#normally it's over and done with at the start

[bubbleggum444]

— ❝𝘛HE LOᐯELY MᗩID❞

contents bruce wayne x fem!reader, maid!reader au, fluff, 2k+ wc. synopsis bruce absolutely does not have a crush on his employee. nope. not at all. or at least… that’s what he keeps telling himself—over and over—whenever she smiles at him like that.

He's captivated. There's no other way to explain it.

Captivated by the sweet woman in front of him—the one serving dinner to his family and him. The same woman he originally hired to assist his aging butler, Alfred.

This was unlike him. Bruce Wayne, a 35-year-old billionaire, didn’t do crushes. Sure, he’d had his fair share of fleeting affections, even pursued a few women in his younger years. But that was before. Now, nearing forty, he had no business developing feelings—especially not for her.

"Mr. Wayne?"

"Huh?"His head jerks up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash, instantly focusing on the source of that soft, melodic voice.

The young maid blinks at his reaction, her brows lifting slightly before she smiles—polite, composed. She gestures toward his untouched plate.

"Your supper is getting cold, Mr. Wayne."

Oh dear heavens—or whatever’s up there—Her voice, her gestures, her kindness, her grace. Everything about her is just—And her smile! God—everything about her is—

"Stop ogling the maid, father. Close your mouth, you'll catch flies."

Damian’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a blade.

Bruce barely has time to register the words before his eyes find her again—this time, assisting Tim, carefully slicing a piece of bread for him.

The tenderness in her actions makes something tighten in his chest. He forces himself to breathe, the corners of his lips lifting slightly as he finally picks up his fork and eats.

"Is the food to everyone's liking?" she asks, scanning the room.

The family responds with nods, murmured approvals, and a few hums of agreement. She turns back to Bruce then, and when their eyes meet—

ba-dum ba-dum ba-dum

His heartbeat stutters.Her expression is warm, her gaze unwavering. It’s as if the world slows for a moment, like she’s silently pulling him in, like—

"Mr. Wayne? All done? How was supper?"

"Huh—? Oh! Yeah, yeah, supper was amazing, doll—Dear! I mean dear... It was, uh—fantastic."

Stop talking. Stop rambling. Just smile, Bruce. Act normal.

She blushes. Just slightly. But it’s enough to make his heart hammer against his ribs. Was it because of the way he’d called her doll? Or was she just being polite?

He wants to believe the former. But doubt seeps in, as it always does. Because he could read people—always had, ever since childhood. He could pick apart a liar, a manipulator, a fraud, all with a single glance. But her?

She was a mystery. No matter how simple or complex her actions were, he couldn’t read her.

And that terrified him.

Because every time he thought, Maybe she likes me, too, logic would intervene, reminding him of the facts. Why would a woman like her ever look at me that way if I weren’t her employer?

"Mr. Wayne, I’d appreciate some help carrying the dishes to the sink."

Her voice yanks him from his thoughts, and he’s grateful for it.

He clears his throat, nodding as he stands. Without thinking, he starts stacking plates, piling them into an unstable tower.

He lifts it, wobbling slightly—

She reaches out to steady it.

"No, no—I got it all under control. T’his is all easy peasy lemon squeezy!"

What the hell did he just say?

Bruce cringes so hard he wants the earth to swallow him whole. He quickly turns, marching toward the kitchen before he embarrasses himself further.

Behind him, his four sons watch in varying degrees of amusement.

"Huh..." Jason mutters, raising an eyebrow as he plucks a toothpick from the table.

That alone is enough to make Dick snort, nodding in agreement.

"Is Bruce—"

"In love? Probably," Damian interjects flatly, wiping his hands with a sanitary wipe.

"Father’s behavior is completely illogical. That is the only reasonable explanation."

Tim doesn’t say much. He only shrugs—but there’s a knowing smile on his lips as he glances toward the archway, where Bruce and their maid have disappeared.

─────────────────── 𐀔

© — ggυɱi '25

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated

ദ്ദി ≽^⎚˕⎚^≼ .ᐟ

[witherby]

36 REBLOGS ON FLIGHT OF FANCYYYYYYY

AYYAYAYAYAYAYAYAYA

—🦈

Yayayayayayayay! Enjoy!

Flight of Fancy

Part 3 of Damian x Winged!Reader

Masterlist is Here!

You spend a while in the air, examining bats while trying not to disturb them. The first couple clusters you approach all scatter with panicked squeaking and fly out of the cave's multiple exits. Damian watches you readjust your strategy, trying different speeds and distances, until you figure out that you can watch them peacefully if you don't beat your wings so hard and don't get closer than about six feet away.

You're so polite as you watch them, holding Damian's words in mind. You keep your hands laced together behind your back, content to simply observe, and Damian does the same of you but on a more professional scale.

Armed with a pad and pen, he takes down all the information he's collected of you so far:

Bleeds gold

Physiologically a teen/young adult

Wingspan approx. 2x their height

White wings, full range of motion

Capable of long-distance flight

Limited world knowledge (didn't know the word for bat)

Learns languages via salivic exchange

Kidnapped from home (unknown location)

Real name unknown

Date of birth unknown

Species - winged metahuman

Dubbed "Project Angel" by Le—

Damian is about to finish writing, but the notepad gets snatched out of his hand by his older brother Jason.

"Whuh'ssits?" He mumbles around a mouthful of burrito, holding his snack in one hand and the pad in the other, high above Damian's head.

"Red Hood!" The boy snaps, irritated and embarrassed. He jumps for the pad but it's too far, and elects to start climbing his brother like a jungle gym. "Give me that! I'm making important observations about my ward!"

"Ward?" He smirks, after swallowing. "What ward? Looks like you're cooking up another OC to draw."

Damian's cheeks flush a brilliant red. The domino mask barely conceals his embarrassed, wide gaze. Even if he was doing that, which he wasn't, it never hurts to plan out his concepts before following through!!

"Look up, genius! And go put on something to cover your stupid face!"

"Am I a genius or stupid?" Jason asks, shaking him off. "Are you gettin' shy on me? You love showin' off your art when it's done, what's the problem —"

The pad gets ripped from his hands and Jason goes flying when a powerful gust of wind knocks him backwards. You land protectively in front of Damian, with your wings fully extended to make yourself look bigger, and bare your teeth. Distantly, he notes that you have pointed canines.

"Are you injured?" You ask Damian.

"No," he says, lifting a hand as if to place it on your back. He hesitates, unwilling to hurt or disturb your wings, and drops it again. "Stand down. That man is my brother, not a threat."

"Brother..." you mutter, frowning.

"Kin," Damian tries, which you seem to understand. "Hood, are you injured?"

"Am I in— I just got blown across the fucking room!" Jason snaps. When he sits up, he's got the red, half-mask on that covers him from nose to jaw, and he's aiming a gun at you. The severity of his appearance is significantly dulled by the burrito innards splattered all over the front of his hoodie.

"Who are you."

"This is your kin?" You ask, dubious. "He is aiming a weapon at us, from which you could be harmed. That's normal?"

Damian's mouth forms a thin line. There isn't time to cover the family's overcomplicated dynamics right this second, so he just kind of shrugs and nods.

"Mostly, yes," he admits. "Let me by."

You fold one of your wings against your back so Damian can step past you, then re-extend it and continue glaring at Jason. Jason glares right back, finger hovering over the trigger.

"Put the gun down. I rescued them on my patrol tonight." Damian steps right in front of the pistol. Jason eases his finger off immediately, but doesn't lower it. "Batman has tasked me with keeping them safe until they can be relocated in the morning. They're not a threat."

"Tell that to my busted back," Jason grunts, but he does eventually concede to putting his weapon down, and climbs to his feet. "Jesus, my favorite fucking hoodie is wrecked. If I can't get these stains out, you owe me a new one, Winx Club!"

"That's not my name," you scowl, feathers ruffling. The rippling effect it has is mesmerizing.

"Do I look like I give a shit? I'm heading upstairs, this blows." Jason stuffs the gun in the pocket of his hoodie lackadaisically, then points a finger at Damian as he takes his leave. "It's bad enough you've got a whole petting zoo of animals. Don't start collecting humanoid strays, too."

"Go to bed, Red Hood," Damian grumbles, turning to you. Your eyes trail after Jason, maintaining your threatening stance until he's completely out of sight. You straighten up and relax your wings, slowly folding them up again.

"I dislike him," you say, crossing your arms.

"He's a... difficult personality," Damian says, fully aware of the hypocrisy of that statement. He barrels forward, curious. "You stood up for me, even when he was seconds from shooting you. Why?"

You tilt your head like he's asked a particularly stupid question.

"You saved me," you state simply. "I am indebted to you."

"It's my job to save others. I protect this city with my family."

"I am not from your city, and you helped me all the same."

"You're in it, however temporarily, which makes your well-being my priority."

You hum, head gently tilting one direction in contemplation. Damian absently compares it to a bunny, or a curious puppy dog.

"Even so," you conclude, "I will repay your kindness. If it's in my power to do it, you will have it, Robin."

"I don't need anything from you," Damian says, not unkindly. "There's no debt I'm owed. I wanted you safe, and that's the long and short of it."

You don't argue it further, but there's still a small frown on your face. Again, Damian's eyes are drawn to your lips. He feels his heart rate get a little faster.

"Would it sate you if I asked for knowledge in return?" He offered. "You can still say no; I'm not going to make you tell me anything you don't want."

You perk up a bit, nodding. You both snap your heads when Jason shows back up, shouting.

"HEY, DID YOUR NOTEPAD SAY "LEARNS LANGUAGES VIA SALIVIC EXCHANGE" BY THE WAY? HOW DID YOU FIND THAT OUT?"

Damian turns back to you with burning cheeks. He notices that you blush gold, too.

[star-writes-sometimes]

raaah I love tattooartist!thanos

what if like during our session we were to pass out (ik bae checks up on us but still pass out)

a/n - i absolutely love this ask thank you much!! i kinda hate how this turned out but it was driving me insane so im deciding its as good as i could do :)

c/w - fluff, tattoos, food/forgetting to eat mentioned, passing out

—

“fuck, beautiful, what’d i do to deserve this sight?” thanos asks teasingly with that dumb flirty smirk on his face.

you don’t have the energy to roll your eyes like you usually do. for the first time in a while you’re nervous about getting a tattoo. you’ve wanted a rib tattoo since you started your tattoo pinterest board but you know how much it’s going to hurt.

it didn’t help that the last over the last couple of months, your attraction to your tattoo artist turned has into a full blown crush. 

after your first tattoo you assumed his flirty behaviour was just his way of getting consistent clients. you didn’t mind, he was pretty and it felt nice to have his attention. yet, as you had more and more sessions, his cheesy flirting seemed to get more and more sincere and it’s left you wondering if he actually likes you.

you’re sitting on his tattoo bench with your shirt taped up at your boobs. the stencil is already placed and thanos is holding the needle in his hand ready to start but you can hardly focus. the air feels hot and your clothes feel itchy and your mouth feels dry and fuck did you remember to eat today?

you’re snapped out of your thoughts by thanos turning on the needle. he gives you a wide smile and runs his free hand along your stomach. the action would normally reassure you at least a bit but it all just felt wrong today.

“ready?” he asks sweetly.

and against your better judgment you nod.

as the needle touches your skin you relax a bit. it was just a tattoo, why were you so worried? you’d done this multiple times before, you knew what it was going to feel like-

fuck.

that isn’t the normal tattoo pain. as he moves the needle across the ridges of your ribs it feels a hot knife is carving a canyon in your skin. the pain is blistering and you have to squeeze your eyes shut, trying desperately to focus on your breathing.

after almost two full minutes of this torture he pulls away to check on you. you know he’s asking if you’re okay but it sounds like he’s underwater and you can’t focus on any specific word.

your shyness feels like the main villain because you want to tell him that something is wrong. you should tell him that something is wrong. but he’s glancing up at you with that stupid smile and he’s rubbing his thumb affectionately against your skin, patiently waiting for your answer and you just don’t want him to think less of you.

it’s entirely illogical but you don’t want him to think you were pussying out because of the pain. and you don’t want to admit you were dumb enough to forget something as simple as eating. and you most definitely don’t want him to know about your feelings.

his ego doesn’t need that.

“yeah, yeah, i’m okay,” you finally say and offer him a small smile.

it must be convincing enough because he frowns but nods and turns the needle back on.

as the needle touches your skin again you immediately start regretting every decision you’ve ever made. the smart part of your brain knows that thanos would be more than kind if you asked to stop and reschedule the appointment. unfortunately, that part of your brain is being drowned out by the part of your brain screaming at the pain.

a rhythmic thumping fills your head and darkness creeps into the edges of your vision. your chest seems to get tighter and you wonder if this is how you’re going to die before you feel nothing at all.

thanos feels your body go limp and quickly turns the needle off, “flower?!”

his hands cup your face and he starts tapping on your cheek rapidly. your eyes flutter open and you squint up at him, flinching slightly from how close he was to your face.

“fuckin’ christ, beautiful, you gave me a scare,” he says with a nervous laugh. he pushes your hair out of your face and smiles softly.

“sorry,” you say, feeling your face get hot with embarrassment as you realise what has happened. you sit up properly and offer a small anxious smile as he hands you an unopened waterbottle, “thank you.”

“what happened, love?” he asks. god why did he have to look at you with such genuine care? why was it these moments were reserved for when you were alone together? why did he have to be so pretty?

you give a pathetic shrug and look away from him as you slowly sip the water, “i don’t know… i’ve never passed out before.”

he hums in thought and rests his hand on your thigh. his thumb rubs circles on your bare skin in a familiar and comforting gesture, “have you eaten today?” 

you wince as if he had asked a deeply personal question, “i think i ate lunch.”

his eyes go comically wide and he grabs your hands to pull you closer to him, “baby! that was six hours ago you know you need to eat before getting a tat!”

your shame only grows and you squeeze your eyes shut and nod, “i know.”

he sighs dramatically and stands up. he takes off his gloves and throws them out before offering his hand to you, “come on, pretty.”

you finally look up at him with a confused expression and try to speak, “what-”

“you know for most clients i would almost prefer it if they passed out during tattoos, but i like talking to you, flower. so, i want you at full strength, let’s go get you something to eat. then if you’re up for it, we can finish your tat or we can just reschedule,” he has a cheshire cat grin and makes grabby hands at you.

you take his hands with a small smile and he pulls you up. you untape your shirt and adjust your clothes to be appropriate again. 

“we don’t have to reschedule, i don’t wanna be annoying,” you say softly.

he laughs and throws an arm around your shoulder as he leads you out of his room, “honestly beautiful, i would almost prefer if you reschedule, it gives me an excuse to see you again soon.”

you smile and nod. the reception room is empty, everyone else had gone home for the day. but, before you two walked out of the building his arm tightens around you and he leans down to your ear.

“never pull that shit again, okay, princess? you tell me if you haven’t eaten or you're not feeling good or any other thing that feels even a little off. scared the fuck out of me seein’ you like that,” he whispers to you intensely.

you nod with wide eyes and you can feel your chest tighten nervously at both his proximity and low tone. does he even realise the effect he had on you? you hope not.

[anticipatedexhale]

Can you do the arcane characters with a s/o who is obsessed with their looks and how they’re perceived to others?

Hellooo <3 ofc I can!!

Just a disclaimer u are absolutely gorgeous and wonderful just the way you are! Inside and out! Don't let fake standards and false words put by society get to you please, love yourself just the way u are because although it's the hardest type of love to achieve it's also the most fulfilling<33

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Wish I could be like you, but I’m not that cool.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, ekko, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi, sevika

☆ ◞ summary: when you care too much it starts to backfire on you, when you think you lost everything they are right beside you.

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader, tons of bad talk about ones body and self, insecurities that may be triggering you some so please be careful while reading.

Jayce Talis.

Jayce had always been confident—he knew who he was, what he stood for, and never really cared much about what others thought of him. So when he started noticing how much you worried about your looks and how people perceived you, it caught him off guard.

At first, he thought it was just normal self-care. Everyone liked to look good, right? But then he started picking up on the little things.

The way you’d constantly check your reflection in any shiny surface you passed. The way you’d subtly adjust your outfit over and over, as if trying to perfect it. How you’d bite your lip and glance around nervously when someone so much as whispered near you, convinced it was about you.

And when you two were out together? Forget about it. You agonized over every detail—your hair, your posture, your expressions. Always making sure you were just right.

Jayce hated seeing you stress over it.

One evening, you were getting ready for an event, adjusting your outfit for what felt like the fiftieth time, inspecting yourself in the mirror with a deep frown.

"Does this look okay?" you asked for the third time in ten minutes. "Maybe I should change. Do you think people will—"

Jayce sighed and gently grabbed your hands, pulling you away from the mirror.

“Babe,” he said softly, his brows furrowed in concern. “Why does it matter so much what other people think?”

You hesitated, looking down. “I just… I don’t want to embarrass you. Or myself. People talk, Jayce.”

His expression softened. “I don’t give a damn what people say. And you shouldn’t either.”

You sighed, but he wasn’t done. He cupped your face, tilting it up so you had to look at him.

“You’re already perfect,” he murmured. “I don’t care what you’re wearing, how your hair looks, or what people think. They don’t see what I see.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “…And what do you see?”

His lips quirked into a small smile. “Someone incredible. Someone who makes me laugh, who makes me proud every damn day. Someone I’d still be crazy about even if you walked into that party wearing mismatched shoes and a potato sack.”

You let out a startled laugh, rolling your eyes. “A potato sack?”

He grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Yep. You’d still be the best-looking person in the room.”

You sighed, leaning into his touch. “…You really don’t care?”

“Not one bit,” he promised. “I just want you to be happy. Not stressing over what a bunch of nobodies think.”

His words hit deep. And for the first time in a long time, you actually believed them.

Maybe—just maybe—you didn’t need everyone else’s approval.

Maybe Jayce’s was enough.

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Mel Medarda.

Mel had always been surrounded by high society, where appearances were more than just about beauty—they were about power, influence, and command. She’d been taught from a young age how to control the room with a well-placed smile, a confident stance, and the right attire. But while she had mastered the art of fitting into the expectations of others, she’d never let them control her.

When she first noticed your obsession with your appearance—how you would fret over the smallest detail, constantly worry about what others thought, and always seek validation from the people around you—she didn’t rush to correct you. Instead, she observed, trying to understand why it mattered so much to you.

One evening, you were preparing for another event, this time a gala held by Piltover’s elite. You stood in front of the mirror, your eyes darting between your reflection and the wardrobe full of options, your fingers pulling at your hair, your expression one of deep dissatisfaction.

“Mel,” you said, voice tinged with frustration. “I don’t think I’m ready for this. I’m just not—”

She stepped into the room with the effortless grace she was known for, her gaze soft yet intense as she approached you. “You’re just not what?” she asked, her voice calm but laced with concern.

“I don’t know… I feel like I don’t belong here,” you confessed, your hands wringing together. “I keep thinking about what people will say when they see me. What if they don’t think I’m… enough?”

Mel’s brow furrowed as she gently placed her hands on your shoulders, turning you to face her fully. “Let me ask you something,” she began, her tone serious but tender. “Why do you care so much about what they think?”

You looked down, not quite able to meet her eyes. “Because if I don’t look a certain way, if I’m not perfect, I feel like I won’t matter.”

Mel took a deep breath, stepping closer to you, her hands gently lifting your chin so you had no choice but to look at her. Her gaze softened as she studied you for a moment, her fingers brushing the side of your face.

“Sweetheart,” she began, her voice quiet but steady. “You are already more than enough. I’ve seen you, not just with your looks, but with your heart, your intelligence, your strength.” She smiled softly. “You think people are only judging you based on how you look, but the truth is, they want to see you. They want to know you—the person who carries themselves with such grace and confidence, the one who makes them wonder how they missed such brilliance.”

You felt a lump form in your throat as her words sank in.

“I’ve spent so much of my life trying to fit into others' expectations. To be what people wanted me to be,” Mel continued, her eyes locking with yours, unwavering. “But I realized that I will never be happy that way. And neither will you. So stop letting your worth be defined by others. You have everything you need inside of you already.”

You blinked, the warmth of her words washing over you. “But… I still feel like I’m not enough sometimes.”

Mel gently cupped your face, leaning in until her forehead rested against yours. “Then let me remind you every day how much you mean to me. You’re perfect just as you are.”

You swallowed, a smile tugging at your lips. “I think I’m starting to believe you.”

With a soft chuckle, Mel pulled back slightly. “Good. Now let’s go out there, and when they look at you, let them see the amazing person I see.”

And as she helped you get dressed, there was a quiet understanding between you two. Mel never pressured you to be anyone else, but she also knew how to help you realize that you had more power than you gave yourself credit for.

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Viktor.

Viktor’s perspective on beauty had always been one of deep pragmatism. His entire life had been about improving, evolving, and focusing on the mind’s capacity to achieve, while the world outside often seemed obsessed with superficial qualities. He’d never cared much for what others thought of him or how he looked. But when it came to you, it was different.

He’d noticed, more and more, how often you seemed preoccupied with your appearance. You would spend hours before a mirror, adjusting your clothes or making sure every strand of hair was in place, always worried about what others might think. Sometimes, even after all the effort, there was a quiet dissatisfaction in your expression, and it made him wonder how much you truly believed in yourself.

One evening, after a long day of work, Viktor arrived home to find you sitting on the couch, still in your outfit from earlier. Your gaze was fixed on your phone screen, scrolling through images of other people’s lives, comparing your appearance to theirs. Your posture was tense, your brows furrowed in frustration.

Viktor quietly approached, his voice soft yet steady as he spoke your name. “You’re still awake? What’s going on, love?”

You glanced up, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Just thinking. About how everyone seems to have it all figured out. How they look perfect, and I’m… well, I don’t know.” You trailed off, your gaze dropping back to your phone.

Viktor, noticing the sharp contrast between your usual confident self and the person sitting before him, knelt beside the couch, taking your hand gently in his. His tone was patient, understanding, but there was a certain firmness that made you look up at him.

“Your worth has never been determined by someone else’s perception of you,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “You’ve spent so much time trying to please others, trying to fit a mold you never asked for. But I need you to understand something, love…”

You looked at him, unsure, waiting for him to continue.

“You are far more than just the sum of your physical appearance or the validation of others,” Viktor continued, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You are a person of substance, of intellect, of heart. And that’s what I fell in love with. Not the way you look, but who you are.”

You swallowed, feeling a lump in your throat. Viktor’s gaze softened as he reached for your hand, gently lifting it to his lips. “And you don’t need to change for anyone. Not for me, not for anyone.”

There was silence between you, broken only by the soft hum of the city outside. His words settled in your chest, easing the tension that had built up over the past few hours.

“I just feel like I’m constantly chasing something I can never achieve,” you admitted quietly. “Trying to be perfect, trying to be what everyone else expects.”

Viktor’s eyes darkened with concern, but he smiled gently. “What if I told you that the most perfect version of yourself is already here? Right now, in this moment? That you are more than enough, as you are?”

His words were simple, but they carried the weight of years of wisdom, of someone who had seen the world through a lens of endless improvement. Slowly, you found yourself leaning into him, feeling the comfort of his embrace and the security of his steady presence.

“I’m still learning, Viktor,” you whispered, your head resting against his chest. “Learning to accept myself.”

“And I’ll be here,” he murmured, his voice warm and unwavering. “Every step of the way. To remind you that you’re perfect, not because of how you look, but because of who you are.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of his words sink deep into your soul. In that moment, with Viktor by your side, you realized that the person you needed to please the most was yourself. And with him, you finally understood that your worth was never tied to anyone’s expectations—but rather, to the person you were, inside and out.

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Caitlyn kiramman.

Caitlyn was never one to place much value on appearances. Sure, she knew the importance of looking presentable, especially in her position, but she also understood that true beauty went beyond what the eye could see. For Caitlyn, what truly mattered were values, intellect, and integrity. But when she noticed you often fretting over your appearance, constantly adjusting your outfit, and seeking validation from others, it tugged at her heart. She could tell you weren’t feeling your best, but didn’t know how to reach you—until one quiet evening.

After a long day at work, Caitlyn came home to find you in front of the mirror once again, changing clothes, adjusting your makeup, and constantly re-evaluating your reflection. She leaned in the doorway for a moment, watching you with a concerned expression.

You didn’t even notice her at first, your mind lost in the whirlwind of doubts that always seemed to surface when you weren’t in her company. “I don’t know, Cait. What if I’m not enough?” you muttered under your breath, pulling at the collar of your shirt as if it could make you feel better. “What if they don’t think I’m… beautiful enough?”

Caitlyn stepped into the room quietly, her voice gentle but firm. “Why do you think that?”

You jumped, not expecting her to be standing so close. “Oh… I didn’t hear you.” You gave a weak smile, clearly still upset.

“Babe, what’s going on? You’ve been like this for a while now,” she said softly, her eyes meeting yours. She stepped closer and reached for your hand, her touch warm and reassuring. “What are you looking for?”

You hesitated, glancing at your reflection before turning to face her. “I just… I feel like people judge me all the time. What if they don’t like how I look? What if I’m too much for them? Or not enough?”

Caitlyn’s expression softened with a mix of empathy and concern. She could feel how deeply you were struggling, and though she didn’t share your worries about appearances, she understood the burden of those feelings. She gently cupped your face in her hands, tilting your chin so your eyes met hers.

“Look at me,” she said, her voice low but confident. “You are enough. Right now, in this moment, you’re more than enough.”

You blinked, her words striking a chord deep inside. “But what if people think I’m…”

She cut you off gently. “You are beautiful, but more than that, you’re incredible. You make a difference. You’re kind, intelligent, and strong. No outfit or hairstyle is going to change that.”

You felt a lump form in your throat as her words began to sink in. “But what if I’m not… what people expect?”

Caitlyn smiled, her hands gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t need to live up to anyone’s expectations but your own. I fell in love with you for who you are, not because of how you look. And I’ve never been more proud of you than I am right now, just by being yourself.”

Her sincerity made your heart swell, and despite your lingering doubts, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. Caitlyn didn’t care about the opinions of others; she cared about you—and that was all that mattered.

“I guess I’ve been so focused on trying to be perfect that I forgot how to just be me,” you admitted softly.

Caitlyn chuckled, her thumbs gently rubbing circles on your cheeks. “And I’ll remind you every day that you don’t need to be perfect for anyone. You’re perfect for me.”

You leaned into her touch, a sense of comfort settling in your chest. “Thank you, Cait. I really needed to hear that.”

She smiled, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Anytime. And just so you know, you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, inside and out. You don’t have to change a thing.”

In that moment, you realized that your true beauty didn’t lie in how others saw you, but in how Caitlyn saw you—and how you saw yourself when you let go of the expectations that had once held you back.

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

Vi.

Vi had always been more about strength and character than appearances. She had a no-nonsense attitude and didn’t care much for superficial things. Whether in a fight or just hanging out, she preferred to focus on what truly mattered—what was inside a person. So when she noticed you obsessing over how you looked, constantly tweaking your outfit or worrying about how others perceived you, it threw her off. She couldn’t quite understand why you’d feel like you weren’t enough when to her, you were already perfect just as you were.

One evening, after a particularly tough day, Vi returned home to find you sitting on the couch, eyes glued to your phone, flipping through social media. You’d been quiet all evening, and she could tell something was bothering you. As she approached, she noticed you adjusting your outfit for the fourth time, pulling at the hem of your shirt, checking the mirror again.

Vi raised an eyebrow, concern flashing across her face. “You good, babe? You seem a little… distracted.”

You didn’t look up, still preoccupied with your reflection. “I don’t know. I just feel like people always judge me. I mean, look at them, Vi,” you said, showing her your phone screen, where a bunch of influencers and well-dressed people filled the screen. “Why can’t I look like that? I don’t know… I just feel like I’m never enough, no matter what I do.”

Vi looked at the screen for a moment before setting it down gently, stepping closer to you. “Hey, look at me,” she said, her voice a little more serious now. “I don’t get it. You’ve got all this beauty inside and out, and you’re worried about some picture on a screen?”

You gave a little laugh, but it was hollow. “It’s not just a picture, Vi. People always notice what I wear, what I look like. I feel like I’m always trying to fit into something I’m not.”

Vi tilted your chin up, meeting your eyes with that intense, protective gaze of hers. “You don’t need to fit into any mold, babe. You’re not some... trend to follow. You’re you. And trust me, that’s more than enough.”

You looked away, unsure. "But people don't see that. They only care about the surface."

Vi sighed, her expression softening as she sat next to you. She took your hand in hers, her grip strong but comforting. "You know what I see when I look at you? I see a person who's been through a lot, someone who doesn't need to put on a mask to be loved. Someone who's real. And that's what makes you so amazing. I don't give a damn about what anyone else thinks. And I know you don't need to change for anyone."

You let out a breath, trying to hold back the feelings bubbling up inside. Vi, with her blunt honesty and genuine affection, had a way of cutting through the noise, and for the first time in a while, you felt like maybe you weren’t as lost as you thought.

Vi leaned in, resting her forehead against yours. “You know I love you for exactly who you are, right? And if you’re worried about how others see you, then maybe you should let them see the real you. Because that’s who I love. The real you. Not some version of you trying to impress everyone else.”

You could feel her words sinking in, easing the pressure you hadn’t even realized had been building. You felt a sense of calm begin to wash over you as Vi’s embrace tightened, holding you close.

"I know I'm tough and rough around the edges," she whispered, a playful smile tugging at her lips, "but you don’t need to be anything other than what makes you happy. And if that means wearing your favorite old shirt or going makeup-free, I’m still gonna think you’re the best thing in the world."

A small laugh escaped your lips, and you found yourself relaxing into her warmth. “Thanks, Vi. I needed that.”

Vi grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Anytime, babe. Just remember: you’re perfect to me, just the way you are.”

In that moment, surrounded by her love and honesty, you realized that the only opinion that truly mattered was the one that came from within—and with Vi, you were finally starting to believe it.

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

Jinx.

Jinx was many things—chaotic, unpredictable, and loud—but when it came to you, she was surprisingly sensitive. Her world had always been in a constant state of madness, but there was something calming about being with you. You were her rock, her one constant in the storm. That’s why it bothered her so much when she noticed you obsessing over how you looked, always fidgeting with your clothes, your hair, or your makeup, constantly worried about how others saw you.

One evening, after a particularly wild day of mayhem (courtesy of Jinx, of course), you sat on the couch, staring at your phone screen. Your brows were furrowed, your thumb scrolling through social media, comparing yourself to others. Jinx had been watching you for a while, and it was starting to get under her skin.

"Hey, you!" she suddenly called out, practically throwing herself onto the couch next to you, her usual enthusiasm filling the room.

You jumped a little, distracted. “Oh, hey, Jinx. What’s up?” You didn’t look up from your phone, still fixated on the images that seemed to be making you feel worse with every swipe.

Jinx tilted her head, studying your face closely. Her blue hair bounced as she moved, and her expression softened just a little. “You’ve been like this for a while now,” she said, a hint of concern lacing her voice. “Why do you keep looking at that stuff?”

You sighed, showing her your phone. “I don’t know. I just feel like I’m always trying to keep up with everyone else, you know? They always look so… perfect. I feel like I don’t measure up.”

Jinx blinked, her usual manic energy quieting for a moment as she processed your words. "What do you mean, perfect?" she asked, her voice almost childlike in its confusion. “Perfect’s boring, though! I mean, sure, it’s fun to be perfectly insane, but... you’re way cooler than perfect! Who needs to be that?”

You looked at her, a little unsure. “I just… I don’t know, Jinx. I feel like I’m always trying to be someone I’m not, trying to look like everyone else. But nothing ever feels good enough.”

Jinx leaned back dramatically, her arms spread wide. “You wanna know something? I don’t think you need to look like anyone else, ever!” she said, her eyes wide and full of her usual chaotic energy. “You’re already amazing the way you are, and I don’t get why you keep looking at that stuff. I mean, look at me—no one can look like me and that’s what makes me awesome! So you just need to be you, okay?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her randomness, even as a weight still sat heavy in your chest. Jinx smiled brightly, completely oblivious to the way her words were beginning to work their magic. “I know you think you gotta be something you’re not, but I love you just as you are. You’re like… the best thing ever! You don’t need to change anything to impress anyone, especially not me.”

She leaned forward then, her hands clasping yours tightly. Her wild eyes softened as she looked at you with an intensity that was rare for her. “I love you, okay? You—with all the stuff you think isn’t perfect. I don’t need a perfect you. I need you, the one with all the quirks and the weird little things that make you you!”

You blinked, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at her words. Jinx had a way of making things seem so much lighter, her chaotic nature always breaking through the heaviness of your own doubts. Her laugh was like music, and the more she spoke, the more you felt the pressure you had been putting on yourself start to lift.

“Jinx,” you whispered, squeezing her hand. “Thank you. I think I just needed to hear it from you. I’ve been so focused on trying to change, I forgot what made me… me.”

“Exactly!” Jinx exclaimed, throwing her hands up like she had just made the greatest revelation in the world. “Just be you, and if anyone else doesn’t get it, then they’re the ones who are messed up! You’re freaking awesome, and I’m lucky to have you.”

She pulled you into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around you with surprising gentleness. "Don’t ever try to be anything other than you again, okay?" she whispered into your ear. “I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”

You rested your head on her shoulder, feeling a sense of comfort in the chaos that only Jinx could provide. With her by your side, maybe, just maybe, you could start to let go of the expectations that others had placed on you—and just embrace the person you were.

And with that, Jinx’s chaotic energy became the balm you didn’t know you needed, reminding you that in this world of uncertainty, the most important thing was being true to yourself.

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

Ekko.

Ekko had always been a little different. The way he saw the world wasn’t about appearances or surface-level stuff—it was about people, their hearts, and their actions. It wasn’t lost on him that you seemed to care a lot about how others perceived you, constantly stressing over what to wear, how to look, or whether you were keeping up with the trends. At first, he didn’t really understand it. Why would you care what other people thought when you were already so incredible in his eyes?

One evening, after working on his latest invention in the workshop, Ekko was looking forward to spending some quiet time with you. He’d been busy with the repairs and inventions for the underground, but when he finally entered the room, he immediately noticed something different about you. You were sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine, occasionally staring at the mirror, then back at the pages. The quiet tension in the air told him something was off.

He walked up to you and gently sat down next to you. "You okay?" he asked, his voice softer than usual. "You seem… distracted."

You looked up, surprised to see him. You hadn’t realized you were being so obvious about your self-doubt. "Oh, I’m fine," you lied, trying to smile. "Just… you know, trying to figure out what to wear tomorrow. Something that’ll make me look good enough for the crowd, y’know?"

Ekko frowned slightly. He could see the uncertainty in your eyes, the way your fingers were nervously flipping through pages. He didn’t need to be a genius to see that something was bothering you.

He leaned back against the couch, giving you a moment to breathe before speaking up again. “What crowd? I thought you were more about being yourself, not some image you’ve got to keep up with.”

You shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, well… sometimes it’s hard. I mean, look at everyone else, Ekko. They’re all perfect—well-dressed, confident, always looking like they’ve got it all figured out. I just… I don’t know. I want to feel good about myself, but it feels like I’m always falling short.”

Ekko let out a small sigh. He had seen you struggle with this before, but hearing it out loud always tugged at his heart. He knew what it was like to feel like you didn’t measure up, especially in a world that made it easy to compare yourself to everyone around you. But to him, you were already more than enough.

"You don’t need to be like anyone else, you know that, right?" Ekko said, his voice calm yet serious. "I get it, everyone around here seems to care about appearances or ‘keeping up with the Joneses,’ but that’s not what makes someone special. You’re already incredible. The real you—not some idealized version of yourself—is what I love."

He took your hand, gently guiding you to face him. "It’s not about looking like someone else. It’s about being you. And when you’re you, that’s when you shine the brightest. You’re unique, and that’s what makes you stand out. Not some perfect look or what other people think."

You felt a lump form in your throat, his words piercing through the insecurities that had been building inside. Ekko was always so patient with you, always grounding you when the chaos of the world started to feel too heavy. His belief in you, in who you were as a person, was unwavering.

"Ekko, I’m just so used to trying to fit in," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "It feels like everyone expects me to be perfect, to look a certain way."

Ekko shook his head, his hand moving to brush your hair behind your ear, his touch gentle and tender. "You don’t need to fit into anyone’s box. You fit into mine, and that’s all that matters. You’ve got something they don’t—your heart, your mind, your creativity. You’ve always had it, and I see it every single day."

He stood up, giving you a playful grin. "You know what’s really cool about you? You can pull off anything—whether it’s a fancy outfit or a worn-out hoodie. You make it look good because it’s you. And honestly, that’s way more impressive than anything I’ve ever seen."

You couldn’t help but laugh, a little of the weight lifting off your shoulders as you finally met his eyes. “You really think that?”

Ekko nodded, his eyes full of sincerity. "More than anything. I’m proud of you, just the way you are. You don’t need anyone’s approval, especially not when you’ve already got mine."

You stood up to face him, feeling the warmth of his words sink in. There was no need to change for the world. You had Ekko, and that was more than enough to make you feel seen and loved.

"I love you, you know that?" you whispered.

Ekko grinned, his eyes lighting up as he pulled you into a hug. "I love you too, more than you’ll ever know."

In his arms, you felt safe—safe to be yourself, flaws and all. Maybe it wasn’t about perfection after all. Maybe it was about finding the people who truly saw you, the real you, and loving you for exactly who you were.

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

Sevika.

The quiet buzz of the dimly lit workshop was disrupted by a small, sudden sigh. Sevika paused, her fingers lightly gripping the wrench she was working with as she looked over at you. You were at the far corner of the room, your attention focused on the full-length mirror. Your gaze was distant, eyes scanning every inch of yourself, your expression more tense than usual.

She could see the way your shoulders tensed, the slight frown on your lips, and she knew that look all too well. It was the look of someone caught in the trap of self-doubt, obsessing over things that didn't truly matter. Sevika, who always carried herself with quiet confidence, couldn't help but notice how much you seemed to care about things that didn’t define your worth—things like appearance, status, and the opinions of others.

Without saying a word, Sevika set her tools down and walked toward you, her large frame cutting through the space with the same assured steps she always had. There was something about your current mood that tugged at her, an instinct to take care of you when she saw you struggling.

She came up behind you, leaning her back against the wall and crossing her arms, just watching. There was no rush to intervene. Sevika had learned that sometimes, you needed time to process things on your own before anyone could help.

After a moment, you spoke without turning to face her. "Do you think they’d like me more if I looked different? I mean… everyone seems to have something special about them. What if I’m just… not good enough?"

The words hung in the air, fragile and raw. Sevika stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. "Hey," she said, her hand resting on your shoulder, urging you to meet her eyes. "You’re not ‘just’ anything. And you’re not here to be ‘liked’ by anyone else but yourself."

You swallowed, still unable to fully meet her gaze. "I don’t know, Sevika. I just—sometimes it feels like no matter what I do, I can’t live up to… to what they expect, to what everyone else has. I don’t know how to be comfortable with myself."

Sevika’s eyes softened, her hand gently turning your chin so that you finally faced her. "You don’t need to worry about them. You don’t need to worry about being perfect, because there’s no such thing. No one is perfect—not even the ones who pretend they are."

Her voice was steady, filled with that unwavering confidence that made her so impossible to ignore. "You’re one of the strongest people I know, and that’s not something that comes from looking a certain way. It comes from what you’ve been through, how you keep going despite everything. That’s what I admire about you. Not how you look, but the person you are."

Your breath caught, the frustration in your chest softening with her words. For a moment, you let yourself believe her, feeling the weight of your insecurities ease just a little.

"I think you forget sometimes that people who truly care about you… the ones who matter, don’t give a damn about your looks," Sevika continued, her thumb lightly tracing your cheek, her touch gentle yet powerful. "You think I’m here because you’ve got the perfect image? Nah. I’m here because you’ve got heart. You’ve always had it."

A rare, soft smile tugged at her lips as she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a near whisper. "And you think I’d let someone like you get away with being anything less than amazing?"

You chuckled softly, the tension melting away at the sincerity in her words. Sevika’s tough exterior had always been there, but in moments like this, she allowed her softer side to show, especially when it came to you. You could see in her eyes that she didn’t just mean what she was saying—she believed it wholeheartedly.

"Sevika, I—"

She cut you off, her finger lightly tapping your lips. "No more self-doubt. No more comparisons. You’re incredible. Just as you are."

For once, the mirror didn’t seem so important. It wasn’t about how others saw you, but how you saw yourself through her eyes. Sevika may not always say a lot, but in moments like this, her actions spoke volumes. You let yourself lean into her touch, the assurance in her presence becoming your anchor.

She leaned in close, her voice softer now, just for you. "Now, let’s forget about everyone else for a while, yeah? Tonight’s about you, about us. You don’t need to impress anyone but yourself."

And as you let her embrace you, a weight lifted, one you hadn’t even realized you were carrying.

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

Authors note: I really do apologize if this isn't to ur liking my darling or it feels repetitive I just really could not come up with different scenarios dear God I was about to crash out..

[maroonshirt81]

if you're still doing trope requests-- carcar/soulmates/meet ugly??

maybe i took "carcar" a little too literally here.

thanks for the request! <3

___

Oscar was on his way home after an exhausting day at work when he felt it.

The unmistakable, magnetic pull.

He knew exactly what it was—had been prepared for it his entire life—but that didn’t stop it from hitting him like a freight train. One second, he was driving normally, and the next, he was swerving in the middle of the road. Fighting against it was harder than he expected, but he was pretty sure he’d managed to stay on his side of the lane divider.

Not that it mattered.

Because whoever was on the other end of this pull had clearly felt it too—and unlike Oscar, they hadn’t reacted fast enough. A second later, a car slammed into his side, metal screeching against metal, the sound sharp enough to make every hair on his body stand on end.

With a sigh, he eased his car to a stop in the middle of the road, completely ignoring the chorus of honking that erupted behind him. They could go around. It wasn’t like this was some catastrophic crash—thank rush hour traffic for that.

When the road was clear, he slipped out of his car, drawn forward by the pull like a compass needle locked onto its destination—until he came face to face with the inevitable result of this fated encounter. And while accidents like this weren’t exactly uncommon, thanks to magnetic soulmate bonds, it was just Oscar’s luck that the car he had crashed with was a stunning, bright red Ferrari F40.

And clambering out of it was a gorgeous, well-dressed man with thick, shampoo-commercial hair, who didn’t spare a single glance at Oscar—the person he must have felt the same magnetic pull toward. Instead, he was tearing at his perfect hair, muttering, “No, no, no, no, no!” over and over.

Then, as if suddenly remembering Oscar existed, he spun around, wide eyes locking onto him in pure devastation, and wailed, “Why?”

“Um…” Oscar started, but apparently, his soulmate wasn’t done yet.

“Why of all days, today? Mate, I usually drive a Golf! You could not choose any other day to crash into me? I borrowed this car! Lando is going to kill me!”

“Technically, you crashed into me,” Oscar pointed out. With a queasy feeling, he noticed a crowd gathering around them, phones out and pointed—mostly at the Ferrari, but some were definitely filming this disaster of a first meeting as well.

His soulmate let out a sort of garbled, incredulous laugh, running a hand down his face.

“Please! I drive cars for at least ten years longer than you!” the terribly gorgeous man said, gesturing at Oscar’s entire being. “How long do you have your license? Are you even old enough to drive yet? No way this is my fault!”

Accompanying the magnetic pull was now another feeling Oscar was not very familiar with: hot, seething rage.

“Mate! Are you blind or what?” he asked. “Look at the lane marking. You’re clearly over the line!”

“I hope you have good insurance!” the infuriating man continued, not even glancing at the road. “Do you have any idea how expensive this car is?”

Oscar was speechless for a moment.

This asshole could not possibly be his actual soulmate, right? He was still feeling the pull, though, so someone around here had to be. Subtly, he glanced past the dramatically wailing man, scanning the gathered crowd. Maybe it was someone behind him?

“So what is it—car insurance or soulmate insurance?”

Oscar tuned back into the conversation.

“I have both,” he said, shrugging.

“Good, at least you are not a complete idiot!” the guy huffed. He had moved on from tearing at his hair to gnawing at his nails.

The rage in the pit of Oscar’s stomach burned even hotter. He glanced at the Ferrari.

Maybe it was the car.

Maybe Oscar was an objectophile or whatever it was called, and he was soulmates with the car! It would make sense. He had always been a car guy, and this one was without a doubt a very sexy car.

Please, God, let it be the car.

“Ah!” His not-soulmate suddenly perked up as blue lights flashed behind them. A police car had pulled up, its sirens flicking off as it stopped at the scene. Someone in the crowd must have called them.

Two officers stepped out, slowly circling the Ferrari with expressions like they’d just stumbled onto a particularly bloody murder scene.

“Well, fuck,” one of them muttered when they reached not-soulmate’s side. “Damn shame, that.”

“Yes. Rookies on the road,” Oscar’s soul-enemy sighed while both policemen shook their heads as if they were gathered before an open grave.

Yep. That was it.

Oscar was going to sue fate herself.

*****

[kaiyunsim]

guilty—

pairing : best friend!ni-ki x male!reader

summary : you invite ni-ki over and things get kinda hot inside…

warnings : fluff, maybe slightly suggestive, idk ni-ki is shirtless, based on guilty performance

a/n : i WOULDVE used the guilty pics but i just saw these pics and really like them. also probably not taking requests like this anymore cuz i don’t really like writing them… (sorry)

queueing : guilty - taemin

[requested]

— wc : 2.2k — not proof read —

it's not like inviting ni-ki over is weird. you guys are friends. close ones, even. you talk all the time, send each other dumb memes, argue about the best gaming strategies, and hang out like it’s the most natural thing in the world. so this shouldn’t be a big deal.

except it is.

because having a massive, painfully obvious crush on your best friend tends to make things complicated.

when you text him to come over, it takes him all of two seconds to respond with a casual yeah, be there soon, like it’s nothing. because to him, it is nothing. but to you? it’s an hour of trying to calm your racing heart, of overthinking everything, of pacing around your room and wondering if your place is clean enough, if you should change your shirt, if you should act any different than usual (no, that would be weird, right?).

by the time the doorbell rings, you’re already a mess.

you take a deep breath, shake out your hands, and open the door like you weren’t just standing there having a crisis.

ni-ki stands on your doorstep, grinning as he swings a convenience store bag in one hand. “yo.”

“hey,” you say, proud of how normal your voice sounds.

he steps inside like he’s done a hundred times before, kicking off his shoes and heading straight to your couch. he moves so comfortably in your space, like he belongs here. which, in a way, he does. you’ve known each other long enough for this to be second nature, so you really need to pull it together.

“i brought snacks,” ni-ki says, plopping down onto the couch and digging into the bag. “oh, and these.” he tosses a pack of your favorite candy at you.

you barely catch it in time, blinking at him. “you got this for me?”

“yeah?” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “you always steal mine, so i figured i’d get you your own.”

you want to scream into a pillow. instead, you swallow and mumble, “thanks.”

“no problem.” he leans back, stretching out his long legs. “so? what’s the plan? are you finally ready to accept that i’m the better gamer?”

you scoff, grabbing the controllers. “you wish.”

the game starts, and for a while, everything is normal. you fall into your usual rhythm. trash-talking, shoving each other when one of you pulls off a cheap move, laughing whenever ni-ki yells at the screen. it’s easy, familiar, and for a second, you forget about the whole i have a ridiculous crush on my best friend thing.

but then ni-ki shifts next to you, knee knocking against yours, and just like that, you’re reminded.

you try to focus on the game, but it’s impossible when he’s sitting so close, when his fingers move effortlessly over the buttons, when his face lights up in triumph every time he wins. and god, he’s so pretty. it’s not fair.

“dude, you’re losing so bad,” ni-ki teases, nudging your shoulder. “what’s up with you today?”

“nothing,” you lie, gripping the controller tighter.

he squints at you. “you’re acting weird.”

“no, i’m not.”

“you totally are.”

“just play the game.”

he shrugs, turning his attention back to the screen, but the damage is done. you’re spiraling again, overthinking every little thing, and before you know it, you’ve lost another round.

ni-ki stretches his arms over his head with a satisfied sigh. “man, it’s getting hot in here.”

you barely register his words before he reaches for the hem of his hoodie and pulls it over his head in one swift motion. underneath, he’s wearing a plain t-shirt, but then… then he tugs that off too, leaving him in nothing but his sweatpants.

your brain short-circuits.

he doesn’t even hesitate. just tosses his shirt onto the couch like it’s no big deal. “that’s better,” he sighs, shaking out his hair.

you, on the other hand, are not better.

you are not fine.

you are actively malfunctioning.

your mouth opens and closes a few times before you manage to choke out, “what are you doing?”

ni-ki blinks at you. “taking my shirt off?”

“but why?”

he gives you a confused look. “because it’s hot?”

“you can’t just—” you gesture wildly at his very bare, very toned torso, “—do that!”

he frowns. “why not? we’re both guys.”

and logically, sure. there’s no reason for this to be a big deal. but logically, you also shouldn’t be hopelessly in love with your best friend, and yet here you are.

your face is burning. your entire body feels like it’s on fire. ni-ki is still looking at you like you’re the weird one, and you know if you stay here any longer, you’re going to say or do something humiliating.

so you do the only thing you can think of.

you run.

“i need to—uh—get something,” you stammer, practically launching yourself off the couch.

ni-ki watches in confusion as you bolt to your room, slamming the door behind you.

he stares after you for a moment, then shrugs and picks up his phone, completely unaware that you’re currently on the other side of the door, having an actual meltdown.

you press your back against the door, heart pounding like you just ran a marathon. your hands grip at your shirt, trying to ground yourself, but it does nothing to stop the sheer chaos in your brain.

ni-ki is in your living room. ni-ki, your best friend. ni-ki, shirtless.

you squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to calm down. it’s not like this is the first time you’ve seen him like that. you’ve been to the pool together, changed in locker rooms after practice, but something about this is different. maybe because it’s just the two of you, in the privacy of your room, where your stupid, hopeless crush feels ten times heavier.

you shake your head aggressively. get it together. he’s just a guy. a guy who doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to you.

outside, you hear ni-ki shift on the couch, probably wondering what the hell is wrong with you. you know you can’t stay in here forever, but the thought of going back out there, of sitting next to him while trying to act normal… it makes your face heat up all over again.

you take a deep breath, then another, pressing a hand to your chest like that’ll somehow slow down your heart rate. okay. you just need to play it cool. pretend like nothing happened. act like a normal, sane person.

with one last deep inhale, you push the door open and step out.

ni-ki is still on the couch, legs stretched out, casually scrolling through his phone. he looks up when he hears you, tilting his head. “dude, what was that?”

“what was what?” you say way too quickly.

ni-ki raises an eyebrow. “you, running away like i just said something weird.”

you force out a laugh. “i didn’t run away.”

he just stares at you. “you literally ran.”

“i—i needed to, um, check something,” you mumble, walking past him and pretending to be very interested in adjusting the snack bags on the table.

“...right.”

you can feel his eyes on you, and it takes everything in you not to combust on the spot.

“you good?” he asks after a moment, voice softer.

“yep. totally fine.” you turn back to him with what you hope is a normal expression. “let’s just keep playing.”

he doesn’t look convinced, but he shrugs, grabbing his controller again. “alright, if you say so.”

you sit down next to him—not too close, just enough that it doesn’t seem weird. ni-ki doesn’t seem to think twice about it, immediately starting the next round. but you? you can barely focus. your eyes keep betraying you, flickering to the curve of his shoulders, the toned muscles in his arms, the way his collarbones shift whenever he moves.

it’s ridiculous, really. he’s not even doing anything. he’s just existing, and it’s driving you insane.

you suck in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to look at the screen. focus. focus on the game. not on ni-ki’s stupidly perfect body.

“hey,” ni-ki says suddenly, breaking you out of your thoughts. “why are you playing so bad today?”

you blink, realizing you just drove your character straight off the track. “uh.”

he laughs, nudging your knee with his. “you’re totally off your game, man. maybe i should take my shirt off more often if it distracts you this much.”

you choke.

ni-ki looks at you, amused. “...wait. is that what this is about?”

panic. pure, unfiltered panic floods through you. “w-what? no! obviously not! why would—why would that distract me? that’s so dumb. you’re dumb.”

ni-ki squints at you, his grin growing. “oh my god. you’re flustered.”

“i am not flustered.”

“you totally are.”

“shut up.”

he laughs again, and it’s so unfair how effortlessly good he looks doing it. he leans closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “i mean, it’s fine if you are. i am pretty good-looking.”

you want the ground to swallow you whole. “i’m going to throw you out the window.”

“uh-huh.” he smirks, and it’s infuriating. “so you don’t think i’m hot?”

your brain short-circuits for the second time that night. “what?”

“you heard me.”

“i’m not answering that.”

“so you do think i’m hot.”

“ni-ki.”

“it’s okay, i get it.” he leans back, smug. “i’d have a crush on me too.”

your soul leaves your body. he says it like a joke, like it’s nothing, like he has no idea how dangerously close he is to the truth.

you grab a pillow and smack him in the face with it.

he bursts out laughing, dodging your second attack. “okay, okay! chill!”

you groan, slumping back against the couch and covering your face with your hands. “i hate you.”

“no, you don’t.”

you peek through your fingers, glaring. he’s still grinning, completely unbothered. and, worst of all, still shirtless.

you exhale slowly, trying to gather whatever scraps of dignity you have left. “put your damn shirt back on.”

ni-ki smirks, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s enjoying this. “nah, i’m good.”

you gape at him. “what—ni-ki.”

he grins, tilting his head. “what? you were the one acting all weird about it. now i feel like keeping it off just to mess with you.”

“that’s literally the worst reason.”

“or the best.” he shrugs, completely unbothered. “besides, you never actually answered my question.”

you hesitate. “...what question?”

his smirk grows. “do you think i’m hot?”

you make a noise that’s half a groan, half a dying animal. “i’m not answering that.”

“so yes.”

“so shut up.”

he laughs, absolutely thriving off your suffering, and flops onto the couch like he has no care in the world. “guess i’ll just stay like this, then.”

you stare at him, horrified. “you’re evil.”

he grins. “and you’re flustered.”

you grab the pillow again, ready to smother him with it.

ni-ki smirks, leaning further back into the couch like he has all the time in the world.

you stare at him, exasperated. “ni-ki. put. your. shirt. back. on.”

he raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your suffering. “hmm. no.”

“why not?” you huff, crossing your arms.

he shrugs, completely unbothered. “kinda nice seeing you all flustered. didn’t know this was all it took.”

you groan, feeling your face heat up again. “you are the worst.”

he grins. “and yet, here you are, still staring.”

you snap your head away so fast you might get whiplash. ni-ki laughs at you, full-on cackles, and you swear you’ve never been more embarrassed in your life.

he stretches lazily, arms above his head, on purpose, you know he’s doing it on purpose now. “so,” he says, looking at you with a glint in his eyes. “you got a crush on me or something?”

your stomach drops. your breath catches in your throat.

and ni-ki? ni-ki just smirks like he already knows the answer.

you could deny it. you should deny it. but the way he’s looking at you, teasing, but also strangely expectant, makes you hesitate.

after a long pause, you exhale sharply, rubbing the back of your neck. “...maybe.”

his smirk grows. “maybe?”

you roll your eyes. “fine. yes, okay? i like you. happy now?”

he hums, tilting his head like he’s considering something. “hmm. yeah. i think i am.”

you blink. “wait—what?”

he grins, leaning forward slightly. “would’ve been nice to know earlier, you know. would’ve saved me all this effort.”

you gape at him. “effort? what effort?”

he shrugs, like it’s obvious. “the effort of making you admit it first.”

you stare at him, speechless. “you knew?”

he laughs. “not really. but i hoped.”

your brain short-circuits. “you hoped?”

he just winks, and finally—finally—grabs his shirt off the couch. “now that you’ve confessed, maybe i’ll put this back on.”

you groan, shoving a pillow in his face as he cackles. this is not how you expected today to go.

[ts-janus-rp-blog]

"Yeah, you think so?" Remus smiled as he opened the closet, then he gasped when he picked up a dark green sparkly yarn. "This is perfect! Can I use this? Oh," Remus smirked, "And I'll make something for you too, babe. How about... A little heart? Or uh... A beanie! Uh... What else can you knit? Can I knit you a dick?"

"Hm, alright then, looks like I'm gonna have to force you in. That's fine." Logan started walking over to the desk across from Roman, then he pressed a button on the table. A loud metallic noise could be heard, then what sounded like a cage opening.

"They may be sentient, they may have thoughts and emotions, they may feel pain... But that doesn't mean they're worth anything. They're worth pennies, so might as well turn them into something more."

THUD!

A massive German Shepard, much bigger than any normal hybrid emerged from the smaller room. This hybrid was covered in numerous scars and he had a thick metal collar around his neck that was flashing a red light. The dogs eyes were glazed over, not a single light was on inside.

"Mutt, place Roman inside of the tube. Secure him inside."

Janus grunted through the punches, but once he was done, he opened his eyes to see Virgil turning to leave. "Oh yeah... And if you think... Romans not gonna get upset at you...for hurting me... You're far more stupid than I thought...you were... He's gonna get mad... All that progress you made...so far...will be thrown out the window... And Roman told me...he was starting to feel kinda bad for you too... He was starting to feel something towards you..." Lie. "But you threw those emotions out... I hope you're happy..." He spit out some more blood.

Patton knocked desperately at the strangers door, praying someone, anyone was home. His heart beat as fast and loud as the rain thundering against the sidewalk. He was sure he was being followed, they were going to catch him. They were going to drag him back. He wasn't sure if whoever lived here might be worse, but he was willing to risk it at this point. Anything to escape.

{@moralpuppylover2}

Janus didn't know who would be at the door. It was late, but his master won't surely be home at this time. He normally doesn't get home until the sun starts to come up.

So, as the dog hybrid walked up to the door and opened it, he wondered who it could be. And if he should open it at all... Who knows, he may get in trouble with his master for opening the door. But, his curiosity was getting the better of him-

He stopped when he saw the soaking wet cat standing at the doorway. He could tell that this cat needed help almost immediately. Well, if his poor state of clothes were anything to go by. His eyes flickered up and down the sidewalk before he grabbed pattons arm and pulled him inside.

"are you alright?" Janus nervously asked as he grabbed a towel from the mud room. "Well, that's a stupid question, of course you're not alright! Are you...running away from your owners?" As Janus walked, the collar around his neck would jingle loudly. And even though it was cold outside and even in the house, he only had a pair of boxers on. Because of that, Patton would be able to see the numerous large scars that covered his body...and the countless amounts of fresh bruises.

@moralpuppylover2

[badhairred]

Taste my Anger

A little microfic made for this beautiful piece of art. This is dedicated to @spookeart for the art and @blackthornwine who actually gave me the idea in the first place. Thank you for putting this in my head and enjoy this little gift🤍🤍

Moonwater - 1632 words - tags: Regulus/Remus, Post prank anger, smoking, shotgun.

“For once in your life, Sirius, think about someone else than bloody you! You hurt people, you are cruel when you want to be and don’t go saying you didn’t want to because if you hadn’t you wouldn’t have,” Remus bristles, hands balled into fists, his blood boiling and the pencil the bag that had been hanging loosely off his shoulder had flown open and papers where scattered around them. James looks at Remus with wide, horrified eyes, and Peter is looking between him and Sirius, who looks as white as a ghost, like he is following a very tense match of chess. “I am done!”

“Moony, I–”

“No,” Remus whirls back around, his curls sparking at the ends as his magic gets away from him. It has been such a long time since he hasn’t been in control of his magic, the wolf in his chest coming out even when he’s in human form and bringing out the worst of him. “Don’t call me that, fuck off Sirius. Truly. Fuck. Off.”

Sirius doesn’t try again when Remus turns on his heel and stomps around the corner. He doesn’t know where exactly he is going. He just needs to run, get away, calm the fuck down. Fumbling in his pocket he fishes for a cigarette, lighting it with a snap of his fingers –which might not have been the best idea because half of the cigarette burns up already from the intensity of the magic– before taking a long drag.

Luckily there is no one in the hallway, seeing as it’s dinner time and everyone is down in the great hall. His feet carry him without him actually giving them directions. There are two stairs, another corridor, a corner, and a hidden passage up another winding staircase. He just walks. Moving, for the sake of getting away.

James can try and play the peace broker all he wants, Remus will never forgive Sirius. The guy might act all high and mighty, the first to be brave instead of cunning but there is enough poison in him to still be a snake. He betrays his friends so easily for his own gain, bullying for his own amusement and being cruel just because he can get away with it by swishing his insane hair or flashing that million-gallon smile. No more. Remus is done.

When he puts out the fag at the bottom of his shoe and reaches for the next, he realises he has finally reached a corridor he recognises. In his blind fury, he had just let his subconscious guide him and it clearly needed to find itself to a place no one knows about. He sinks down on the windowsill of the empty corridor on the fifth floor that ends in a dead end and so is rarely visited by other students –or teachers.

Reaching in his backpack Remus is suddenly grateful for his wolf, who had been so on edge because of the whole ordeal already that Remus had the clearance of mind to stuff his weed, baccy and long rolling paper in the bottom of the pack, hidden under his parchments and quills.

Absemindedly he goes into autopilot and starts rolling the spliff while he leans his head against the open window. The cold autumn air greets him like little shards cutting his skin and he revels in the feeling as he watches over the ground. The sun has already gone down behind the mountains on the other side of the black lake and the ground is quickly getting doused in darkness. The ripple of the wind makes the tops of the trees of the forbidden forest move like a sea of dark green, while the smoke from Hagrid’s hut crinkles into the sky.

Remus takes a deep sigh, letting the sereneness of the dawn wash over him. His breathing returns to normal while his hands have frozen in their action of rolling the spliff when his eyes fall on the shadow of the lonely, big willow tree. Its branches move against the wind faster than should be possible and when a bird that is trying to find shelter for the night gets a little too close it nearly escapes the clutches of the violent tree.

The Whomping Willow.

The tree was supposed to protect Remus during his transformation, it was supposed to be his secret and his burden to bear. Shaking his head he adverbs his gaze and pushes the feelings of rage that resurface back down. Sirius is a stuck-up prick, he thinks Remus will always cave in the end, forgive him when he comes up with weak excuses and bring up his family.

“What are you doing here?”

Remus looks up from the finish spliff in his hand. Speaking of the devil. Regulus is looking down at him, arms crossed and one eyebrow lifted. The permanent scowl on Regulus Black’s face doesn’t make the boy less attractive.

“What’s it look like?” Remus retorts, holding up the unlid spliff in his hand before bringing it to his lips and keeping eye contact with his fellow prefect as he lits the thing and takes a drag. Daring.

Regulus’ eyes shoot from the burning tip to Remus’ eyes and back down to his lips where the smoke is just escaping into the air. There is a calculating look in his sharp green eyes and Remus feels like he is biting back a million questions.

The day has been shit. Well, to be honest, the last two weeks have been shit and Remus is just mad enough to take any chance to piss off his friends at this point. “Wanna hit?”

Regulus’ eyes widen and he uncrosses his arms as he scales Remus up, trying to figure out if he is sincere.

“Where’s your following?”

Remus scoffs. “I don’t have a following.”

As he moves to come to stand in front of Remus Regulus lets out a scoff. “Oh yes, my bad, it’s my brother’s following.” Remus tries to keep his expression blank but something must slip through the cracks because he is treated of the rare sight of Regulus smirking. “What’s that? Trouble in paradise?”

“You wanna smoke or not?” Remus asks him, avoiding the question and holding the spliff up to the younger Black.

Regulus looks like he wants to keep prodding about the situation but he seems to decide against it. He eyes the spliff again and an uncertainty flickers over his face. “I never–”

“Didn’t think you had,” Remus chuckles darkly. “Come here.” Remus is toeing a dangerous line but he doesn’t care at this point. The haze in his mind from the drags he had taken himself is just enough to justify how he reaches his arm around Regulus and tucks him closer. He watches how his breath catches and wonders why the younger one is here at that moment.

“Why are you here?”

“I come here sometimes,” Regulus admits after a beat of silence. “To think.”

“Mhm,” Remus nods, looking up, seeing the slightest hint of freckles on his face he had never seen before, only visible when you get up close to the boy. “Tilt your head up a little.”

And to Remus’ astonishment, Regulus obeys the instruction. Remus doesn’t know why Regulus wants to be alone, or what he wants to think about but the fact that he so easily follows Remus’ instructions, no back talking, no jokes or snide remarks. Just a tilted head, coming close to his, waiting for the next thing that is going to happen.

With the smoke in his mouth, Remus leans in and uses his thumb to open up Regulus’ mouth before he leans in and lets the smoke billow out, landing on the other’s tongue. “Inhale.”

Regulus does, taking a sharp breath and letting the smoke reach his lungs. He doesn’t cough or lean away. His expression is still saying nothing but his eyes, it’s those emerald greens that tell Remus how much Regulus needed this. Maybe just as much as he.

“Your brother can be an utter fucking dickhead,” Remus sighs out, leaning back just the tiniest bit, keeping his eyes trailed on Regulus’ who looks at him as if he is trying to read his mind.

“Don’t I know it,” the boy answers. He tilts his head up, crooking it a bit to the side resulting in Remus’ hand falling from his chin. “Want to piss him off?” Remus only nods as Regulus points his eyes to the spliff. He inhales once more and instead of him guiding Regulus it’s Regulus who lays his hand on Remus’ cheeks, bringing him to his mouth.

Remus would have choked on the smoke if it was still in his mouth when Regulus closes his lips around Remus’ in earnest. The smoke is shared between them as their tongues come together in the sweetest yet most passionate kiss Remus had ever experienced. He keeps the spliff out of their way, not to burn the younger boy by accident as he tightens his grip on Regulus’ waist. The feeling of Regulus’ cold rings against his skin only adds to all the feelings that course through his body.

Where his blood had been boiling before from rage it was now set ablaze by this single kiss.

Regulus breaks away, leaning back and opening his eyes with a flutter of his lashes. Remus stares back at the boy who is not saying anything before he steps out of the embrace and takes the spliff from Remus’ hand to take a slow drag. Before Remus can wrap his mind around what just happened he is looking at Regulus’ retreating back.

“Black!” Remus calls after him and Regulus turns his head around with a smirk.

“See you, Lupin. Thanks for the hit.”

[nellasbookplanet]

What with 'the gods reincarnate as mortals' happening I'm eternally plagued by the question that was skipped over in Downfall, namely, what will the anamnesis process look like? Like I don’t really care about the primes here, they'll be fine, they love mortals. I'm thinking about the betrayers. You're born to and raised by a normal family. They love you. You love them. You have strange budding powers but sorcerers aren't that rare, it’s fine, you're probably normal.

Then you start to remember. You remember that you hate everyone around you. That you don’t even view mortals, of which you are one, as people. That you blame them for your family fracturing, and now for taking your godhood from you. And all those millenia of hatred, how quickly do they overshadow and subsume a childhood of love? Will there be internal struggle or will the mortal family who raised you immediately lose any value? Will they be the one exception exempt from your hatred? How many generations, how many remembered lifetimes, until your family and its children make up half the world? What about when you’ve been mortal for longer than you’ve been a god? What then? Will you hate them more for making hating them so hard? Or will the hate always burn everything else away cleanly the moment you remember it?

Alternatively, you are a small child. A stranger shows up at your home. He says, you killed my brother. He is here for vengeance. He has done this before, tracking you down every time you are reborn. You never remember him killing you, nor the reason why. Neither of you are free to move on. Your mortal family is left in the wreckage with a dead child. The cycle goes on.

Or maybe you are a parent to a bright eyed child, and something is wrong. They are plagued by dark thoughts they don’t understand but long to give in to. They are a child, your child, but they keep hurting people. You love them, but then they start to remember, and you must ask yourself, do they love me? Are they even capable of loving me? Or perhaps your child was always sweet, kind, normal. Until one day they start to change. They are two people, but they are one, and it will never stop.

[forgeofthenine]

I’m so sad there isn’t much solo Rolan request yet, but I am more than happy to submit one thing that hasn’t left my brain!:

We all know Rolan is a hard worker but I think that after so many years of him only worrying about Cal and Lia he sometimes forgets he has to take care of himself. Maybe some head cannons about how his significant other could help him not be so focused on his work and his reaction to someone else taking care of him for once?

Taking care of Rolan headcanons

First off, this man absolutely will not make things easy for you

We all know he's headstrong and stubborn af, even Cal and Lia can't convince him to relax

So, you need to start things off easy and be gentle with him

Small things like making tea for the both of you and bringing it to his study, or cleaning shared spaces before he gets the chance

Things you can brush off so he doesn't make a big deal out of it

Once you're done being all sneaky and working in some extra affection into his everyday life, he'll start to question other things less

He won't be as uptight about you interrupting his studies to give him a shoulder massage and coax him into bed, or insisting he eat a meal with you away from his desk

Despite that, sometimes he still needs you to be a bit stern with him

Take him by the hands and haul him away from his desk for a walk through Baldurs Gate, he needs the sunshine

Or trap him in bed with you for a little longer than he normally is

Guilt tripping him in the morning is oddly effective

He starts off huffing and puffing over it all, but deep down he knows it's good to have someone looking after him

You'll never stop him from returning the favour, though

You're in Cal and Lias boat, he'll look after the three of you whether you like it or not

Can't reach something? He'll handle it. Want food but can't be bothered cooking? Let him, he insists it's not too much trouble

I don't see tieflings getting sick often, but when he's sick it is so much more easy to look after him

A bed bound Rolan is a less argumentative Rolan

It takes him some time to get used to, but eventually, he's quite happy with the little system you both work out

Soon, when you step inside with tea he's already clearing away tomes and papers

And when you're insisting he leaves the tower with you, he quick to wrap and arm around your waist or take your hand in his

He'll never say out loud that he enjoys it, but you can tell

He's a big softy under that prickly demeanour

Man, it's been forever since I've done any writing on anything other than Character.AI. I'm going through some very serious family issues right now, and with that I wanted a little distraction so I turned back to this. If anyone wants to send in some sweet fluffy requests or something, I'd appreciate it. All of my old requests are almost entirely smut and I just need something SFW rn lol.

[grunckle]

Rain World, Classical Planets, Celestial Spheres, (more!) Gnosticism, and the Deep Pink pearl

Sorry for the absolute mess of a title, but seeming as I've already covered all of these topics in previous posts, I figured I could go a bit further into the concepts. If you haven't read the others I'd suggest looking at them to understand the base I'll be building upon here. The ones best suited for that are probably:

and

With that being said, lets get started with Planets and their etymology.

The word planet derives from the Greek word πλανήται (planḗtai), which itself is derivative of πλανάω (planáō,) which means, "to wander." It referred to the 7 classical planets, which included the Sun and Moon, along with the 5 visible to the naked eye, namely, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. They "wander" because they move in an irregular pattern against the backdrop of fixed stars, so they themselves were seen as "wandering stars", something to keep in mind later.

It's also good to note that this is why the planets are named after Roman gods, a practice subsumed from the Greeks which was even further borrowed from the Babylonians, of course each putting their own pantheon in the other one's place, (with exceptions to Neptune, Uranus, and Pluto, who were discovered and thus named much later by astronomers in Europe who used both Latin and Greek gods for naming.)

Now with the etymology done, we can look at the roots it has in Gnosticism. The Ogdoad is a concept which simply means a group of 8, and is reflected in Gnostic cosmology and creation myth. Gnostic cosmology as understood today (generally! as of course belief and interpretation varied within the religion) is separated into 7 planetary spheres ruled over by the 7 archons, along with an 8th, "supercelestial" sphere of fixed stars. In the earliest forms of Gnosticism this was the final layer, but again it's important to stress that belief on the higher layers especially varied greatly, with some systems having as many as 365 heavens. In this context the word, hebdomad, meaning a group of 7, refers to the 7 planetary spheres and Ogdoad refers to the 7 plus an 8th sphere of fixed stars.

As for actually relating this to Rain World, it once again comes back to Guardians and Void Worms.

The glyphs on the Guardian halos differ from the rest of the written language we see in game as they represent numerals, (I believe this is confirmed through internal code, but if you're (reasonably) not in favor of using code as evidence I still believe it can be inferred through the surrounding context.) They show 7 logograms from 0-6, along with an eighth symbol.

Here's a chart which I unfortunately don't know the creator of.

I've already covered the relation between the Demiurge and Void Worms previously, (see the posts) but It's important to note that I'm not drawing any definitive conclusion here, part of why being I don't have one. Rain World does not strictly adhere to any one concept or religion, and we can only infer what they wanted to convey with the things they did use. It's also a piece of subjective, moody art and so evocative use of outside concepts such as this may only be a tool for interpretation.

With that being said, I believe it may be more fitting to view Void Worms not as a "collective Demiurge" so to speak, but rather as collective Archons. (Noting that Archons traditionally are not represented similarly to the Demiurge, as they're frequently depicted more anthropomorphically and in a way that bears more resemblance to the general cultural view of Demons.) This is for two reasons:

The pearl describing "moving stars" and the correlated dream we have likewise. Indicating the "wandering stars" and subsequently the planetary spheres.

Oh, interesting. This is a diary entry of a pre-Iterator era laborer during the construction of the subterranean transit system south of here. In it they describe restless nights filled with disturbing dreams, where millions glowing stars move menacingly in the distance.

And the Deep Pink pearl in Farm Arrays, of which I'll give an excerpt of.

"On regards of the (by spiritual splendor eternally graced) people of the Congregation of Never Dwindling Righteousness, we Wish to congratulate (o so thankfully) this Facility on its Loyal and Relished services, and to Offer our Hopes and Aspirations that the Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory Cooperation may continue, for as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres and/or the Cooperation continues to be Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory."

I believe the stars (Void Worms) that "move" (wander), described above may be equivalent to the classical view of planets, and therefore the planetary spheres and the Archons that rule over them. The Benefactors viewed them as "disturbing" and "menacing", in stark contrast to fixed stars within their celestial spheres being seen as a good omen. A contrast seen at the highest and lowest points in the game;

Above, we see perfectly still stars.

Below, a raging inferno of wandering stars, "Planets".

[andiberzatto]

This is how I think Carmy would handle comforting his crying girlfriend if she just broke down in-front of him when she finds him in his office at The Bear…

Carmy had turned towards you with his chair upon hearing the office door swing open, he’s in his signature white shirt and chef pants. You had pushed the door to his office open, not caring to knock given the stare you were in. Richie had told you Carmy would be there working on “supplier bullshit” in the back office but to go ahead.

And there he was, as promised. He nods with his head towards you, biting his lower lip unconsciously as his lips make a lazily smile, a thing he does when he’s stressed or thinking. "Hey-” the happy greeting dies in his throat as he takes in the way your face changes the moment he looks at you; it’s replaced with a “What's up? something wrong?" His voice is gentle and smooth, it always is, if it’s towards her.

Something just snaps at his asking and she breaks down at the gentle tone. Carmy is across the room and has her in his arms in a matter of seconds. He is slightly panicked by the tears in her eyes but trying to remain calm. He’s running a million scenarios in his head at what she could be crying over; Did he forget an important date? No he made sure to put those into his phone calendar and double check the days….had he done something to set her off? Besides being busy all day answering calls… not really. Normally it’s not this bad of a response. Was Richie being a dick to her? Plausible… yes… currently not so much. Was it something outside of them? Her family? Anything…

He rubs her back and kisses her the top of her head. he’s not good with words, but he’s good with this part of it. Once carmy has gotten comfortable in your relationship to touch you and hold you, that’s all he’d want to do when you were upset. It’s fool proof, no fancy hoops to jump through, no psychoanalysis of what to say. Just comfort in the simplest form. Carmy just does that for a while, letting her cry. Her signature ultra black mascara making a mess off his white shirt but he doesn’t mind.

She would mumble something about getting his shirt all wet and stained with her makeup and he would reply “I care about you right now, fuck the white tshirt… what’s goin on with you?”. He would say it gently and murmured against her ear, giving her his voice to focus on.

Her breathing would relax and the sobs would start to slow as he started to talk to her more, he’s wasn’t good at the words for comfort thing. But he knew it’s what she needed sometimes so for her he’d try.

He’s a murmuring fumbling mess; “uh…I gotchu..” “you know it’s okay.. you got me…” “breathe angel…” “there you go… take another breath wit me…”

He would try to mirror the way you calm him down when he’s having panic attacks, it’s the only way he’s learned how to talk someone into calming down.

Once she’s calmer, and he feels okay enough that he can step away without her falling to tears again. He lets her relax and breathe in his office with a plastic prep cup full of ice water while he rushes into the kitchen of The Bear to grab her a plate of whatever is easiest to cook and plate that would comfort her. Something warm and easy to eat like his fancy take on Risotto for the week among the ever changing menu at the Bear. The menu was inconsistent and chaos and busy. But there was nothing more comforting than Carmy’s cooking.

He would sit by her silently as she talks about her shit day or week and eats the food, rubbing her back or touching her in some way. He always had to have a hand on her in some form if she was ever recovering from being upset.

[sammylkcho]

Hiii I love ur platonic and possessive Astro with younger!reader and that got me thinking..How about platonic and possessive Sprout with a Baby girl!reader as his sibling?? And it feels a bit silly.. but I’m allowed to be silly and you too :D!!

-✨

I like the idea, and I'd also love to get creative by imagining that baby!reader would have an appearance similar to a seed, with just one or two leaves that look like hair due to the way strawberries grow

And I took my own creative liberties when writing about Sprout, btw

Warnings/Notes: Babygirl!reader, possesive Sprout (platonic), pronuns she/her with Y/N [Reader], a bit OOC

Gardenview had never been this busy on a holiday weekend—unless there was some kind of event or pending task to be done. But this time, it was just a normal day.

Not to mention that the Toons’ Handlers rarely showed up unless it was under strict orders from Delilah or Arthur. So, naturally, all the Toons were trying to figure out what was going on or what was keeping the staff running back and forth without stopping.

Even the Mains weren’t getting any attention! And considering they were usually the Handlers' top priority, everyone was equally surprised.

"Dandy, are you sure Devan didn’t mention anything?" Poppy asked, resting her face in the palm of her hands, clearly curious and anxious to know what was happening outside.

"Ah… Poppy, I’m going to give you the same answer I gave you the last ten times: no." Dandy replied, flipping through drawings that various kids had made during their visits to Gardenview and left behind.

"Nothing bad happened, right? Delilah rarely meets with our Handlers…"

"Stop worrying that music box of yours, Boxten! I already told you everything’s going to be fine!"

Poppy tried to reassure Boxten, hoping to keep him from spiraling into an anxious, worry-filled state.

The atmosphere was starting to grow tense as everyone began coming up with their own theories and speculations about what could be happening. The fact that no one knew anything, and that it was all so sudden—even for the Mains—was far too strange.

"Uuuuh… What dumb designs, looks like a radish."

"Yeah, a really ugly and dumb radish."

"Oh man, they look so ridiculous with those little flowers around them!"

Suddenly, not-so-discreet murmurs and laughter from Gigi and Connie started echoing louder through the room, causing all the Toons to go silent just to hear what they were talking about. Not only did it spark curiosity about their conversation, but also about whatever it was they were laughing at.

Vee, who had been standing with Shelly and Sprout just moments ago, walked over to the two Toons with a deep frown, filled with suspicion over whatever they were scheming.

"Ahem. Do you two plan on showing us what you’ve got?" Vee demanded, crossing her arms as her gaze flicked between Gigi and Connie.

A brief silence settled between them as they exchanged glances, before Connie sighed and Gigi pouted slightly, reluctantly revealing the papers they had been holding.

"Let’s just say I took a little stroll through Delilah’s office while they were busy and found… this." Connie explained with a teasing lilt, barely holding back a laugh at Vee’s deepening frown upon realizing she had been snooping around in Delilah’s office.

Vee immediately started scolding Connie, yelling at her about how she shouldn’t be digging through the founders’ (their creators’) belongings, since it was strictly forbidden. Not to mention—it was also stealing. She also blamed Gigi, accusing her of plotting to rummage through Delilah and Arthur’s things while all of this was going on.

While that whole scene was unfolding, Sprout noticed a sheet of paper that Connie had set aside while reluctantly enduring Vee’s scolding. Curious, he moved closer, picking it up to examine it in more detail.

The details on the page left him completely stunned—no, more than stunned.

In the upper left corner, the name Y/N Seedly was written. Meanwhile, the center of the page was filled with designs of this Y/N, depicting a rather childlike appearance. The design closely resembled a growing plant, with its greenish tones and the tiny leaves that barely looked like hair. Below that, Delilah and Arthur’s signatures were present, along with a couple of extra notes marked as "to be added" or simply labeled as "notes" about Y/N.

“She doesn’t look any older than Toodles… She actually seems smaller than that ‘Y/N.’ I’d even say the kids who visit Gardenview are older than this one, and Gardenview accepts kids as young as five…”

Rodger’s sudden voice snapped Sprout out of his thoughts, making him aware of the growing warmth he was feeling—and the countless eyes now locked onto the paper he was holding.

“Wha- WHY ARE YOU ALL STANDING BEHIND ME?” Sprout exclaimed sharply, only just realizing the sheer number of curious Toons gathered behind and beside him, all trying to get a look at what he had in his hands.

Rodger continued mumbling possible conclusions based on the most logical explanations, but Sprout wasn’t paying attention anymore. His focus was entirely on the name written on the page.

Why did they have his last name? Were they supposed to be related in some way, or was it just a coincidence—?

“Alright, that’s enough chattering, everyone. We’ve got a new friend! But hush, okay?”

A new voice—one that was very well-known among them—rang out, immediately quieting all the murmurs and scattered conversations as the Toons turned their attention toward Devan.

Sam entered the room, cradling a small bundle wrapped in a soft red blanket with white polka dots. From the gentle rise and fall of the bundle, it was clear that he was holding someone.

Sprout was the first to step forward, moving toward his Handler to get a closer look at what he was keeping so carefully hidden. He already had a slight suspicion about what—or who—it was.

Sam knelt down to Sprout’s height, gently bringing the tiny figure closer. Nestled within the soft cotton blanket was a small being, peacefully asleep.

“Hey, looks like you finally have a family of your own,” Sam murmured, offering Sprout a soft smile. “Meet Y/N Seedly—your new sister.”

He spoke the last part in a quieter voice, knowing that Sprout didn’t like hearing his last name spoken aloud, especially in front of everyone.

“Uh… Am I holding her right?” Sprout asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice as he carefully adjusted his grip, unsure of how to properly carry his new little sister.

“Perfect. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

Sam stood up, ready to share the news with the rest of the Toons. Meanwhile, the Mains gathered around Sprout, peeking curiously from the sides but careful not to disrupt the little moment he was having.

Sprout’s tail began wagging from side to side as he gazed down at his new sister, like something straight out of a fairy tale. That settled it—he would take very good care of her. Nothing was going to happen to her, not on his watch. He was going to be the best big brother in the entire world.

Slowly, he reached out and gently touched the tiny leaves sprouting from her head—soft, pale green, not yet fully grown. The same went for the small tail she had, barely visible and still too underdeveloped for any properly sized leaves to form.

Carefully, he pulled her closer to his chest, making sure not to wake her and disturb her dreams. That protective feeling inside him only grew stronger. He had to keep her safe. Nothing—not even the smallest harm—was going to touch his little sister.

[iamnmbr3]

the gap between sectemsempra scene and astronomy tower scene is so fucking jarring. Like harry sees him crying and is shocked by it then draco literally CONFESSES to everything harry was sure of (he was obsessed with him over that and was dying to know about his mission and to basically catch him at it)...then he slices him open and feels bad. Then NOTHING right to worrying him because he couldn't kill dumbledore? Neither talking to him nor stalking him. But dating ginny (it wasn't that he stopped for ginny he stopped it before ginny)

Absolutely nonsense..

I KNOW! I will never stop being absolutely INSANE about that section of the book. Harry walks in on Draco saying some incredibly incriminating and concerning things. And then Draco attacks Harry and tries to use an extremely dark and extremely illegal spell on him; remember, just using an Unforgivable on someone once is enough to land you in Azkaban for life. And by the way, this is a spell that most people who aren't dark wizards wouldn't even be capable of using properly. Also, Harry was already sure that Draco was a Death Eater and had to endure months of everyone else dismissing him and rolling their eyes at him.

And what is Harry's reaction? Does he feel vindicated and double down on his efforts to figure out what Draco's up to and stop him? Does he spend weeks gloating to his friends that he was right and then insist that they help him stalk Draco too? Does he report to magical law enforcement that Draco, the son of a disgraced Death Eater who is in jail, attempted to use a highly illegal spell on him and also is probably in league with Voldemort, thereby probably getting Draco expelled at the very least and quite possibly jailed (especially given that the Ministry is desperate to find people to round up so they can show the public they're doing something)?

Nope! These would all be expected and normal reactions to what went down. But instead, Harry is consumed with guilt and horror over the fact that he accidentally hurt Draco during a possibly life-threatening duel precipitated by Draco, who Harry is sure is a DEATH EATER, realizing that Harry heard him saying incriminating things. (I mean, really, I think Draco was just upset and also humiliated that Harry saw him in such a vulnerable position and lashed out without thinking, but the most logical assumption would be that he was trying to get rid of a witness - though I don't think that was the case and I think Harry actually knows that due to his deep understanding of Draco).

And furthermore, despite the fact that Draco likely poses a threat to everyone in school, Harry completely backs off. After seeing Draco in such a desperate and vulnerable position, after seeing how frightened and miserable he is, after seeing how investigating him led to him getting hurt, Harry totally backs off.

His only feelings are remorse for what he did. He seemingly does not tell a teacher or any other authority figure that Draco tried to use an illegal curse on him or even that Draco started the fight, even though that would have gotten him out of trouble. He feels so guilty that he seems to uncharacteristically feel that he deserves Snape's detentions over the incident, even though he feels nothing but hatred for Snape and usually perceives any punishment Snape gives him as unfair.

And it is in this context that he pursues a relationship with Ginny. While trying to forget about Draco. That is what he fills the hole in his life with. Just...wow.

And listen. I'd love to wax poetic about how masterfully this is done. How the jarring nature of Harry's switch from being obsessed with Draco to distracting himself completely through a socially acceptable relationship with Ginny is a really sophisticated way to represent his conflicted feelings about Draco and how he's trying to suppress his feelings of attraction for him, to the point of even lying to himself. But I can't. Because while that is what we see in the text, I know JKR did it entirely by mistake and, given the quality of the romances she writes on purpose, wouldn't have been capable of doing it intentionally even if she wanted to.

This is like giving a monkey a keyboard and having it immediately write a sequel to Hamlet that's somehow better than the original. Technically satistically possible, but highly unlikely and thus an absolutely mindblowing and insane development. I will never be over this.

[danikamariewrites]

hiiii if you’re currently taking requests, i was wondering if you could do either feysand x reader or bat boys x reader on how they’d react to reader having a nightmare? or if you have anything you’ve already written for that and wanna drop the link, i’d love that too!!! thanks :))

Nightmare Comfort

Feysand x reader

Notes: I think I've done one for Az and Rhys before but I love a good comfort fic so I thought I'd make this part of the House Wife Feysand mini series since I miss them.

I have reader going thru it like Bella in New Moon so sorry in advance

Warnings: angst, comfort, mentions of kidnapping

Every night the dreams get more and more vivid. It feels like you’re back in that freezing, abandoned cabin. When you can finally pull yourself from the illusion you wake up screaming. Your fists clenched like they were around the ropes to keep your skin from pinching.

Tonight was no different. The same nightmare. The same chill makes your body tremble.

You’ve opted to sleep on the side of the bed instead of the middle. The fist clenching progressed to thrashing a few nights ago, Rhys had to hold you until they broke you from the dream.

You jolted awake with a scream on your lips. It didn’t make it, your throat too dry from every other night. You choked, coughing and gasping for air.

Looking over at your mates you find them fast asleep. The bags under their eyes make your heart clench, guilt knotting in your stomach.

Slipping from bed you pad downstairs. This way you won’t wake them or hurt them.

Curling up in one of the wing armchairs you pull a blanket tight around your shoulders.

When the sun came up you didn’t move from the chair. Not even when Feyre brought you breakfast. She begged you to talk but all you could do was shake your head.

Every night you pretend to go to bed with Rhys and Feyre. You wait until their breathing calms and Rhys’s light snores fill your ears to go to the armchair.

It’s the only place the nightmares don’t reach you. The men that took you can’t reach you here.

You see the men every time you close your eyes. Still feel their hands pulling at you when they took you.

You sit in the armchair for months. Watching as winter melts into spring. Becoming a shell of yourself.

Nyx tries to sit with you, and you at least talk with him. You could never break his heart.

Midway through March, Rhys put his foot down. When you tried to sneak downstairs he shot out of bed, blocking your way. You were so shocked you couldn’t speak.

“Sit,” he commands. Feyre pulls you to her side, cradling your head against her chest. “Y/n, we know you haven’t been sleeping,” Rhys kneels in front of you. “We know why you’re having nightmares and I’m begging you, please let us help.”

Unsure silence engulfs the room. Rhys and Feyre hold their breath as they watch your tears slow. You take a deep breath and squeeze your eyes shut.

“I know I’m safe,” you start. “But every time I close my eyes I’m back there with them and I’m cold and I’m hurt. When I sleep I’m tied to that chair again. I don’t know how to make it stop and I’m sorry.” Fresh tears wet your cheeks.

Feyre pulls you closer so you’re practically on her lap. Her own tears wetting your hair. “You saved me, so why am I like this?” You whisper.

“My love.” She coos. “It was a terrifying thing to go through. Your feelings are normal, even if they don’t feel like it.”

Rhys rubs slow circles on your back. “We can help you, love. Why didn’t you say something sooner?” You shrug. “I didn’t think there was anything to do.”

The next night your mates leave no room for argument as they smooshed you between them. You let sleep claim you. Soft talons caress your mental shields until they have a hold on your dreams. Nothing but bliss and welcome darkness keeps you asleep.

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

Chapter four: If it weren't for you

Pairing: Hwang In-ho x Reader

also available on ao3

word count: 5,3k

-----

“You motherfucker!” 

The shout tore through the dormitory like a gunshot, sharp and violent, cutting through the low hum of murmured conversations. It was the kind of sound that made your body react before your mind could catch up. Instead of going to your bed like you intended, you stopped.

Your head snapped toward the source, your pulse spiking—because you knew what was coming. Everyone did.

A commotion? No. A beating.

MG Coin—Player 333—was on the floor, trapped beneath Thanos and Player 124. But this wasn’t a fight. This was a slaughter. Thanos was on top of him, fists hammering down in relentless succession. 124 grabbed 333 by the collar, hauling him up just to slam him back down again.  

A sickening thud. Then another. The sharp crack of knuckles meeting flesh echoed through the dormitory. Gasps rippled through the crowd, but no one moved.  

No one helped.  

You exhaled sharply. Cowards.  

It didn’t matter what 333 had done—fraud or not, no one deserved to be beaten into the floor like a goddamn animal. 

You took a step forward. 

“I lost all that money because of you, you piece of shit,” Thanos snarled, punctuating the words with a brutal kick to 333’s ribs. A choked gasp left his mouth.  

A choked, wet gasp left his mouth. He curled inward, instinctively shielding himself—but it didn’t matter. The next kick came anyway.  

“Be grateful,” Thanos spat. Another kick, “And fucking eat what you’re given.”

Still, no one moved except you.  

Not Jung-bae. Not Dae-ho. Not the players who, moments ago, had been shovelling food into their mouths like this wasn’t a goddamn death camp.  

Dae-ho unconsciously rolled his sleeves back up, flexing his tattooed arms. Considering stepping in. But he didn’t.  

Fuck this.  

You let out an annoyed sigh, hands stuffing into your pockets, "This is bullshit."  

You were almost there when a firm hand clamped down on your shoulder.  

You froze. Player 001.  

Your breath hitched, heartbeat stuttering. His grip wasn’t forceful, but it held just enough weight to make you stop. His fingers lingered, just for a second longer than normal—then he stepped past you, slipping through.  

Purposeful. 

There was something about the way he moved—unhurried but deliberate, like a lion stalking its prey.  

Gi-hun stood, too. His shoulders squared, lips pressed into a hard line as his eyes tracked 001’s approach. The older man stopped a few feet away from the fight, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Then—  

“Boys,” his voice was even, almost gentle. And suddenly the beating stopped. Thanos and 124 turned toward him, confusion flickering across their faces.  

001’s gaze dropped to 333, who lay on the ground, panting, his body curled inward like a dying animal. His expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened.  

“No fights during mealtime,” he continued, his tone light but firm enough, “There are elders present. Mind your manners.” 

A weight settled over the room. Tension thickened like smoke. Thanos sneered, rolling his shoulders back, ”You’re lecturing me?”, his voice dripped with mockery, disdain.  

He took a step closer, ”Uncle, what the hell are you even doing here?” His lips curled. “You ended up in this shithole too. Maybe you should shut up and take care of your own damn kids.”  

The dormitory stilled. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. Slowly—too slowly—001 tilted his head.  

“What did you say?”  

Thanos smirked. He didn’t notice the shift. Didn’t notice how players nearest to 001 subtly moved back. Didn’t notice how his own friend, Player 124, hesitated. Didn’t notice the way your stomach coiled, instincts screaming at you.  

Thanos’ arm jerked upward—instinct, pride, stupidity—but he didn’t even make it halfway.

001’s grip tightened, cutting off the movement before it even started. ”Don’t,” 001 said, voice low, steady.

001 struck. 

Fast. Precise. Unforgiving.  

His hand shot out, clamping around Thanos’ throat—not a full choke, but a grip so calculated it forced him to freeze. His thumb pressed just below his jaw. A perfectly placed hold. Thanos stiffened instantly. His hands flew to 001’s wrist, gripping, clawing, trying to pry him off.

It wasn’t working. 

001’s grip didn’t waver. Didn’t tighten. Didn’t need to. It was controlled. Measured.  He knew exactly how much pressure to apply to hurt without crushing.  A calculated show of dominance. 

124 lunged at 001 from behind. Big mistake.  

You were already moving before you even thought about it. Pure instinct. Right?   

A sharp sidestep, just enough to throw him off balance—then your foot connected with his shin, fast and brutal. A sickening thud. 124’s body jerked, a strangled yelp escaping as his leg buckled beneath him. His hands shot down to grab at his knee, staggering—  

Gasps. Someone swore under their breath.  

You barely heard them. Adrenaline burned in your veins. 124 writhed, clutching his leg—but you didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.  

“Oh you goddamn bitch, I’m gonna—“ 

Another precise kick to his rib. You didn’t have to, but the way he called you a bitch did something to you. 

“You’re a goddamn bitch, (Y/N), you know that? If it weren’t for your sorry ass maybe Jonah would still be here. If you just would’ve done more.”

Your fists curled so tightly at the memory, they trembled. Thanos was still struggling against 001’s grip, gasping—but before he could claw his way free, 001 let go—only to drive his knuckles into his chest.  

A sharp, precise blow. Thanos choked, staggering. His knees buckled, his lungs fighting for air.

“I—” He wheezed. “Wait—” 

Too late. 001 grabbed his arm, twisted. The movement forced him forward, crashing onto the cold steel floor.  Two brutal kicks to the ribs.  

Thanos wheezed, barely moving now.  001 stepped over him.  Not rushed. Not angry. Just there.  

His fingers wrapped around Thanos’ throat again— This time, his grip wasn’t controlled. This time, it was crushing.  

Thanos gasped, struggled. His purple hair fell over his face, but his complexion was quickly matching it. 001’s fist rose again.  

You moved, “001, that’s enough! Look at him. He gets it! Let him go.”  

The room held its breath. Thanos gasped, choking.  

“She’s right,” he croaked. “I’m sorry.”  

001’s expression was unreadable. Then finally he let go.  Thanos slumped to the floor.  

A beat of silence. Suddenly, applause. 

At first, just one person. Then another. Then a wave of cheers. 001’s brows furrowed slightly.  He smoothed his hair back, the movement shy, almost self-conscious. 

What the fuck was that?  And why did it feel so nice?

You turned back toward your group. 390 leaned over.  

“Who the hell is that?”  

Jung-bae and Dae-ho exchanged a glance. Then, simultaneously, they fixed their sleeves.  001 sat down. You followed, heartbeat still hammering.

Jung-bae exhaled. “Sir, where the hell did you learn that?” Dae-ho shook his head. “No way you’re just some old guy. And you—” He looked at you. “Miss 132, one kick and that guy was down!”  

001 and you chuckled. You tilted your head slightly. “But… you’re okay, right?” 001 met your gaze. His expression softened, “I left and came back the same. You?”  

You nodded.  

There was something very peculiar about this man.Dae-ho nudged you. “Miss. Sir. You have to teach us that.”  

—

Lunch and dinner was nice and the evening crept in faster than you expected. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly as the robotic female voice announced, sharp and indifferent—  

"Bedtime will begin in 15 minutes." 

The words settled over the dormitory like a thin layer of dust, familiar yet suffocating. The air shifted. Conversations grew quieter, movements more deliberate, as players shuffled toward their beds. Some climbed to the top bunks, staking their claims. Others stuck close to the lower levels, rooted in silent alliances they hadn’t yet put into words.  

You watched, eyes flickering across the room, before glancing at Gi-hun.  

"Can we just move to any bed we want, or are they assigned?"

Gi-hun nodded, rubbing his arm absently. "Yeah. But most people are sticking to their X and O zones."

You glanced down at the blue sticker on your chest. Oh.

So that was it, then. An invisible divide, carved out by something as simple as a shape. You weren’t sure why it made your stomach twist, why it suddenly felt heavier, more permanent, like the sticker had been pressed directly onto your skin instead of your clothes.

It did matter. The proof was all around you—the way people clustered together, how the dormitory had already begun to separate itself into something more than just a sea of players.

X’s with X’s. O’s with O’s.

And you? You were somewhere in between.

Your fingers hovered over the sticker for a second before dropping to your side. It wasn’t like you cared where you slept. That would be stupid. You just needed a bed. Any bed. This was survival, not summer camp.

But still…

Your eyes flicked toward Gi-hun, then to Jung-bae, who had already claimed a spot next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t even considered looking for somewhere else. Something about it felt… warm. Not quite comfort. Not quite safety. But something close enough that you let the feeling settle for just a moment before pushing it away.

You already saw them as friends. But did they see you the same way?

Or were you just another number, not a name?  

You turned your head.  

Player 001.  

He sat in the same corner where your group had gathered earlier, his expression calm, unreadable. But the way he was watching you too, lord. Your stomach twisted. Not in fear. Not even in discomfort. Just… something you didn’t quite know. It felt fluttery.  

Familiarity.  

And yet you didn’t know why. Something cold curled at the edges of your thoughts, but before it could take root, before you could even grasp onto it, he smiled. Soft. Knowing. 

And suddenly, the moment felt ridiculous.  

Of course he was looking at you. You were looking at him. What else was he supposed to do? You took a breath, shoving the tension aside, and moved toward him. You weren’t sure whether or not to ask. Would he welcome it? Or would it feel wrong? Or worse, would it feel nice?  

Your hesitation hung heavy between you, the seconds stretching just long enough to make you reconsider. “Sir...", you started, voice quieter than you intended. But 001 didn’t let you finish. His smile grew, as if he already knew the question before you asked it.  

"We can sleep next to each other if that’s what you wanted to ask."  

A pause.  

"Really?" 

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I refused?" His voice was light, playful—but there was something behind it. Something that made your skin prickle.  

You swallowed. That feeling again. In your stomach. Recognition, but… not quite. Still, you let it go. The tension in your shoulders eased, and you returned his smile, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you." 

You dropped your water bottle onto the nearest bed, he shortly followed suit, claiming a space the same way Jung-bae had earlier, as if you two had always belonged there. And for some reason, it actually felt nice. You sat down, hands resting on your lap, gaze drifting across the dormitory. For the first time, it hit you how massive this room really was.  

Row after row of steel-framed beds, stacked high, stretching into the distance. People whispering, blankets rustling, quiet conversations dipping into hushed murmurs. A small movement caught the corner of your eye.  

You turned, 001 was already looking at you. This time, he didn’t smile. And this time, the feeling didn’t pass. Your chest tightened, breath catching—because there it was again. That whisper in your brain, pulling at something buried. Something just out of reach.  

A flicker of memory, too fast to hold. A distant echo—smoke curling, the sharp click of a lighter, the weight of silence shared between two people who barely spoke at all.

“Could I have a cigarette?"

Why? 

Your lips parted, instinctually about to say something—but then he smiled again. Soft. Measured. Like he had been waiting for you to figure something out. Like he knew you couldn’t.

And just like that—the moment slipped through your fingers. You forced a small, nervous smile of your own before breaking eye contact.  

---

Gi-hun shifted on his bed, stretching out, but his eyes weren’t relaxed. Every few moments, his gaze swept the room. Watching. Calculating. The weight in your stomach remained. You needed to focus.  

"Do you think we should take shifts at night? Considering the big fight today.” you asked quietly. Gi-hun exhaled. His fingers tapped against his knee as he considered.  

"That’s a good idea."  

Another voice—steady, calm, ”I can take watch first, if you’d like."  

You turned.  

001 sat up, the dim lighting casting sharp shadows across his face. The perfect opportunity.  

To talk. To ask. To figure out why the hell your body reacted to him like it had known him in another life.  

The dormitory lights dimmed. The robotic voice announced: "Lights out in five minutes."  

Chatter faded. The room shifted—bodies settling, whispers dissolving into the rustling of blankets. The moment was slipping away. You exhaled, steadying yourself.  

And yet—as you laid back, staring up at the metal slats above you, you could still feel his gaze.

The moment the lights shut off, the dormitory shifted. Silence never really settled here. Even in the dark, the room breathed—soft murmurs, the occasional rustle of a blanket, the distant creak of a bed frame. Someone let out a quiet sigh in their sleep. Another stirred, turning over. It was a lull of human noise, subtle, constant.  

You stayed still. Waiting.  

Twenty minutes passed. Maybe thirty. Your mind wouldn’t stop.  

It felt too heavy. Too full. Too restless.  

“Where is the money, dad? Did you drink it away already? That was for Jonah’s funeral and you know it.”

"You think you're so smart, don’t you?" He leaned in, the stench of alcohol thick in the air. "Just like your mother.”

Your fingers curled against the thin blanket, pressing it into your palms. You let out a slow breath, as if you could force the memory out with it. You turned onto your side, eyes adjusting to the dim light seeping in through the high windows. The metal slats above you cast faint shadows, lines stretching long and thin against the walls. Across the dormitory, bodies lay still, curled into themselves, exhaustion pulling them under.  

But not him.  

Player 001.  

You could just barely make out his figure—a quiet silhouette sitting at the base of the stairs. Not asleep. Just there. Watching the room, or maybe watching nothing at all.  

Your stomach twisted.  You didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel like you were meant to sleep yet.  

Slowly, carefully, you slid out from under your blanket, shifting your weight onto your feet. The floor was cold. The air was colder. You moved without thinking too much about it, letting instinct guide you past the beds, weaving through the steel maze of bunks, every breath held just a second too long.  

When you reached the stairs, he didn’t turn immediately.  But you knew he was aware of you.  

You lowered yourself onto the step beside him. Not too close. Not too far. The weight of the dormitory stretched around you both, swallowing the world outside this moment.  

A beat.  

“Can’t sleep?”  

His voice was soft. Not quiet, but something close to it. A murmur in the dark. You hesitated.  

“No.”  

The word came out bare, stripped down, something more honest than you meant for it to be. He nodded slightly, as if he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. For a moment, neither of you spoke. This felt familiar.

The quiet settled thicker this time—not awkward, not uncomfortable, just there. Like it belonged between you. Like it had always been there. You exhaled, pressing your hands together between your knees. “You?” His lips curled—not quite a smile, not quite not.  

“Not yet,” he admitted. Not yet. That answer sat strangely in your chest.  

You looked ahead, gaze trailing the empty air in front of you. The darkness stretched wide. Deep. Like if you reached too far into it, it might pull you under.

You swallowed. “Does it ever stop?” He turned his head slightly, watching you. You could feel it.  

“What?”  

“This,” you said, the word felt heavier than it should. Motioning vaguely at the space around you with your hands, “The weight of it all. The noise in your head. The way it follows you even when you're safe.”  

The words tumbled out before you could catch them. You weren’t sure why you said them, why you let the thought escape. But maybe it was because it was late. And maybe, just maybe, he felt like someone who would understand. 001 didn’t answer immediately. 

“No.”  

Your throat tightened. You nodded once. “Thought so.”  

A pause.  

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes that made your chest feel tight. Something knowing. Something too familiar.  

“You lost someone,” he said. Not a question. Your breath stilled. You didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”  

A shift. Subtle. Almost imperceptible.  

“So did I.”

Something about those words cut deep.  

You exhaled, the weight of the conversation settling into your ribs. It was strange, sitting here in this awful place, talking about ghosts like they weren’t still haunting you. Like you hadn’t carried them into this room with you.  

You licked your lips, your voice quieter now. “How long ago?”  

001’s hands rested against his knees, fingers barely moving, as if tracing patterns only he could see.  

“9 years,” he said. “And yesterday.”  

“Me too.”

You blinked. Turned to him. He finally looked at you. The dim glow from the high windows cast his face in soft shadows, making it impossible to tell whether he was smiling or frowning or something in between.  The quiet stretched. Too thick. Too fragile.  

Your fingers curled slightly. “That’s not fair.”  

His head tilted. “What isn’t?”  

You swallowed, forcing the words past your throat. “Time. The way it drags some things with it and leaves others behind.”  

His gaze didn’t waver. It stayed on you. Fully. “I know,” he said, voice low. Understanding. Deep. “I know.”  

The weight in your chest pulled tight. Neither of you spoke after that. Just sat there, staring at the dark, letting the quiet fill in the spaces you couldn’t. And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t feel lonely.

The silence lingered between you, thick and unspoken. But for once, it didn’t feel suffocating. It didn’t press against your ribs, clawing at your throat, demanding to be filled. It just… was.  

You stared ahead, watching the faint glow from the high windows stretch long shadows across the floor. Somewhere, in the distance, a player shifted in their sleep. A faint snore. The rustle of fabric. The steady hum of breathing all around you. Still, neither of you moved.  

“I remember the rain,” you murmured. It came out softer than you intended. Like a thought that had slipped through the cracks before you could catch it. Beside you, 001 didn’t react right away. But you knew he was listening.  

You swallowed.  

“Back then… when I got the news that he didn’t have much longer,” your fingers curled against your knees, pressing down like it might ground you. “It was raining. That’s the first thing I remember. Nothing else. Just the sound. The way it filled the silence before the weight of it could crush me.”  

A pause.  

001 shifted slightly. “Rain has a way of making things heavier.”  You inhaled, sharp and quiet.  

“Yeah.”  

“You were alone that night?”  

The words landed wrong. Too specific. Your pulse stuttered. I didn’t say it was night.

He could’ve guessed. Maybe. But the way he said it—it wasn’t a question. Not really. You turned your head slightly, studying him from the corner of your eye. He didn’t look back. Just sat there, staring ahead.

Like he hadn’t just slipped. Oh, but he did. The question now was; did he do it on purpose?

Your throat tightened, “I was supposed to be,” you said. “But… someone else was there.”  

001 tilted his head slightly. You could feel his eyes on you now, watching. Waiting. “I don’t remember his face,” you admitted. “Or his voice. Just… the moment.”  

Your own voice felt distant. Like you were speaking from somewhere outside yourself, slipping between past and present without meaning to. 001 stayed quiet. Something about it made your chest ache.  

You turned your head slightly, studying his profile. The dim light carved soft lines into his features—gentle, unreadable. He looked… calm. But something told you he wasn’t. That same weight. That same understanding. Like he knew exactly what you meant. Like he had been there, too.  

Had he been there too? Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know why, but the thought made it hard to breathe.  

You opened your mouth. Hesitated.  But then he beat you to it.

"You don’t have to remember his face,” Young-il said suddenly. His voice was low. Steady. “You already remember the part that matters.” Something in your chest clenched.  

“That doesn’t make sense.”  

“It does,” he said simply. “You just don’t want it to.”  

You exhaled. Looked away. The quiet settled between you again, softer this time. A few minutes passed. Maybe more.  

Then, finally, he spoke again.  

“Go get some rest,” 001 murmured, voice soft, almost reluctant. “It’s late.”  

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t even that you wanted to stay. It was just... You stopped and looked at him.  

001’s gaze met yours, steady and unreadable. And for a second—just a second—something flickered there.  

Recognition. Not the kind you’d find between strangers who happened to cross paths. Not the fleeting kind that slipped away before you could name it. This was something deeper, something settled. Like he was looking at you and seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.  

“You never told me your name.”  

“Does it matter?”  

“No. Guess not.”  

There it was in your mind. Another memory you couldn’t place. Your breath caught, and then he smiled. Soft. Knowing. Just like before.  And just like before, the moment slipped through your fingers before you could grasp it.  

You turned away. But you didn’t leave.  

“…001?”  

A beat.  

“Yes?”  

You turned to face him once more, only now realising how close you actually were. Close enough to see the faint creases at the corner of his eyes. The way the dim light traced the sharp lines of his jaw. The way his presence filled the space between you without effort, without force—just there, as if it had always been. If you leaned forward just a fraction more, his breath would be warm against your skin. The thought alone sent a strange shiver down your spine.

“It’s weird addressing each other with a number,” you murmured, barely above a whisper. “What’s your name?”  

Something shifted in him then. Not a flinch. Not surprise. Just a hesitation, barely there.  

“Oh Young-il.”  

The name sat between you, delicate and unfamiliar. You tested it on your tongue, rolling it over in your mind. It was a nice name. Strong. Steady. But somehow, it didn’t really suit him. Or maybe you had just been calling him something else for too long. You didn’t say that, though.  

Instead, you tilted your head slightly, studying him. “It’s a good name,” you admitted. “But it doesn’t feel like yours.”  Something unreadable passed through his expression. Then, a soft chuckle.

“You’re the first person to tell me that.” 

Your brows furrowed slightly. The first person? Somehow, that didn’t feel right. No, that couldn’t be right.  

“Really?” you murmured, watching him carefully.  

001—Young-il—held your gaze, his expression unreadable, but his lips still curled at the edges, like he was amused by something only he understood.  

"Would I lie to you?"  

You exhaled sharply through your nose, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Would you?”  

His smile deepened, but he didn’t answer. And maybe that was your answer. Your fingers curled slightly against the metal step beneath you, grounding yourself.  

“I feel like…” You hesitated, the thought curling at the edges of your mind, forming into something half-real, half-memory. “I feel like I’ve met you before.”  

His gaze flickered—quick, unreadable. Then, just barely, to your lips. So fast you might have imagined it. But you instinctively licked your lips. 

A breath held a second too long. A slow inhale. “Is that so?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, he tilted his head slightly. “And why do you think that?”

Your fingers curled against your lap, pressing into the fabric of your pants. “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “I just… do.”

It sounded stupid when you said it out loud. And yet, the feeling wouldn’t go away. That heavy, sinking sense of familiarity—like something you should know, but couldn’t quite reach. Like déjà vu stretched too thin over your head.

Young-il hummed, something close to amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Interesting.”

That single word settled into your ribs, unsettling. You should let it go. You should let him go. But you didn’t. You inhaled slowly, pressing your palms together between your knees. “It’s not just a feeling,” you said before you could stop yourself. Young-il didn’t move. But his presence sharpened, like he was waiting.

You exhaled, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been having flashbacks.”

There. You said it.

The words felt heavier than they should, as if saying it out loud made them real in a way they hadn’t been before.

For a second, nothing happened. He just looked at you. “What kind of flashbacks?”

You hesitated, pulse picking up. You should lie. Keep it vague. Say something meaningless. But the words slipped past your lips before your brain could stop them.

“From when my brother was in the hospital.” You forced out a breath. “It’s not the big things I remember. Just… pieces.”

Your fingers twitched slightly, like they were remembering the weight of something that wasn’t there.

“The feeling of it. The way the air smelled. The beeping. The sound of the rain outside. The way the doctors looked at me before they spoke, like they were bracing for something. Like I was bracing for something.”

Young-il didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“My father used to visit,” you continued, voice quieter now. “But once it got too bad, he couldn’t do it anymore. Just stopped showing up one day. Couldn’t even look at him. Or me.” A sharp exhale. “And my mom—” You stopped. Shook your head. “Doesn’t matter.”

A beat of silence. Too heavy. You almost regretted saying anything at all. But now that you’d started, you couldn’t seem to stop.

“What I was going to say is that I felt alone, at first.” You swallowed, throat tight. “But I wasn’t.”

You flexed your fingers against your knees, grounding yourself.

“There was this guy. Always lingering somewhere. Just close enough to be there, but never enough to feel like real company.”

Your breath came shallow now, the weight in your chest pressing tighter, “We didn’t talk much. Barely at all. But he was always… there.” You shook your head, a humourless huff leaving your lips. “We were alone together. If that makes any sense.”

And then—before you could stop yourself—

“You remind me of him.”

Young-il only looked at you. 

And suddenly, you felt like you had said too much. Maybe you should let it go. Maybe you should turn around, crawl back into bed, and pretend this conversation never happened.  

But you didn’t. Instead, you found yourself leaning in slightly. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the shift in his pupils, the way his jaw tensed just slightly before relaxing again.  

“You ever notice how quiet it gets at night?”

The words left your mouth before you even realised you were saying them. You hadn’t meant to change the subject, but maybe you needed to. Maybe it was easier than whatever had been building between you.

Young-il’s head tilted slightly, considering. “You call this quiet?”

It wasn’t silent, not really. The room still breathed—muffled whispers, the rustle of fabric, the distant creak of a bed shifting under restless weight. You could hear 388 quietly snore behind you, you stifled a laugh.

“No, I mean—not like that. It’s not silent. Just… different.” Your gaze flicked to the rows of beds, the slow rise and fall of sleeping bodies. “Even in a room this big, with this many people, there’s a moment where it stops feeling like we exist together.”

Young-il hummed, something unreadable in his expression. “And what does it feel like instead?”

You hesitated. “Like we’re all just… waiting.”

His gaze lingered on you a second too long. “Waiting for what?”

Your throat felt tight. You weren’t sure why. “Morning.”

A beat. Then, softer, he murmured, “If it comes.”

It wasn’t a dramatic statement. Wasn’t even grim. Just… matter-of-fact. And that was the worst part. Because he was right.

Your pulse thrummed against your ribs as you pressed your hands together between your knees. “That’s a terrible way to think about it.”

His lips curled in a sad smile. “Is it?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Because if we wake up already expecting the worst, then what’s the point of trying at all?”. Something flickered in his eyes, dark and unreadable. “Are you trying?”

The question landed heavier than you expected. You blinked. “What?”

“Are you really trying to survive?” His voice was even, but something about it made the air feel thinner. He shifted closer, thighs touching. “Or are you just waiting, too?”

A shiver curled down your spine—not from the words themselves, but from the way he said them. Low. Like he could see straight through you. The silence stretched between you, thick, buzzing with something else now. Not quite fear. Not quite safety. Somewhere in between.

Your throat felt dry. You tried to answer, but nothing came.

Young-il exhaled through his nose—soft, almost amused. His gaze dipped briefly to your mouth. “You hesitate,” he murmured, voice lower now. “That means you don’t know.”

Your breath hitched.

He was too close. Physically and in the way he spoke. The way his presence pressed against yours, slow and deliberate, like he was testing just how much space he could take up before you noticed.

Your fingers curled against your thigh. “I do know,” you said, steadier than you felt.

His lips twitched, like he didn’t quite believe you. “Then say it.”

Your pulse hammered. You shouldn’t be reacting like this. Not to him. 

But when you looked at him, really looked at him, you realised—he wasn’t just asking about the games. And that terrified you more than anything.

Your pulse thrummed against your ribs, and there was something in your eyes that he immediately recognised. There was something here. Something you didn’t understand yet.  

And the worst part? He knew exactly what it was.  

Lust. 

Or something worse?

You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your thighs.  “You should get some rest,” Young-il murmured again, softer this time. “We’ve got a long day ahead.”  

He was giving you an out. Telling you to walk away before you dug too deep. A carefully placed door he was holding open for you, waiting for you to take it. Maybe he was right.  Maybe you should.  

But when you turned your head, just slightly, catching the way his fingers twitched against his knee—just barely—you realised something.  

You weren’t the only one feeling this. You weren’t the only one remembering something you couldn’t place.  

“…You should rest too,” you murmured.

“I will.”  

Liar.

He didn’t. And neither did you. 

Just before you turned to leave, his fingers twitched—like he almost reached for you. But he didn’t.