amazed at just how much can change in the span of a few years, aided by the illusion of friendship.

Jung-bae’s voice calls across the courtyard, then, drawing the entire team’s attention. “Hey!” He lifts his arm high in the air as one of the soldiers latches his ankle in place. “We'll see you again at the finish line!”

In-ho very highly doubts that.

“Yes!” cries Dae-ho, a bit too loudly for his tastes. It makes his ear ring. “We'll see each other again!”

“Gi-hun-a!”

In-ho can feel Gi-hun’s body go tense against his, his shoulders suddenly rigid as he smiles bittersweetly at his friend. In-ho already knows what he’s thinking; likely, it’s the very thought he’d had when faced with the possibility of being separated from you – that he can’t control the outcome of the game if you’re out of his reach.

For the sake of the game, though, he pretends to care. “I believe in our team,” he says as Dae-ho loops one arm in his and Gi-hun does the same with the other. He smiles. “Both our teams. Plus, we have the previous winner with us.”

Suddenly, you lean forward and gesture frantically to get his and Gi-hun’s attention. “Let’s not rush ourselves, okay? If we try walking too fast, we’ll trip and fall and that’ll waste time. Yeah?”

In-ho finds himself nodding. He finds that his smile is a touch more genuine. “Good plan,” he nods, and Gi-hun is quick to agree.

One of the soldiers raises their pistol in the air. In-ho’s heart gets caught somewhere between his stomach and his shoes.

Bang!

Ddakji comes first. The girl gets it on her first try and he’s elated. He swallows up the rush of adrenaline that her success brings and goes blindly chasing for more, his vision tunneling around  the stone you’re meant to throw.

“Take your time.” He doesn’t mean to say it, doesn’t plan or rehearse it, it just comes out of him as naturally as anything else might.

Dae-ho nods eagerly beside you. He’s wringing his hands as he tilts out of your way, pressing his shoulder against In-ho’s. (Strangely, he finds he doesn’t mind it.) “Yes! Deep breaths, [___]! You’ve got this!”

But you’re already waving your free hand in his direction. “Ah, quiet, quiet! Let me think!”

The arena falls quiet save for the thundering of In-ho’s pulse and the steady, measured pace of your exhalations. You lower yourself into a partial crouch, feet wide, elbow out, and your lips parted. One second ticks by. Then another. Your shoulders rise and fall with another deep breath and then–

The intercom blazes to life. “Fail.”

Shit.

“It’s okay, it’s okay! We still have time!” Gi-hun exclaims. He’s pointing wildly at the clock and In-ho is grateful for it because it reminds him of where he is, who he is. Not even a full minute has passed yet. Everything’s going to be fine.

It takes about fifteen seconds to retrieve the stone and march back to the starting point. One minute gone, four minutes to go. He might be a bit nervous, but he isn’t truly worried. A lot can happen in four minutes. And besides, he gets a rare chance to study you now. Watching you calculate your next move, cataloging the distance between yourself and the target stone, hefting the weight of the other rock in your hand as you think – it’s exhilarating.

You’re about to throw again when his eyes drop and he practically lurches forward, almost pulling everyone off balance so he can swing his arm out in front of you. “[___], your feet!”

You were standing directly on the line. It would have disqualified your throw and wasted even more time. Self-preservation. Survival instinct. That’s all it is. So why does he get such a buzz from wondering what might have happened if he hadn’t said anything at all? How your face might have contorted when you suddenly realized you’d doomed your entire team?

He loses the opportunity to know for sure when both stones go tumbling top over bottom and the soldier for this station raises their arms overhead. “Pass.” Even so, he cheers just as emphatically as everyone else.

They march steadily on. The entire team drops into a crouch. You and the pregnant girl lean into one another and In-ho does the same on Dae-ho’s other side. His knee knocks against Gi-hun’s and rather than pull away, he embraces it. Camaraderie. Fellowship. Hope. It’s as thrilling to embrace them once more as it is to level a semiautomatic at a traitor’s head and squeeze the trigger.

Dae-ho rubs his hands together. His fingers are deft, his body light, and in seconds – seconds – he’s flawlessly performed each round of gonggi and elevated them to the next part of the challenge. In-ho cheers for that too, and it’s the truest thrill he’s felt in years.

Spirits are high as they round the track. He can hear you and Gi-hun chanting in time, can hear Dae-ho’s excitable mutterings. He can even feel himself smiling again. Apart from your initial slip-up, things are going perfectly and there’s still almost three minutes left on the clock. It’s just such a shame that the VIPs crave a bit of excitement, isn’t it?

The twine is slick with blood and sweat when he picks it up. The top itself is slightly dented along the edge and its lower point dulled after too many landings, but it’s still useable. He had ensured as much himself just last night, but the others don’t know that. As far as any of them know, Young-il could be horrific at spinning top. Young-il could be the one to get them all killed.

He transfers the top into his non-dominant hand and with a flick of his wrist, the top goes sprawling onto its side.

Gi-hun squeezes his arm amicably. “It’s alright. We still have time, Young-il-ssi. Everyone! One, two, one, two, one–”

He restrings the top, stopping only to spare the timer a glance. Nearing the two minute mark, which means he has enough time for one more delay, maybe two if he’s fast enough. He pushes Gi-hun out of the way – rather nicely, actually, all things considered – and positions himself accordingly. He doesn’t even mean to toss it backwards like that.

“Shit, I’m sorry–”

“Ah, it’s okay,” Gi-hun mutters, even though it’s not, even though his voice is wracked with tremors.

He smiles when he hears your voice, how you’re trying to offer him a bit of encouragement but it falls flat because you don’t think he can do it. Because you’re afraid. Because you believe more in Gi-hun than you do in him.

That’s alright, he thinks. Assuming he doesn’t get you killed in the next two minutes – and he knows he won’t because he’s planned for that too – he’ll be able to teach you a decent lesson in patience and faith.

A minute thirty. He has time enough.

In-ho blinks dejectedly at the top in his hands. His heart is caught in his throat. Even when he screams, even when he slaps himself so hard that it makes his ears ring, it sits there like a lump of food that refuses to go down. And he chases that feeling too, allows the dread to settle in his stomach and run cold through his veins.

“You goddamn idiot! You fucking idiot! What’s wrong with you, huh?”

Voices are clamoring over one another. Hands are scrambling and bodies are leaning away. The timer ticks down another few seconds and In-ho fights the urge to smile because there you are. Eyes wider than ever before, your mouth and brows puckered with concern as you reach across Dae-ho’s body and try to soothe him. Gi-hun beats you to it, of course, but he gets what he wants in the end.

“Pass.”

He’s never found jegi nearly as interesting before as he does now. He doesn’t know where to look. He wants to capture it all, every fleeting micro expression and frantic breath, every tense muscle and colorful swing of the jegi. The last non-adrenalined, partially composed piece of his brain that still functions notes the idea of rewatching the game footage once he returns to his apartment. And then he’s not really thinking of anything logical or composed at all because he’s shooting his foot out to save the day, to save his own life (he doesn’t need to), your life (he doesn’t need to), to save Gi-hun, Dae-ho, and the pregnant girl’s lives (he doesn’t need to, but he does it anyway).

“Pass.”

The finish line comes into sight, a pink band that breaks across his chest. How strange to think that such an insignificant thing can make the difference between life and death. How strange to find himself crying out in the embrace of a friend and finally, finally, feeling alive.

And then he sees that flash of pink in the distance. Guns raised, legs stanced. He meets Park Jung-bae’s eyes for a fleeting moment before the gunfire starts, and then the only thing he can hear is Gi-hun’s throat ripped raw from the force of his own grief.

[phoenixrisingastro]

𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐖𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐋𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 & 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬

There are some people in this world who can make you do anything.

Some people who can make you question yourself, warp your reality, surrender your power, and beg for more.

They own you before you even realize it.

You think you’re immune to it.

"I’d never fall for that"

But that’s exactly what they want you to think.

Because by the time you realize you’re in their grasp—it’s already too late.

This is the astrology of the dangerous. The worshipped. The ones you can’t get enough of. The ones who make people burn their entire lives down just to be close to them.

And if you see yourself in this…

Congratulations.

You hold a power most people can’t even fathom.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝘂𝗻: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗪𝗵𝗼 𝗦𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗧𝗼𝗼 𝗕𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗟𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗔𝘄𝗮𝘆

☀ Sun in Scorpio, Leo, Capricorn — The ones who command respect without ever asking for it. Their presence alone is enough to make people hang onto their every word. You don’t follow them because they tell you to—you follow them because you can’t imagine a world where they’re not leading you.

☀ Sun Conjunct Pluto — The puppeteer behind the curtain. The one who radiates raw, primal authority. They are not just a person—they are a force. You don’t get close to them without being changed forever.

☀ Sun in the 8th or 10th House — These people own rooms. They step in, and people take notice. Even in silence, they demand attention. And they always, always get it.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻: 𝗘𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗿𝗼𝗹 𝗗𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗗𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗹𝘆 𝗪𝗲𝗹𝗹

🌙 Moon in Scorpio, Pisces, Libra — They know what you need before you even say it. They play into your vulnerabilities like a maestro composing a symphony. You’ll find yourself trusting them blindly, even when you shouldn’t.

🌙 Moon Square or Opposite Pluto — They pull you in and keep you there. The power to emotionally own people, to entangle them so deeply that escape feels impossible. They don’t manipulate—they consume.

🌙 Moon Conjunct Neptune — The illusionist. The one who makes you believe they are everything you’ve ever wanted. You’ll never be able to tell where their mask ends and where they begin.

𝗠𝗲𝗿𝗰𝘂𝗿𝘆: 𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗖𝗮𝗻 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗼𝘆 𝗬𝗼𝘂 (𝗼𝗿 𝗘𝗻𝘀𝗹𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗬𝗼𝘂)

🗝 Mercury in Scorpio, Gemini, Aquarius — They talk, and you listen. You hang onto every syllable because they know exactly how to say what you need to hear.

🗝 Mercury Conjunct Pluto — The mind-fuckers. The ones who say the most innocent things in ways that make you rethink your entire existence. Every word they speak rewires your brain, making you see only what they want you to see.

🗝 Mercury Trine Neptune — The spell-casters. They can make you believe anything. They can spin a lie so beautifully that it becomes reality.

𝗩𝗲𝗻𝘂𝘀: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗿𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗹 𝗔𝗯𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻

💋 Venus in Scorpio, Pisces, Libra — They make love feel like religion. You don’t just fall for them—you devote yourself to them.

💋 Venus Square Pluto — The ones you never get over. The ones who haunt you, who make you feel like you’ll never experience love like that again. Because you won’t.

💋 Venus in the 8th House — The sirens. The ones who pull you into deep, endless, sexual obsession. They don’t have lovers—they have worshippers.

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝘀: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗮𝗴𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻

🔥 Mars in Scorpio, Aries, Leo — They don’t ask for control, they take it. These people don’t just exude power—they are power.

🔥 Mars Conjunct Pluto — The destroyer. The one who obliterates people’s self-control just by existing. A touch, a look, a single fucking sentence—and you’re done.

🔥 Mars in the 8th House — Their sexual energy is so potent it warps people’s perception of them. People want them, need them, obsess over them. And they don’t even have to try.

And so I ask you this…

Have you ever felt drawn to someone in ways you couldn’t explain?

Have you ever given yourself over to someone completely, without knowing why?

If you recognize yourself in this…

Congratulations.

You are either the enslaved… or the enslaver.

There is no in-between.

And once you’ve stepped into this world…

You’ll never escape.

© PhoenixRisingAstro, 2025. All rights reserved

[hotchnersangel]

The Manuscript.

Aaron Hotchner

a/n; hey so i hate myself after this bc my heart hurtssssssss. Oh my god i cant breathe why have i done that ouch

warnings; implications of sex, heartbreak, age gap, light mentions of eating struggles, emotional hotch

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

You and Aaron had a loving and happy relationship for the most part, no, for the whole part. You always felt safe with him, content when in his arms and no matter what was going on, you knew that it would be okay because you had Aaron, but... now you didn't. You no longer had him and that was the issue, the root of your internal pain- the feeling of claustrophobia as you're trapped within your own body, being suffocated and closed in on very slowly and agonisingly.

Your relationship had happened hard and fast. One day he was your boss, the next you were entwined in his arms and suddenly all you knew was him. Now and then you re-read the manuscript of your relationship. A silly, stupid, gutwrenching piece of paper displayed with your handwriting. The only place the two of you were still together.

The concept seemed silly now but the two of you promised to write out letters to one another on extremely special occasions. It held a greater sentiment than leaving a message when it was handwritten. You had only one but that one manuscript was the bane of your existence, drawing you in like a moth to the flame. It was enough to sentence you to a life imposing as a lamb to slaughter, at his hand. You hated how he always had an effect on you, even after all these years, he was always your because. The manuscript in question? His hand written confession of love. You scoff looking over the paper, tracing your finger over the ink scrawling and silently curse Aaron Hotchner and his utter romantic mind.

'I'm not a donor but I'd give you my heart if you needed it.'

A sentence that haunted the ghost of who she had become.

It had been a very long and passionate night between the two of you. Let's just say age had not effected you man's ability to perform when it came to you. Over and over and over. You were laying in bed besides him, tracing his cheek with the pad of your fingertips, memorising the features of his face. "I don't know what I prefer, being given the opportunity to be this intimate with you... or being able to talk to you about anything and know you still care." "You don't have to prefer one or the other," you reply with a smile, kissing his nose. "You will always have both." "Don't say things like that uness you want to be pushing our baby's stroller," he jokes with a loving smile and you laugh. Your pretty sure your heart just burst with love and adoration for this man.

But, soon it was over.

The reason he broke up with you was 'simple', because of you age gap, he deemed it to be inappropriate. Sure, you were in your late twenties and he may be in his fourties but it had never been a problem to him before.

In the age of him you wished you were thirty, if it meant that much to him. Just a few more years and it would have been fine. You wouldn't have lost the love of your life. Your soulmate, your person. Because that's what he was. He understood you, he accepted you and most importantly- he loved you.

You had dreams while in the relationship and post-relationship about making coffee every morning before work in his fancy new french press. Coffee was a huge part of your job enrichment so to start with a genuinely good coffee was always a reason to smile that day. Though, your favourite part of that damn french press was the coffee scented kisses. Every morning before you got in the car, Aaron made sure to kiss you with every ounce of love he had for you, no matter if you were both running late or urgently called out, he never forgot. The kisses tasted like him, it's strange how the smell and taste coffee could be so distinct to a person; to the point where it takes over all of your senses. You haven't drank coffee since you guys broke up.

After the breakup, you went back home to England to stay with your parents. You never understood how much a breakup could effect you until you stayed in bed all day, not even your own, your mother's bed. She held you as you cried for days on end, trying to coerce you back into an everyday routine once again but soon giving up because she knew it would not work. She regularly brought you a bowl of cereal, trying to get you to eat something. Though, you rarely ate it, especially in the first few days.

"It was your favourite when you were little, I thought maybe some nostalgia could help." Your mom explained with a soft smile, holding you like you were still a baby, because you would always be her aby and all she wanted to do was protect you.

Eventually you started dating again, this time a boy who was your own age. Though, you couldn't help but compare him to your Aaron. This boy was immature, didn't know what he wanted and cared only about parties. A bad choice, you knew that not all boys your age care about so little but they would never compare to Aaron. A man who wrote you a handwritten confession of love and kissed you so gently like you were soon to be framed in an art gallery.

He often told you that you were wise beyond your years which you accepted as a compliment. You had to mature sooner, with the actions of your irresponsible father, you were forced to learn to live without him in your life. Maybe that's part of the initial appeal to Aaron.

Years ad passed since your breakup and life no longer felt real, maybe you over-depended on Aaron but it was far from unhealthy. Your life felt like a cruel drama you watch on an occasional weekend. In the time apart, you went to university back in England, studying a psychology masters with hopes of diverting from police work into psychological fields. But goddamn, everything reminded you of him.

The professor had told us that looking backwards may be the only way to move forward in life, not appealing to us, but to the degree, though it played at your heartstrings and you knew what you had to do.

You booked a flight out to Quantico, Virginia as soon as you could. The plane ride was like a death trap for you. A feeling of distraught ripping at your insides, something that had never truly gone away these past years. Suddenly you wonder if he had been feeling the same these past years. They say water holds memories so when the tears stream down your face with adamant precision, you knew that you were about to rip open a half stitched wound.

The sheet of paper was the only thing you brought with you.

You started to get nervous at seeing him again for the first time in many of years and hopefully, it was the last. Hopefully the dreams would stop, the reminders would stop and you will be okay again.

You walk into the FBI building, the security still recognising you and letting you through the building and you press level 6 when you get into the elevator, for the very last time. You exist the elevator and look into the familiar building, seeing the team in the bullpen as you walk through. Emily looks up and catches your eye, immediately shocked to see you. A ghost of her unit chief's past.

"Hello you- what are you doing here?" She smiles and pulls you into a hug dragging everyones attention. Soon they all swaddle you in hugs and welcomes.

"I'm not here for long, I just came to... drop something off." You say with a flat mouth and you know damn well they can see the effect it is having on you.

"Do you want one of us to give it to him?" JJ asks kindly, placing her hand on your shoulder, offering a polite smile.

In reality they can all see that you had yet to heal from your breakup, you still looked exhausted, you looked hollow. Like a part was taken from you and it seemed all too familiar to them because you looked like Aaron, maybe even in a better condition than him.

"No, I want to seee his one last time." You say simply and point up the stairs. "is he up there?"

They nod and so you knock on the door and open it, your heart shattering at the sight of him. He was far from looking after himself, you knew him enough to tell despite him looking professional. He looks up from his work load and stares at you, his mouth falling into an 'o'.

"What..."

You shake your head, "Aaron, hi." you breathe out softly, a huge weight on your shoulders.

"Hi... please come in." You do but you don't sit.

"I'm here to give-"

"How've you-"

You both overlap one another, letting out a soft sigh with a smile.

"How've you been?" His eyes are glassy, probably from how he was rubbing them to see if you were really stood infront of him or not.

"Fine."

"How's London?" He asks again, softer this time.

"Good. I needed my mom."

"Yes." He nods and looks at you longingy. The silence is thick.

"I- I came to return this." You say softly, handing over the sheets of handwritten paper. "I think it is inappropriate to keep considering our circumstances."

He takes the sheet, his finger brushing against yours and you feel your heart shatter in your chest. Tears burned your eyes and you handed him it and he took it, opening it to see if it was true. He looked at the paper and visibly frowned, tears mimicing yours in his eyes. "You're giving it back? You flew here to...give it back?"

"The only thing that is left in us healing is the manuscript-"

"Oh," he wipes his eyes, not even hiding his feelings. "Can I hug you?"

You nod, knowing this is the last time you will get to experience this again. "Take it as my last souvenir from my trip to your shores." You laugh through tears, holding onto him like it was the last thing you will ever do.

You cry into each others arms, holding one another so tightly. "I re-read that so many times and i realised... the story isn't mine anymore."

[pricegouge]

Also for the apocalypse if you’re still in the mood … Nik and his dochka who didn’t have a particularly healthy normal relationship to begin with, and toss in either a contagious infection or mutation-causing radiation, maybe some sex pollen type vibes. Nikolai locking his sweet girl up in her room after he’s exposed— needs to protect you from him— and he’s getting all of these sick urges… but he’s a strong man with an iron will, so he’ll be fine. You can stay in here until… until this wears off. Until there’s a cure.

His will may be iron when it comes to denying himself his own desires, but when it comes to you? It’s paper thin. He can only stand to hear your crying and pawing at the door for so long. You’re used to so much affection from him, he’s all you have left in a world that’s ending, you’re used to being able to crawl into his bed to sleep if you need to. You just can’t handle feeling so lonely, even if it’s what papochka says needs to happen to keep you safe. It hurts too much to be without him, you tell him as much, chipping away at his resolve. Not to mention the sweet scent coming from your door, like a siren call…

-🦷

I've said it before and I'll say it again. whatever the hell the opposite of dacryphilia is will always get me

cw: incest, obviously. grooming implied. dubcon due to consent being pretty meaningless but aside from that everyone is very happy to be here. i ended up adding a dash of religious guilt just cause i thought it added to reader's innocence. unedited and idek if it's hot to anyone else but like. gotta jump back on that smut writing horse sometime.

the worst part is, you want to be strong for him but you just can't seem to manage it. you know he's in pain, that he's scared for your safety. you want to be good, like he asked. because you're always good for him. but everything's been so hard ever since...

well, ever since.

(you don't like thinking about it, the incident. that first encounter, on the train, when papa had had to bloody his fist on a man's jaw because he'd gotten to close to you.)

they said it affected one's inhibition. made angry men violent, and lustful men like that one on the train... physical. in the streets, people had been reduced to animal instinct, but papa was not a sinful man so you didn't understand when he'd locked you away in your room, offering no real explanation beyond a general need to keep you safe.

yet there was no safer place than by his side, especially not when you spend every waking minute scared, jumping at shadows as the ghost of the man on the train haunts you late into the night. you'd tried to keep your cries muffled, but it was hard to do so in your sleep. twice now you've woken up to the sound of your father just outside the door, thumping his head against it as he tries to keep himself in check. keep himself away from you.

it only brings you more tears, fear and loneliness mixing until you can't even pry yourself away from the door, scratching at it like an abandoned puppy as you cry for the man who has always made things better, who's never once denied you anything until now.

he gives when you ask if it's the virus making him this way, if he's always wished to keep you locked away from him. "you're like that man, aren't you?" you sniffle, heaped next to the door one evening with your cheek pressed up against it, listening to him pacing on the other side. "acting on impulse. only, you don't want me." your voice creaks, fresh sobs building, but it's drowned out by the squeal of the hinges, the door falling away from you as it's ripped back, spilling you out into the hall where's papa's crouched to catch you, free hand heavy as he stokes it over your brow, down your cheek. with his forehead pressed to yours, he murmurs something about how stupid you are and then kisses you soundly before you can even get yourself worked up about the insult.

apologies follow, murmured against your skin in between the kisses he peppers across your face. he's sorry for locking you away, for ignoring your cries. he's sorry he left you all alone when he knows how scared you are. he's even sorry for calling you stupid, a notion that would make you giggle if not for the way his stubble scratches your skin, makes you arch into him, seeking more. he's overgrown, hasn't shaved properly in days. you wonder if that's due to a general lack of care brought about by the virus, or because supplies are going limited.

but it's hard to care about such things he's pressed against you so insistently, blocking out all other thoughts with a physicality you're unused to from him. papa has never been distant by any means (in fact the two of you have always had the close sort of relationship that's made your friends jealous. snide little comments and meant to drive a wedge between you. papa had never let you listen, assured you that your friends were simply misguided because their own fathers were no good.) but this feels different. his kisses have never lingered like this before, never been pressed into the crook of your neck, humid breath lingering on your skin as he breathes deep your scent. neither have you ever felt -. he's never been -.

"i'm sorry, milaya," he says again, aimless, like he doesn't even know what he's apologizing for anymore. generally, maybe.

there's no need for it, regardless. you hold his face between your palms and tell him it's okay and he caves, again, sinking against you with his lips sealed to yours until your knees buckle and he guides you to the bed. he keeps apologizing but you don't want to hear it, not when he's making you feel so good, so you distract him with more kisses, keep his lips busy another way. distantly, you know it's wrong, but what can it matter when the word's burning outside your window? when he's burning here and now, between your thighs, desperate for a relief only you can give him?

he promises to at least make it good, makes a sound like you've gut punched him when you say you know he will. he gets your skirt up first, lets you bunch it between your teeth when he draws embarrassing sounds from your lips, his own moving against your pussy with the same kind of ardor he'd shown your neck - desperate huffs and gentle, lingering kisses. it's… a lot, but not enough. makes you whine and squirm but doesn't make you mindless the way you'd thought it would, not until he groans in pleasure and digs himself deeper, panting against you with his nose pressed to your clit as he works you open on his tongue. he lets you get used to it, lets your pleasure build as much as it will, like this, dissatisfied and empty. he only moves when you're begging, fingers sunk into his hair as you try to pull him closer, deeper, anywhere -

of course he knows what you need. resurfaces with a deep, shuddering breath which he filters through the hair on your mound. his finger finds your hole as he mouths at you absently, too busy watching your reaction with heavy-lidded eyes. you take the first finger easily enough, cunt soaked with all his efforts. he gives you time to adjust anyway, digit gently probing against your front wall as he fucks it in and out of you minutely. it's better, but still not what you need, and he chuckles against your skin when you pout at him, trying to work your hips up despite the oppressive weight he's got leaned onto you.

"patience, dochka," he warns, no real heat. but it seems he's done denying you anything because his second finger lines up with the first even before he's finished speaking, blunt tip rubbing against your fluttering lips until they give, slight burn soothed by the way his first finger keeps rubbing against you. still, your father is a big man and it's a big stretch, forces a tiny gasp from you even as you try to breathe around it. and papa's at his limit for how much pain he can cause you.

his lips find your clit before you can even process the sting, long hot stripes that have you melting, legs falling away from him like a flower in bloom. he muscles impossibly closer in their absence, broad shoulders carving space for himself in the cradle of you. his free hand snakes over your hips, keeps you pressed against the mattress with enough force you couldn't squirm away even if you wanted. it's oppressive, being surrounded by him like this - even if you're not, not really, left lonely and open and embarrassed on your top half. it's good though, at least it is when you hide your face away and focus on papa's steady tongue, let him work you up until you don't feel the pain anymore, two fingers pumping into you with ease. you drift where he takes you, at his mercy as he reels you in and out of pleasure, distracted enough that you barely even register when he repeats the process with a third finger until his knuckles are bullying past your gate, earning another whine.

"i know, malýshka," he growls against your clit. "just a little more, hm? are you gonna be good for papochka?"

you're always good for him, nodding along before you can even fully register what he's asking. but that's okay because he makes it easy, sitting back enough that he can spit on your cunt, voice a low rumble of his native tongue as he watches you flinch at the sudden insult, hole clenching tight around his fingers before letting them ease oh so gently in, freshly lubed with his spit.

it gets easier after that, stretched so wide around his digits he can't miss any inch of you, scissoring you open with fingers that drag against all your most sensitive points. he doesn't go back to licking you yet, is too entranced by the way your mouth gapes, open and honest as he forces little whines from you, a heady overture to bass rumble of his voice, low enough you barely register when he switches back to english, a steady stream of praises which have you arching under him, always eager for his affection. khoroshaya devochka. that's it. there we go. give it to me. his thumb finds your clit and start to shake, falling apart at the seams.

"said i was like that man, dochka," he growls, a sudden vicious edge to his voice as he works you with singular focus. it sounds important so you try to listen, but he makes it hard with the rough pad of his thumb working you over. "durak. that man would have used you up. spat you out. not like him, milaya," he promises, kneeling back and dragging you with him, your legs pushed up and back until he could slot his hard cock up against your ass, lean his whole weight into you as he continued pumping his fingers into your abused pussy. your pleasure crests, pools in the basin he's made of your pelvis, brimming. spills when his free hand brushes your hair back from your face, that soft care you've always needed from him. "papa just wants to make you make you happy."