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thedensworld · 3 months ago

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Thicker Than Blood | K. Mg

Pairing: Mingyu x reader

Genre: Non-biological parents au!, angst

Summary: It was an impulsive decision to take the kid home, but who knows it will bloom the flower in your family

Warning: mention of child abuse, PTSD, abusive act.

You held your breath when you saw the bruises on her small body, a wave of unease settling heavily in your chest. Mingyu’s grip on your hand tightened, his jaw clenching as he glared at the sight before him. "How dare him!" The thought burned hot in his mind. The doctor’s sharp gaze shifted between the two of you, eyes filled with suspicion.

“We need an explanation before we proceed with the examination, Mr. Kim,” the doctor said firmly, his tone unwavering. His eyes lingered on the bruises that marred the child’s delicate skin. It was a sight that would send any parent into a frenzy of worry, but the doctor's eyes held doubt.

The nurse moved swiftly, taking little Jia’s hand and guiding her toward the play corner. The child followed obediently, her curious gaze flicking back to the two of you. Her innocence made the sight of those bruises even more painful.

Mingyu exhaled slowly, adjusting his posture in the chair. His fingers tapped against his knee in slow, deliberate motions. “It’s a complicated story,” he admitted, his voice low but steady.

Mingyu had received news that his mother’s youngest brother had passed away. The man had always been a thorn in the family’s side — loud, reckless, and perpetually jobless. He drank from morning till night, draining not only his wallet but also the patience of everyone around him. Even after their grandmother’s passing, he remained a source of endless frustration, often bothering Mingyu's mother with his demands. So, when the news of his death arrived, Mingyu had felt an unexpected sense of relief.

But that relief didn’t last.

When you and Mingyu arrived at the funeral house, the air was thick with incense and murmured prayers. Relatives filled the room, most of them offering shallow condolences for a man none of them seemed to truly grieve. Mingyu hadn’t expected anything more — until whispers reached his ears.

“Did you see her? She’s so young. Poor thing.”

“Didn’t even know he had a kid.”

“Where’s the mother? How could she just leave her like this?”

His gaze followed theirs until it landed on a little girl standing off to the side. Her clothes were slightly wrinkled, her hair tied up in a loose, messy ponytail. She was clutching a stuffed rabbit that looked like it had seen better days. Her wide, observant eyes darted around the room like she was looking for something — or someone.

“Is the mother here?” Mingyu had asked, turning to one of the older relatives.

The older woman clicked her tongue in disapproval. “Ran off ages ago. No one's seen her since.”

She was raised by your uncle alone — or so they said. But knowing the kind of man your uncle was, Mingyu found it hard to believe. A man who spent his days drowning in alcohol, stumbling through life with no sense of responsibility, hardly seemed like someone capable of raising a child. Even the way he died — struck by a car while drunkenly crossing the road — spoke volumes about the reckless life he led.

So, when Mingyu first heard about the girl, doubt immediately took root in his mind. Did he really raise her? Or was she just another person he neglected? The questions lingered in his head, heavy and unsettling.

But then he saw her with his own eyes.

Her clothes were tattered and clung to her like old rags. Dirt smudged her cheeks and arms, leaving faint streaks across her skin. Her hair was long — far too long — wild and unkempt, hanging in tangled strands down her back. She didn't look up when people spoke to her. She didn't reach out for comfort. She just stood there, silent and still, like a forgotten doll abandoned in the corner of a crowded room.

Mingyu’s heart twisted at the sight. How long had she been living like this?

"She smells like cigarettes," you whispered to Mingyu as Jia was seated near you. The faint but distinct scent lingered in the air, sharp and unsettling. Mingyu's eyes flickered toward the girl, his brows knitting together. He noticed it too.

Was my uncle really raising her alone?

The thought echoed in his mind, each repetition hitting harder than the last. Did he smoke around her too? His jaw tightened, anger simmering just beneath the surface. The image of a little girl surrounded by secondhand smoke while her father drank himself numb was enough to make his stomach churn.

Meanwhile, the room buzzed with low murmurs as the family discussed who would take care of Jia now. The adults sat in a loose circle, voices laced with uncertainty and half-hearted sympathy. The phrases were all too familiar — "It’s not the right time for us." "We’ve got too much on our plate already." "Maybe she could stay with someone else." Even Mingyu’s own mother was subtly searching for reasons to excuse herself from the responsibility.

No one said it outright, but it was clear. No one wanted her.

Mingyu leaned back against the wall, his eyes never leaving Jia. She sat next to you, her small hands playing with the hem of her oversized shirt. You had crouched beside her, your voice soft as you tried to draw her into conversation. She didn’t speak, but she responded with small gestures — a nod, a glance, a hesitant tug on your sleeve. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She’s not ignoring you, Mingyu thought. She’s just scared.

On the drive home, the air in the car was quiet, except for the soft hum of the engine. You stared out the window, your eyes distant, lost in thought. Then, after a moment, you spoke.

“When my parents passed away, I had to take care of myself,” you said, your voice calm but heavy with meaning.

Mingyu glanced at you, his eyes shifting from the road to your face. He didn’t say anything, but you could tell he was listening. He always listened when it mattered.

"I have older siblings," you continued, "but they had their own families to think about. So, at the end of the day, it was just me." Your gaze remained on the window, watching the world blur past.

"I had to keep going. Finish school. Work part-time jobs. Take care of the house." Your voice grew quieter, almost like you were speaking to yourself now.

Mingyu’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. He knew you were strong, but hearing it laid out like this made him realize just how much you’d carried on your own.

You turned to him then, offering a small, tired smile. "But I was 18," you said, your eyes soft but firm. Then you glanced forward, gaze hardening. "Jia is only 5." Your voice dropped to a whisper, but the weight of those words filled the car like a thunderclap.

Silence followed. It wasn’t awkward or tense — it was the kind of silence that made room for realization.

Mingyu’s eyes flicked toward the rearview mirror. For a moment, his gaze was distant, locked on something only he could see. Then, without warning, he turned the wheel sharply, pulling into a U-turn on the empty street.

“Wait, what are you—?” you started, gripping the seat as the car shifted direction.

But Mingyu didn’t answer. His focus was sharp, his jaw set with quiet determination. His silence said more than words ever could.

He drove back to the funeral house, his hands steady on the wheel, his heart moving faster than his mind could catch up. When he arrived, he barely turned off the engine before stepping out. You watched him jog toward the house, his long strides urgent but purposeful.

Moments later, he returned — and in his arms was Jia.

She clung to him like she’d always belonged there, her small hands gripping his jacket as she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. Her wild hair brushed against his neck, and for once, she looked less like a forgotten child and more like someone being held.

Mingyu opened the car door and sat her in the back seat, buckling her in with careful, deliberate movements. When he finally slid back into the driver’s seat, he glanced at you. His eyes were calm but certain, like he’d already made up his mind long before you’d even spoken.

“Let’s take care of her,” he said, his voice steady, as if it were the most natural decision in the world.

The examination results were difficult to hear, though not entirely unexpected. Jia was malnourished, significantly shorter and underweight for a child her age. Her verbal communication was delayed, and the doctor suggested it might be the result of prolonged trauma. His words hung in the air like a heavy weight neither you nor Mingyu could shake off.

“You should consider seeing a child behaviorist,” the doctor recommended, glancing between the two of you. “It would help to better understand her psychological condition and ensure she gets the support she needs.”

Mingyu nodded, his expression unreadable but his grip on your hand was firm. You felt his resolve in that silent squeeze.

On the drive home, Jia sat quietly in the back seat. Her head leaned against the window, her eyes following the blur of passing buildings, cars, and trees. She didn’t speak, didn’t hum, didn’t ask questions the way most five-year-olds did. The only sound was the gentle hum of the engine.

You stopped by a supermarket on the way home to pick up essentials — clothes, children’s toiletries, snacks, and other necessities. It felt surreal, walking down the aisles and filling the cart with items meant for a child you’d only just met. You exchanged glances with Mingyu every now and then, wordlessly checking if you were doing this right. His eyes held the same unspoken question.

The two of you had only gotten married earlier this year. Conversations about children had always been distant, hypothetical musings — “If we have kids someday, maybe they’ll have your eyes.” Or, “When we have kids, we’ll have to childproof everything.” Idle thoughts that didn’t demand any real action. But now, it wasn’t a thought or a dream. It was reality.

You were raising a child. A five-year-old. A child who wasn’t biologically yours.

The weight of it settled on your shoulders as you loaded the shopping bags into the trunk. Mingyu’s gaze lingered on you, his eyes soft with quiet reassurance. He didn't say anything, but he didn’t need to. His presence was enough.

At home, the air felt still but not uncomfortable. While you unpacked the shopping bags, Mingyu moved to the kitchen to prepare a small meal for Jia, just in case she hadn’t eaten that day. You glanced toward the living room where she sat on the couch, her tiny feet barely touching the edge, her hands resting on her lap. She was looking down at her fingers, fidgeting with them like she was trying to keep herself busy.

You were about to call her for dinner when her voice — small, soft, and fragile like a thread on the verge of snapping — broke the quiet.

“My dad is dead?”

The words hit you like a sudden gust of cold wind, sharp and unyielding. Your breath caught in your chest, and for a moment, you didn’t move. Mingyu froze too, turning his head from the stove to watch you. His gaze was alert but gentle, like he was ready to step in if you needed him to.

Slowly, you walked over to Jia, crouching down in front of her until you were at her eye level. Her eyes met yours, wide and searching for something you weren’t sure you could give her. The weight of her question settled in the space between you.

“Yes,” you said softly, your voice as steady as you could make it. “Your dad is gone.” Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes blinking rapidly as if she was trying to hold back tears.

“But…” you continued, tilting your head toward Mingyu, “that man right there?” You pointed at him, and her gaze followed your finger. “He’s your dad now.”

Mingyu glanced at you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. But then his expression softened, his lips curving into a small, reassuring smile. He turned off the stove and walked over, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel before kneeling beside you.

“And me,” you said, tapping your chest with a gentle smile. “I’m your mom.”

Jia’s eyes flickered between the two of you, her fingers still fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. Her lips parted just slightly as if to speak, but she hesitated. Then, after a long pause, she muttered, “Mom…” The word was so soft it was almost inaudible, but you heard it.

It was enough to make your chest ache.

You nodded, your eyes warm with quiet encouragement. You opened your arms slowly, offering her a hug, hoping she’d lean into it. “Come here, sweetheart,” you said softly.

But she didn’t move. She stayed still, her eyes watching you carefully, as if trying to figure out if it was safe. Her fingers kept twisting and untwisting the fabric of her shirt.

Your heart ached, but you nodded in understanding, lowering your arms slowly. “It’s okay,” you said with a gentle smile. “You don’t have to if you’re not ready.”

Mingyu reached out and lightly patted her head, his touch gentle but firm, like he was reminding her she wasn’t alone. She glanced up at him, her gaze lingering just a little longer this time.

"Jia's going to be okay here," you said firmly, your voice filled with certainty. You didn’t say it just for her — you said it for yourself too. "With mom and dad, you’ll be safe. We promise."

Jia blinked slowly, her gaze still cautious but a little less distant. She didn’t say anything, but this time, when Mingyu ruffled her hair again, she didn’t flinch.

It was a start. And sometimes, a start was all you needed.

The first week was an emotional whirlwind. Both of you had to rearrange your entire lives. Remote work became the only option when you quickly realized that daycare wasn’t a suitable choice for Jia — not with everything she’d been through. It wasn’t just about leaving her in someone else’s care. It was about trust. And Jia had already learned, far too young, that adults couldn’t always be trusted.

The visit to the child behaviorist was the hardest part. Sitting in that small, sterile office, you listened as the specialist laid out the results with a calm but empathetic tone.

“For a five-year-old, Jia is showing clear signs of depression,” the behaviorist explained, their gaze shifting gently between you and Mingyu. “Her speech delay, difficulty making decisions, and avoidance of communication — these are all symptoms of the environment she grew up in.”

You sat in stunned silence, gripping Mingyu’s hand tightly. His thumb rubbed slow, steady circles against your palm, but you could feel the tension in his grip. His jaw was clenched, his eyes fixed on the floor, his breathing slow and deliberate — the only sign that he was trying to control the anger brewing inside him.

“Children her age should be exploring, talking, asking questions,” the behaviorist continued. “But it sounds like she spent most of her time in survival mode.”

That phrase stuck with you. Survival mode. For five years, Jia had lived like that. And now, at only five years old, she was already exhausted.

At home, the puzzle pieces started coming together. She flinched every time someone reached toward her too quickly. Her whole body would tense, her eyes darting toward the source of the movement like she was bracing for impact. It didn’t matter if it was you, Mingyu, or even a harmless gesture like placing a blanket over her shoulders. She always reacted the same way.

It broke you.

She hated cigarette boxes. The sight of them made her shrink into herself, her small frame folding inward like she was trying to disappear. She’d stare at them with wide, fearful eyes, refusing to move until they were out of sight. It didn’t take long to figure out why.

The soju bottles had a similar effect. Once, while you and Mingyu were clearing out the kitchen cabinets, a soju bottle slipped from the top shelf and clattered loudly on the counter. Jia had been in the living room playing with a puzzle, but at the sound of glass clinking, she froze. Her little hands stopped mid-movement, her face going pale as her eyes locked on the bottle.

Her breathing grew shallow. Her eyes darted to the front door like she was ready to bolt.

“Jia, it’s okay,” you said softly, stepping toward her slowly, hands raised so she could see them. "It’s just a bottle. No one’s going to hurt you."

But she didn’t move. She didn’t even blink.

Mingyu moved faster than you. He was already at her side, kneeling down, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. “Look at me, Jia,” he said gently, his deep voice unusually soft. His eyes stayed locked on hers, never once looking at the bottle. “That’s just a bottle, nothing else. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

Her gaze flickered to him, her tiny chest rising and falling rapidly. Slowly, she shifted her focus from the bottle to his face. He smiled at her, a warm, reassuring smile that didn’t rush her to respond.

“See? No one’s mad. No one’s angry,” he continued, his voice like a steady heartbeat. "You're safe, okay? Safe."

It took time, but eventually, her breathing steadied. She looked at the bottle once more, then slowly looked away, her hands curling into fists on her lap.

Later that night, while you were tucking her into bed, Mingyu stood by the door with his arms crossed, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“She’s terrified of cigarettes, terrified of soju, and she flinches every time she’s touched,” he muttered, his voice low but sharp as broken glass. His eyes stayed on Jia, his gaze softening only for her. But his next words were filled with quiet, seething rage. “That man won’t rest in peace for what he did to her.”

You glanced at him, your heart heavy with shared anger and grief. “She’ll need therapy,” you said softly, smoothing a hand over Jia’s blanket. She had already fallen asleep, her small face finally at ease after a long, difficult day. “We’ll do everything we can.”

Mingyu's eyes flicked toward you, his gaze steady but fierce. “Everything,” he echoed firmly, like a vow.

And from the way he looked at Jia, you knew he meant it.

Mingyu's mother visited after the first month, her arrival stirring a mix of nerves and anticipation. But as she sat in the living room, her eyes naturally found Jia, who was on the floor, carefully stacking her colorful blocks with the kind of quiet concentration only children could master.

There was a noticeable difference in her. Jia was no longer the withdrawn, fearful girl she had been when she first came into your home. She felt safer now — it showed in the way she moved freely around you and Mingyu, no longer flinching at sudden movements. Her small giggles echoed through the house like sunlight spilling through cracks, and every laugh she let out sent butterflies fluttering in your chest.

She was still shy, especially around adults, but she had started to show an interest in making friends her age. You saw it with your own eyes during her first day at daycare a week ago. She had stood quietly for a while, watching the other kids play, her fingers fidgeting at her sides. Then, with hesitant but determined steps, she approached a little girl nearby. You watched as she extended her small hand for a handshake. Her lips moved softly, and though you couldn’t hear her, you knew she was introducing herself. The sight had made your heart swell with pride, and you couldn't wait to tell Mingyu.

“She introduced herself,” you had shared with him later that night. “She actually walked up to another kid and said her name. Can you believe that?”

Mingyu had smiled so wide his eyes disappeared. “She’s brave,” he said, his voice filled with pride. "Our brave little girl."

But now, the air in the house felt different. Mingyu’s mother sipped her tea slowly, her gaze shifting between you, Mingyu, and the little girl quietly playing in the corner. She set her cup down, her eyes sharp but cautious.

“Are the two of you sure about legally adopting her?” she asked, her voice calm but pointed.

Mingyu, who had been stirring his tea with absent-minded patience, finally put his spoon down. He placed a cup of tea in front of his mother before sitting beside you on the couch, his posture straight but not stiff.

"Yes, mother," he said firmly. "We have to take action since no one else will." His tone was steady, each word deliberate.

"That’s a big decision," she said, her fingers lacing together on her lap. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she tilted her head. "Have you really thought it through?"

Mingyu nodded. "We have. We talked about it, thought it over for weeks. We’ve even discussed finances, education, and everything else we might face in the future.” His hand slid beneath the table, finding yours. His fingers interlocked with yours, and each time he was about to speak, his grip would tighten. It was subtle but clear — he was asking you to let him handle it. This was his mother, after all, and he knew her best.

“But she’s not blood-related,” his mother said, her gaze flickering toward Jia for a brief moment before settling back on Mingyu. Her eyes grew colder, her voice quieter but no less cutting. “Her mother was a prostitute.”

Silence filled the room like heavy fog.

Mingyu let out a slow, controlled sigh, his jaw flexing for a brief second before he leaned forward, his eyes locked on his mother.

“Mom, that doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice sharp but calm. “She’s five. Five. Her mother’s choices have nothing to do with her.” His eyes narrowed, his voice firm but respectful. “And let’s not forget that your brother — your brother — didn’t take care of her either. He left her hungry, bruised, and scared for years. You think I should do the same?”

His mother blinked, visibly taken aback. Her fingers fidgeted on the table, tapping lightly against the wood. She glanced at Jia, who was still playing quietly, blissfully unaware of the conversation. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“We could send her to a foster home,” she muttered, her eyes fixed on the tea in front of her.

Mingyu let out a short, bitter laugh, tilting his head back as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He stayed quiet for a moment, letting the weight of her words settle in the room. Slowly, he picked up his tea and took a slow sip, his eyes watching his mother from over the rim of the cup.

He didn’t have to say anything for her to know what he was thinking. The silence said it all.

After a long pause, he set the cup down and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His eyes were sharper now, his voice low but firm. “Mom, listen to me carefully,” he said, and for the first time, she looked directly at him. "Jia isn’t some responsibility we’re trying to avoid. She’s family. Family isn’t just blood — it’s the people who love you, protect you, and make sure you’re safe.” He glanced at you briefly before looking back at his mother. “That little girl has lived through things a child her age should never have to experience. So, no, we’re not sending her to a foster home. We’re her home now.”

You glanced at Mingyu, pride swelling in your chest. His hand still gripped yours tightly, anchoring the both of you.

“I know you’re worried for us,” you added, your voice softer than his but no less firm. "I know you’re thinking about how hard this will be, and you’re right. It’s going to be hard. But we’ve already spent a month with her, and you’ve seen it yourself. She’s growing, changing, and finally learning to feel safe.” Your gaze softened as you looked at his mother. “If things get difficult, we’ll ask for help. From you, from family, from friends. But we’re not giving up on her. Not now. Not ever.”

Mingyu's mother didn’t speak immediately. Her eyes flickered to Jia once more, watching as she carefully balanced a red block on top of a blue one, her tongue peeking out as she focused. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if the tower of blocks was the most important thing in the world.

"She’s a sweet girl,” his mother finally said, her voice softer now. Her eyes lingered on Jia for a moment longer before turning back to you and Mingyu. "But sweet doesn’t mean easy.”

Mingyu nodded, his gaze unwavering. "We know."

For a moment, no one said anything. His mother picked up her cup, taking another slow sip of tea. Her eyes remained thoughtful as she gazed down at the cup, her fingers no longer tapping nervously.

“You’ll call me if you need help?” she asked, her tone lighter this time, less sharp.

“Of course,” Mingyu said, his lips curving into a small smile. "But only if you're ready to see her as family too."

She glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly, but there was no real fight in her gaze this time. Instead, she sighed, setting the teacup back on the table with a quiet clink.

“Fine,” she muttered, folding her arms. “But if she calls me grandma one day, I’ll hold you responsible.”

Mingyu raised an eyebrow, tilting his head with a knowing grin. “Deal.”

You watched as his mother shook her head, hiding a small, reluctant smile behind her hand. Her gaze wandered to Jia one more time, her eyes just a little softer than before.

The day the adoption papers were approved felt surreal, like a weight you didn’t realize you’d been carrying had finally lifted. It was official now — Jia was no longer just the little girl you were caring for. She was Kim Jia, legally and irrevocably your daughter. You and Mingyu were her parents in every sense of the word.

The moment you received the confirmation call, Mingyu pulled you into a tight hug, his grin so wide it crinkled the corners of his eyes. "She's ours," he whispered, his voice filled with wonder and pride. "Officially, legally, and forever ours."

That night, you celebrated quietly with a small cake at home. Jia sat between you and Mingyu at the kitchen table, her wide eyes focused on the flickering candle. You guided her small hands to clasp them together, showing her how to make a wish.

"Close your eyes and think of something you really want," you said softly, watching her from the side. She squeezed her eyes shut, her brows furrowed in concentration. After a few seconds, she looked up at you with a small nod, ready to blow out the candle. Her breath was small but determined, the tiny flame vanishing with a single huff.

“What did you wish for, sweetie?” Mingyu asked, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes warm and curious.

Jia glanced at him, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. “Secret,” she muttered with a small, mischievous smile.

You and Mingyu exchanged a glance before bursting into soft laughter. It was moments like these that reminded you just how far she’d come.

Since starting regular speech therapy sessions, Jia's speech had blossomed. Her words were still short and simple, but they were hers — words she chose for herself, not ones prompted or forced from her.

Her quiet voice had become your favorite sound in the world. She wasn't as talkative or curious as other five-year-olds, but she didn’t have to be. Each word she spoke felt like a little victory.

“Jia, do you want pancakes or eggs for breakfast?” you’d ask in the mornings.

“Eggs,” she’d say, her tiny voice as soft as a breeze.

“Scrambled or fried?”

“Scrambled,” she’d reply, her eyes peeking at you shyly before focusing on her plate.

Every time she spoke, you and Mingyu shared a glance, silently celebrating her growth. It wasn’t just her voice that had changed. She was learning to make choices, to have preferences, and to express them out loud. It was something that once seemed so far away, but here she was, making it feel so natural.

But not all questions were as simple as what to have for breakfast.

One evening, as you were folding laundry in the living room, Jia sat on the carpet nearby, brushing her doll’s hair with careful strokes. Her eyes stayed on the doll’s face as she spoke, her voice quieter than usual but clear enough for you to hear.

“Why are you and Daddy my parents?” she asked, not looking up from her doll. Her small fingers smoothed the doll’s tangled strands with slow, gentle patience.

The question stopped you mid-fold, the shirt in your hands suddenly feeling heavier than it should. You glanced at Mingyu, who was sitting on the couch scrolling through his phone. He froze too, his eyes lifting to meet yours.

He set his phone aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. You could see him thinking, carefully picking his words before he spoke.

“Because you needed us,” he said softly, his voice gentle but firm. “And we needed you.”

Jia’s hands paused on the doll’s hair. She glanced up at him, her eyes round and thoughtful. "Needed me?" she repeated slowly, as if testing the words on her tongue.

Mingyu smiled, nodding. "Yup. We didn’t know it at first, but the moment we met you, we realized it." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his eyes steady and sincere as he gazed at her. “Families aren’t just about who you’re born to. Sometimes, families are made by love, not blood.”

You sat down on the carpet beside Jia, placing a hand on her back, rubbing slow circles. “We chose you, Jia,” you said softly. “We saw you, and we decided we wanted to be your parents. And we’re really, really happy we did.”

Her little brows scrunched together, her lips pursed as if she were processing everything at once. Her eyes moved from you to Mingyu, then back to her doll. She resumed brushing its hair, her strokes slower than before.

"Other kids have one mommy, one daddy," she muttered. "I had no mommy... then two?"

Her words hit like a punch straight to your heart. You glanced at Mingyu, and he was already looking at you, his eyes filled with that quiet understanding only the two of you shared.

“That’s true,” you replied, keeping your voice soft but steady. “Some kids have one mom and one dad. Some have two moms. Some have two dads. And some kids, like you, have a mommy and daddy who chose them.” You reached for her hand, gently holding it in yours. “It’s not about how many you start with, sweetie. It’s about how many people love you.”

Her fingers curled around yours, tiny but warm. She didn't look up, still focused on the doll in her lap. Her grip on your hand was firm, though, like she understood something deeper than what her five-year-old mind could fully put into words.

“Did you choose Daddy too?” she asked suddenly, peeking up at you with wide, innocent eyes.

This time, it was Mingyu who choked on a laugh. “She did,” he answered before you could. “She picked me, and I got lucky.” He reached over to ruffle her hair, and for once, she didn’t flinch. She giggled, pushing his hand away with an exaggerated pout.

“No, no,” she said, her cheeks puffed out in mock annoyance. But her smile betrayed her.

"Yup," you said, grinning as you tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I picked him because I knew he’d be a good dad one day.”

Jia tilted her head up at him, her eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. “Is Daddy good?” she asked, her lips curling into a tiny, mischievous smile.

“The best,” you whispered loud enough for Mingyu to hear, giving him a teasing glance.

“Darn right, I am,” he said with a dramatic huff, crossing his arms. “Don’t forget it, little one.”

Her giggle burst out like a bell, bright and clear, and just like that, the air felt lighter again. Moments like this — these little, precious, fleeting moments — reminded you why everything had been worth it.

Later that night, as you tucked Jia into bed, she stared at the ceiling, her eyes far away in thought. You leaned down, brushing a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Goodnight, Jia," you whispered, pulling her blanket up to her shoulders.

Her eyes shifted to you, and just as you were about to stand, she reached out, gripping the sleeve of your shirt.

"Mommy," she said, her voice so soft it could have been a breath.

"Yes, baby?"

She hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching yours. Then she whispered, “Thank you for choosing me.”

Your heart squeezed so tightly you thought it might stop. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. Instead, you cupped her cheek with your hand, your thumb brushing against her soft skin.

“Thank you for letting us,” you replied, your voice shaking just a little.

She nodded, her eyes slowly fluttering closed as she relaxed into the pillow. You stayed for a while, watching her breathe, letting the quiet peace of the room settle around you.

When you finally stepped out of her room, Mingyu was waiting in the hallway, his arms folded as he leaned against the wall. He tilted his head toward you, raising a brow.

“She call you ‘Mommy’ just now?” he asked, his voice quiet with awe.

You nodded, wiping at the corner of your eye. “Yeah. She did.”

Mingyu let out a breathy laugh, covering his face with his hands. “Man,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I think that just broke me.”

You stepped into his arms, letting him pull you into a hug. He pressed a kiss to your temple, holding you a little tighter than usual.

"Kim Jia," he murmured against your hair, his voice filled with warmth and certainty. "Our little girl."

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andywritingstuff · 3 months ago

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It wasn't a secret that Kento Nanami is a romantic at heart; dreaming of a white picket fence life. A wife, kids, all that jazz. However, how he lived his life wasn't exactly marriage material. He swore that he wouldn't fall in love with anyone. He erected walls around his heart, guarding it behind lock and key.

And it worked. Until you came along.

You, with those long lashes and gorgeous eyes. That smile and oh how soft your hands were when they accidentally brushed against his, how you always spluttered out “sorry,” quickly and quietly - his demeanor didn't give anything away, but he felt like he was burning from the inside out whenever he was in your presence.

He started to linger around you, wishing to just listen to your voice or feel that electric buzz of cursed energy that flowed in and around you - unique, just like anything and everything else about you. Although quiet, he was satisfied. Did you think he was weird? Perhaps you did. But for Kento, being was enough.

“It isn't worth the hassle,” he tells himself. After all, he'll probably die early. On a mission. He probably wouldn't be grieved if he died right now. And you don't deserve that instability. You deserved a man that could come home, guaranteed, every single day. You deserve someone that could strike up a conversation with you so easily. Just like Gojo—

The mere thought has him fuming in a way he has no right to. Of course, you could choose to be with anyone you wanted. Still, the mere thought of Gojo Satoru, of anyone that wasn't him, being the only person to have the exclusivity of your affections, of those discreet glances, of knowing you like he wants to, has his heart thrumming against his ribcage at an unsteady rhythm and his jaw clenching like he wanted to chew on his own teeth. No, pulverice his own teeth.

Little by little, pebble by pebble, you have, unknowingly, broken down the barriers that Kento Nanami had built around his heart. All with just being there, doing nothing but existing.

“It isn't worth the hassle,” that's something he keeps telling himself, but he's made up his mind.

He's completely devoted to you.

Small gestures such as buying your favorite drink from the vending machine because he's seen you drink the same thing every time. Offering you some “spare” lunch because he “accidentally” made too much food yesterday. Giving you a ride home because “it's on his way” (it isn't). Finding little excuses every day so he could spend time with you. So he could get to know you outside of fighting curses or bad-mouthing the higher ups or teaching the students.

Kento Nanami, as previously mentioned, is a romantic at heart. He fully believes you're the woman that's supposed to be his until death do you part, but he just… Can't bring himself to do this to himself. To you. What if he doesn't come home again? What if he gets too injured by a curse and he's not the same again?

But even as the thoughts plague his mind and make his face contort into a worried expression, your presence eases his heart. Your presence, your soft “hey, what's up?” And he can just smile - a tiny one, sure, but a smile nonetheless.

“It's nothing,” he replied, “thinking about some curse.” Love is the most twisted curse, isn't it? Inserting itself like a nasty maggot and eating his dead insides and replacing them with a warm fuzzy feeling all over, a crave for you. A need for you, you, you, you.

Over the course of a couple of months, you've been growing closer to one another. Close enough to know you're not just a friend, but someone he holds dearly. Someone he cares about. Someone he loves against his will.

He remembers the first time you called him by his name. Until then, you've only called him Nanami - which is fine. He prefers professionalism while on the clock, but it slipped out of your lips so naturally, so easy. Like it was meant to be.

A curse had hit him. A Special Grade grade - it was supposed to be a lower grade. Still, he got too careless, and the curse hit him. “Kento!” You had yelled out, and, despite the pain that radiated through his entire body, he could still feel the movement of that nasty love maggot eating away at the last of his dead insides to make space for all of you. The last pebble of the wall around his heart being destroyed like it was never there.

“It isn't worth the hassle,” he tries convincing himself but loving you is like second nature to him. Running to shield you from a cursed energy hit, only to see you do the same for him. Loving and protecting you comes like breathing to him - no, like having a heartbeat. It wasn't a hassle. It was in his nature.

“It isn't worth the hassle,” but as he sees your worried expression and he brushes his thumb along your cheekbone with relief painted delicately over his features, he can't help but give you a kiss to your forehead and wrap two strong arms around you, keeping you close to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, a silent reminder that he was here. Alive. Safe. Just like you were. And he has to remind himself that this isn't a hassle. This isn't a chore. This isn't something he's expected to do - he just does it.

The silence after the fight settled. The air was crinkling with energy, his entire body was shaking with adrenaline and he could feel you, too.

“Darling,” he finally murmured against your hair, closing his eyes and allowing himself to relax. "I'm here." He assured you, his caresses on your hair and back a silent confession to his feelings.

Kento Nanami is a romantic at heart. And only you've been able to know how much of a romantic he truly is.

#jjk x reader #jjk nanami #nanami kento #kento nanami #jjk fluff #nanami fluff #nanami x reader #jjk fic #jjk drabbles

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edenesth · 2 months ago

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The Paradox of Us

Pairing: Seonghwa x fem!reader

AU: non-idol au

Word Count: 8.1k

Summary: Relationships are rarely as simple as they seem. It becomes heartbreakingly complicated when two souls, bound by a love that still burns bright, come to realise that sometimes, love alone may not be enough to keep them together.

A/N: Seonghwa's 踊り子 (odoriko) cover has been on repeat since the moment it came out. I couldn't get it out of my mind and just knew I'd never forgive myself if I didn't write anything inspired by it.

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

"I don't love you."

Strangely, those words would have been easier to bear. But instead, you heard the ones that shattered you in ways you never thought possible: "I love you so much... but we can't go on like this anymore."

The ache was unbearable, as if your heart was tearing itself apart with every replay of his broken voice in your mind. You would have preferred if he had said his love had faded, that the spark was gone. At least then, you could grieve, accept, and move forward. But no—he still loved you. Deeply. And that cruel truth left you stuck in a purgatory of emotions, unable to let go.

Yet, you understood him. You always did. And perhaps that was the most painful part of all—knowing he was right. You had felt it too, this growing divide neither of you could bridge. But you hadn't been brave enough to say it aloud, to admit that love wasn't enough to hold together two people who simply weren't meant to be.

So, he said it for you. And now, all you had was the emptiness of what could have been, and the love that would never quite fade.

"It'll be alright, sweetie. Time heals everything," your mother murmured, her hand gently rubbing your back as you blinked away tears and refused to meet her gaze. Her tone was soft, even comforting, but you couldn't stand it—not when she sat there pretending she hadn't played a pivotal role in this heartbreak. You could almost feel her satisfaction simmering beneath the surface, hidden behind her facade of concern. After all, hadn't she always believed he would never measure up? That he was never good enough for you?

You hated it—hated her.

Hated how she had turned your relationship with him into a battlefield, her disapproval so loud, so ever-present, that it became impossible for him to feel at home in your life. How dare she sit beside you now, feigning sorrow, when her constant criticisms had planted the seed of doubt that grew into the conclusion you dreaded? How dare she, of all people, offer comfort when she had made you believe that love—your greatest love—wasn't enough?

Her words echoed in your mind, the ones she'd repeated time and time again: "Love and compatibility aren't the same. Love is powerful, yes, but relationships are more than just feelings—they require shared values, aligned goals, and practical compatibility." She had said it so often that it became a mantra, one you tried to ignore until it became impossible.

And then there was him.

You hated him too—hated him for giving in, for not fighting harder, for agreeing with everyone else. For being too selfless, too considerate, too good. He'd always told you, "Family comes first. Everything else—including me—comes second." You hated that he meant it. Hated that he let you go because he believed it was the right thing to do, the thing that would hurt the least.

But most of all, you hated yourself.

Hated yourself for knowing, deep down, that they were all right. That maybe love really wasn't enough. You hated yourself for being too afraid to defy them, too afraid to risk it all for him. While he was brave enough to let you go, and your mother was relentless in her convictions, you had been the coward. You let everyone else make the choice for you because you couldn't bear to make it yourself.

And now, you were left with nothing but the bitter aftertaste of what-ifs and the haunting ache of knowing you had lost not because you didn't love enough, but because you hadn't been brave enough to fight for that love.

"The right person will come along," she said softly. You pressed your eyes shut, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. Without another word, you pushed yourself up from the dining chair, leaving your barely touched meal behind, and headed to your room.

Before you could step through the door, her voice followed you, cutting through the air like a knife. "You'll thank me one day when you meet a man who can give you all the things that boy never could."

Your fists clenched as you slammed the door shut behind you. Sliding down to the floor with your back against the wood, you let her words fester. Maybe she was right. You weren't getting any younger. Around you, friends and cousins were all settling down with partners your mother would call 'suitable.' And you hated it—hated that, in her eyes, Seonghwa could never be that person for you.

But then, the thought struck: you were your mother's daughter. How much of this was truly her fault? At some point, hadn't you begun to believe her? Slowly, insidiously, her words had taken root in your mind. You did this. To him, to yourself.

You remembered watching others build their perfect, storybook lives with partners who ticked every box society demanded. And you wondered—quietly at first, then louder—if you and Seonghwa could ever achieve the same. Could he be that for you? Could you be that for him?

It wasn't fair. Not to him, not to you. You hated yourself for the way doubt crept in, for how your mother's voice echoed in your head, pointing out the cracks and differences you had tried so hard to ignore. You hated yourself for wishing things could be different, for swallowing those thoughts because you loved him too much to ask him to change. He was who he was—his own person.

How could you ask him to mould himself into someone your mother would approve of? Someone society deemed 'right' for you? And if he did, would he even be the man you fell in love with?

It was those questions, those doubts, that began to live rent-free in your mind. Bit by bit, they widened the gap between you. And Seonghwa wasn't blind. He saw it. He felt it.

"You deserve someone better—someone who can give you so much more," he had said that final night, his voice breaking under the weight of goodbye.

It was your fault—your doubts, your actions, your silence. They had pushed him to that conclusion. And now, as the door behind you trembled with your suppressed sobs, you wondered: How dare you blame your mother for what you had done to him? To yourself?

How dare you?

"Gaming at San's place next, you coming?" Wooyoung asked, tossing a napkin onto the table as everyone scrambled to leave. The ridiculous game they'd invented—where the last one to leave had to pay the bill—had everyone laughing and darting for the exit.

Seonghwa's smile barely touched his lips as he shook his head and reached for his wallet. "Go on with them. I'll cover it."

The younger man hesitated, glancing at him before blurting out, "Dude, you can't always give in like this. Your poor financial planning skills are exactly why she left you."

The table fell silent, the air suddenly heavy. Wooyoung's grin faltered as he realised what he'd said, too late to take it back. Seonghwa didn't flinch outwardly, but the words sliced deep because they were true. Partly, at least.

It wasn't like he made much, not compared to the rest of his friends with their steady corporate jobs. And yet, he wasn't careful with what little he had. You had always been the one saving, planning, building a future he could barely contribute to. People his age were buying cars, investing in property, making strides toward a stable life. But he wasn't like them. He had chased his passion as a figurine crafter—a dream that didn't come with a steady paycheck—and he'd known the risks. Your mother was right: you deserved someone who could offer you the stability he never could.

"Hey, man," Wooyoung said quickly, guilt colouring his tone. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I got the bill already, so don't worry about it. Just come with us tonight, yeah? Relax a little."

But the eldest only gave a faint shake of his head. The apology didn't soften the truth of the remark. He was the reason things fell apart. Not because he didn't love you enough—he loved you too much—but because love wasn't enough.

He'd failed you. Failed to provide the kind of life you deserved. He couldn't believe you'd even agreed to be with him in the first place, so different were your worlds. Your family background, your education, your values, your ambitions—they all set you apart. He had nothing to offer someone like you. And yet, he had been selfish enough to hold on, to want you despite knowing he could never measure up.

He should have worked harder. Should have tried to step up and be the man you needed. But he hadn't, because deep down, he knew he couldn't. Perhaps he had always known it wouldn't last. That one day, you'd wake up and realise the same.

You didn't leave right away. You stayed longer than he deserved. And when you finally began pulling away, when the signs became impossible to ignore, he had to let go. It wasn't courage that made him end it—it was inevitability.

"Come with us, hyung," Wooyoung tried again, his voice gentler this time.

But Seonghwa shook his head once more. "You guys go ahead without me. I... I have somewhere to be."

It was a lie, and they all knew it. He had nowhere to be. Nowhere that mattered, at least. Just his empty apartment, where the echoes of your absence would greet him like old, familiar ghosts.

He didn't care if they saw through the lie. What mattered was that he deserved this—the loneliness, the self-pity, the regret. He had almost broken you apart from your family because he was selfish enough to believe his love was enough. He had almost stolen your future because he couldn't face the truth.

But now, it was over. You had given him the courage to do what was right in the end. He was grateful for that. Grateful you'd started pulling away. Grateful you'd given him the signs. Grateful you'd broken his heart with the words he couldn't bear to say himself.

It's time.

Time to stop pretending.

Time to let you go.

Time to let the misery end.

Yes, let it all go. Let the misery end.

He repeated the words in his head like a chant as he drove, gripping the steering wheel tighter with each mile. The familiar streets blurred past him, their lights shimmering in his tear-filled eyes. He swiped at his face with his sleeve, but the tears kept coming, warm and unrelenting. He hated himself for it. Hated that, even now, he could almost see you sitting beside him, your laughter echoing faintly in his memory.

These night drives had been your sanctuary. Just you and him, wrapped in the quiet of the world, as if nothing else mattered. Not the expectations, not the disapproving glances, not the relentless whispers about how you two didn't belong together. It had always been just you and him against everything.

But now, it was just him.

He didn't dare glance at the passenger seat. He couldn't bear the sight of its emptiness, couldn't face the truth of your absence. His mind played cruel tricks on him, filling the silence with phantom conversations, fleeting glimpses of your smile.

Everything around him reminded him of you. The way the streetlights hit the pavement, the faint smell of your favourite perfume lingering in his car, the songs on the radio you'd sing along to when you thought he wasn't paying attention. He wanted to escape it, but he knew going home would only make it worse.

Home.

The word felt hollow now. How could it be home when you weren't there? Every corner of that apartment held traces of you—the books you'd stacked neatly on the shelf, the coffee mug you always left on the counter, the sheets that still carried the faintest scent of your shampoo. He knew he should let those remnants go, pack them away, make it easier to move on. But the thought of erasing you felt like losing you all over again.

As the weight of it all pressed down on him, he slowed the car and pulled over to the side of the road. His hands trembled as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel, the cool leather grounding him for just a moment.

Is this hurting you too?

He wondered if you were struggling as much as he was. Part of him selfishly hoped you were, that you missed him the way he missed you. But another part—the part that loved you more than he loved himself—hoped you were finding peace. Hoped you were happier without him, that his decision to let you go had given you the chance to find the stability, the life, you deserved.

Clutching a hand to his chest, he finally let the tears fall freely. The ache in his heart felt unbearable, like a piece of him had been ripped away and might never grow back. Would he ever be okay again? Would he ever know happiness without you?

He didn't know.

He wasn't sure he wanted to. But he told himself, over and over, that this was the right thing to do. It didn't matter if he was happy. It didn't matter if he felt whole again. All that mattered was you. And as he sat there, broken and lost, he prayed you were finding the happiness he couldn't give you, even if it meant he would never find it again.

It's okay... she'll find the right person now.

The right person. Who even decided what that meant? Who had the authority to label someone as right or wrong for you?

Maybe it was the lingering ache for Park Seonghwa, the way his name still carried the weight of memories you hadn't yet learned to let go. Or maybe it was the frustration bubbling inside you, resentment toward your parents for tricking you into meeting this man—the son of your father's business partner—the one they couldn't stop praising.

Jung Yunho, the perfect man, as they called him. He was everything they'd ever wanted for you, a textbook example of stability, charm, and success. But the problem wasn't him. It was you. You weren't ready, not yet. Maybe not ever. Years had passed since the breakup, but the ghost of what you had with Seonghwa still clung to you, a shadow that even time couldn't chase away.

"Hey," Yunho's voice pulled you back from your spiralling thoughts. His gaze, warm and sincere, met yours as he leaned in slightly. "You feeling alright?"

Caught off guard, you glanced down at your untouched plate of steak and managed a small nod. "I'm fine, don't worry about me."

But he didn't look convinced. Instead, his lips curved into a soft, reassuring smile—the kind that could probably disarm anyone, just not you. "How could I not, when such a pretty lady is sulking before me?" he teased gently. Before you could reply, he reached across the table, taking your plate without hesitation. "Here, let me help you."

With careful precision, he began cutting the steak into neat, bite-sized pieces. The gesture was so thoughtful, so kind, and yet it left you feeling hollow. It wasn't the act itself—it was the way it lacked the weight of familiarity.

Seonghwa used to do the same thing, but it had always been different with him. He'd grumble playfully about how you'd never learn to do it yourself, though he never minded doing it for you. His hands were smaller, more delicate, and you'd always find yourself staring at the faint scars from his crafts. Yunho's hands, while steady and practised, didn't hold the same history.

"All done," Yunho said cheerfully, sliding the plate back to you. "Now you have no excuse not to eat."

You forced a polite smile, murmuring a quiet "thank you" as you picked up your fork. Yunho didn't seem to notice the distant look in your eyes, or perhaps he was kind enough not to point it out.

He was wonderful. Thoughtful, patient, and sincere. By all accounts, he was the right person. But as you sat there, forcing yourself to chew, you couldn't help but wonder:

What if the right person wasn't the one who checked all the boxes? What if they were the one who didn't, but still felt like home?

The rest of the night crawled by like a snail, every passing second stretching unbearably long. You shifted in your seat, wishing you were anywhere but here. Yunho was a great guy—attentive, charming, and genuinely kind. But that only made it worse. He deserved someone who could meet his enthusiasm with equal fervour, someone who didn't have her mind wandering to someone else entirely.

You sighed quietly, pushing your barely touched drink to the side. What the hell was wrong with you? This was what you'd agreed to, wasn't it? This was what you'd sacrificed so much for. Years ago, you walked away from the love of your life because it felt like the right thing to do, to pursue the kind of stability and compatibility everyone insisted was more important than love alone. And now here it was, right in front of you.

The right person.

Yet, as you glanced at Jung Yunho's radiant smile, so effortlessly warm, the thought of spending the rest of your life with him felt less like the happy ending you'd envisioned and more like a cage. A beautiful, gilded cage that offered everything a woman could ever ask for—security, stability, admiration. Everything except the one thing your heart still longed for.

All you could ever find inside yourself was the same man you'd tried so hard to let go of.

Park Seonghwa.

Your chest tightened at the thought of him, your mind betraying you with memories you'd worked so hard to bury. You wondered how he was doing, though it wasn't as if you hadn't heard. Mutual friends kept you updated more than you cared to admit, their words painting glimpses of a life that no longer included you.

You'd heard he was finally making progress with his work, his passion—the very thing you'd once defended but later doubted. He'd opened a small store, modest but filled with so much of himself. It sold various collectable art pieces: action figures, miniatures for tabletop games, and custom character figurines crafted with meticulous care. Fans of Star Wars and Animal Crossing flocked to him, drawn to the detail and love that radiated from every piece he touched.

And you were proud of him. God, you were so proud of him.

He'd stayed true to himself, despite all the judgement, all the whispers about how he'd never make it, how he'd never be good enough. He'd proved them wrong. He'd built something meaningful, something entirely his own. You were happy for him, truly, but beneath that happiness lay an ache you couldn't ignore. You regretted not being there to witness it, to cheer for him when he finally achieved what he'd always dreamed of.

But maybe that wasn't what he wanted. For all you knew, he'd moved on, found someone who stayed by his side through all the highs and lows. Someone who loved him openly and without reservation, who didn't make him feel like he'd never measure up.

Or maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd sworn off love entirely after the way things ended between you two.

Either way, you couldn't blame him. You wouldn't blame him. Not after the pain you'd both endured.

Yunho's voice broke through your thoughts, snapping you back to the present. "Is... everything okay? You've been quiet tonight." His concern was genuine, his eyes soft with worry, but you couldn't bring yourself to meet his gaze.

"I'm fine," you lied, forcing a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

But deep down, you knew you weren't fine. And you didn't know if you ever would be.

"How much for that one?"

The tiny voice drew Seonghwa's attention, and he glanced down at the little girl standing on tiptoes, her small finger pointing eagerly at the figurine encased behind the counter. It was the only one displayed under glass, like a prized treasure—and in a way, it was.

He hummed, his eyes softening as he turned to look at the figure in question. The Kuromi figurine sat proudly on the top shelf, right next to the LED sign that glowed softly with his store's name: Star Mars. The design was intricate, every detail was carefully crafted with love and precision.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said gently, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. "That one's not for sale. It's reserved for someone very special."

The little girl pouted, her lips forming a perfect curve of disappointment, and his heart melted a little. But no amount of adorable pouting—or even persuasive whining—could ever convince him to sell it.

That Kuromi figurine wasn't just a piece of art; it was a promise, a memory frozen in time. It was one of the first figurines he'd perfected, the culmination of years of practice and the relentless pursuit of his passion. He'd made it as a gift for you—his favourite girl.

It still is yours, if only you wanted it.

The child's father stepped forward, lifting her into his arms as he gave Seonghwa an apologetic bow. "Don't worry about her, Mr Park. I'll convince her to go with the Isabelle one instead."

Seonghwa chuckled softly, standing upright as he waved off the father's concern. "No problem at all. Isabelle's a great choice," he said, though his eyes lingered briefly on the Kuromi figurine.

As the father and daughter moved on to browse the other displays, Seonghwa found himself lost in thought. He didn't display that piece out of pride or for show—it was there because it reminded him of you. Of the nights you'd spend sitting cross-legged on the floor of his studio, playfully teasing him about his obsession with getting every detail just right.

"She looks like you," he'd said when he showed it to you for the first time. You'd laughed, brushing it off, but the glint of affection in your eyes told him you secretly loved the comparison.

He'd planned to give it to you on your birthday, but the timing never felt right. And then, before he knew it, you were gone.

The bell above the door jingled, the familiar sound slicing through the haze of his thoughts and yanking him back to the present. He straightened up, plastering on the polite smile he reserved for customers, though the weight in his chest never eased.

"Good evening! Welcome to…" His voice faltered mid-sentence, the words catching in his throat as his entire world screeched to a halt.

There you were.

It had been years, but time seemed to melt away the moment his eyes landed on you. You stood there in the soft glow of his store lights, more beautiful than he remembered—if that were even possible. Your silk dress shimmered gently with each subtle movement, an elegant coat draped effortlessly over your shoulders. The once long hair he used to run his fingers through was now cropped to your shoulders, framing your face in a way that made you look older, wiser—but still you.

Even after all this time, his heart betrayed him. It thundered in his chest, each beat screaming your name. He clenched his fist tightly at his side, willing himself to stay rooted where he stood. Every fibre of his being ached to run to you, to close the distance, but he couldn't. He shouldn't.

Slowly, shakily, he mustered a smile, though it felt like his heart might burst from the sheer force of its racing. Then, to his astonishment—and heartbreak—you returned it. A soft, familiar curve of your lips that nearly undid him.

But then, it fell apart.

The moment shattered as a tall, striking man stepped in behind you. He moved with easy confidence, his presence commanding attention as if the universe itself had tilted slightly to make room for him. Without hesitation, his hand found its way to your shoulder, resting there with an ease that spoke of familiarity.

"See anything you like?" the man asked, his deep voice carrying the warmth of intimacy as he looked down at you.

You blinked, startled, as if shaken from a dream. "Oh… I was just…" Your voice trailed off as your gaze flicked back to your ex-boyfriend, lingering for a moment longer than it should have.

Seonghwa's smile faltered, but he quickly schooled his expression, burying the ache that clawed at his chest. He nodded politely, forcing himself to focus on the customer standing in front of him—the both of you.

The Kuromi figurine sat silently on its shelf, bathed in soft light, waiting for a moment that might never come. The air inside the store suddenly felt stifling. Seonghwa stood behind the counter, his hands gripping its edge like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

"Welcome to Star Mars," he said, his voice steady but his smile trembling under the weight of emotions. He forced it wider, hoping it would mask the whirlwind within. "It's been a while. How have you been?" His heart clenched as the words left his mouth. He wanted to sound casual, as though you were just another customer, but he couldn't. You weren't just anyone. You never had been.

You gave him a hesitant smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes. "I've been good. How about you?"

Before he could answer, the man beside you—tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding warmth—stepped forward, his curiosity evident. "Oh, you two know each other? What a small world!" His voice was friendly, his smile sincere, and Seonghwa's chest tightened further.

He should feel relief. This man, presumably your boyfriend—or worse, your fiancé—seemed perfect for you. He was everything Seonghwa had wanted for you when he stepped away, believing he could never give you the life you deserved. And yet, it felt like the ground was crumbling beneath him.

You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Yes, this is Seonghwa. He's... an old friend of mine."

Old friend. The words landed like a punch to his stomach, but he kept his composure.

The man extended a hand toward him, his smile unwavering. "I'm Yunho. It's nice to meet you! Next time my nieces and nephews need new toys, I'll know who to come to."

Seonghwa took his hand, shaking it firmly while managing a polite smile. "Nice to meet you too." His gaze flickered back to you, catching the way you avoided meeting his eyes.

As if on cue, Yunho's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he excused himself, stepping outside to take the call. For the first time since you'd entered, the air felt heavy with unspoken words.

You turned back to your ex, your eyes meeting his briefly before dropping to the counter. "Congratulations... Seonghwa," you whispered, his name falling from your lips like a fragile memory. "It's good to see how far you've come."

He nodded slowly, his smile softer now, though the ache in his eyes remained. "Thank you. And... congratulations to you as well," he said, glancing toward the window where Yunho stood. "He seems amazing."

The kindness in his tone made it hurt even more.

"No," you blurted, shaking your head. "He's not... we're just... friends. I don't..." Your words faltered, your voice trembling. "I'm not with anyone."

His brows lifted in surprise, but he stayed silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. You wished he'd say something, anything, but the way his eyes softened, brimming with a mix of emotions—relief, hesitation, and something deeper—was answer enough.

Your breath hitched when your gaze landed on the figurine behind him. Kuromi. Encased in glass, displayed on the highest shelf. You remembered the countless hours he'd spent perfecting it, the way he'd proudly shown you the finished piece.

He still kept it.

Before you could find the courage to ask why, Yunho reappeared, his presence cutting through the tension like a blade. "Hey, sorry to cut your little catch-up session short, but something urgent came up at work, and I—"

Seonghwa straightened, his polite smile snapping back into place. "Of course, don't let me keep you."

Your heart sank as he turned to you, bowing slightly. "It was nice seeing you again."

You forced a smile, though your chest ached with everything left unsaid. "It was nice seeing you too."

As you followed Yunho out, you couldn't resist glancing back one last time. Your eyes met Seonghwa's, and in that fleeting moment, it felt as though a thousand words passed between you.

Regret. Longing. Love.

The bell above the door jingled again as you stepped out, your heart heavy with the weight of the encounter. Yunho was quiet as he drove, his hands steady on the wheel. The silence between you felt thick, almost suffocating, but you didn't know what to say. How could you explain the whirlwind of emotions raging inside you without sounding selfish or ungrateful?

"It's him, isn't it?" Yunho's voice broke through your thoughts, soft but resolute.

Your head snapped toward him, your heart pounding in panic. "What… what do you mean?" you stammered, the guilt already clawing its way to the surface.

He sighed, pulling the car to a gentle stop in front of your home. Turning to face you, he gave you a small, knowing smile. "The man from the store. Park Seonghwa, right? He's the one you've been thinking about all night. Tell me if I'm wrong."

Your breath caught, your hands fumbling with the seatbelt as you tried to come up with a response. But the look in his eyes told you that lying wasn't an option. "I…" You paused, finally managing to unfasten the seatbelt, but your words seemed caught in your throat. "I'm sorry, Yunho. I didn't mean for this to happen."

He leaned back with a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "You don't have to apologise. If anything, I should be the one saying sorry. I knew from the beginning that you weren't exactly thrilled about this arrangement, but I still went along with it, hoping… I don't know, that maybe something would change."

You felt tears sting your eyes, and you turned away, unable to meet his gaze. "You deserve better than this," you whispered, your voice trembling.

"Hey." He reached out, his hand covering yours with a comforting warmth. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, you turned back to him, your vision blurred with unshed tears.

"You don't owe me anything," he said gently. "This… whatever this was supposed to be, it wouldn't have worked if both of us weren't fully in it. And that's okay. You know why?"

You shook your head, your voice barely audible. "Why?"

"Because this decision—choosing who you want to be with—it's for you, not for your parents, not for me, and certainly not for anyone else. It should never be about what people think or what they want. It's your life. Live it for yourself."

His words struck you like a bolt of lightning, unravelling years of self-doubt and regret. He was right. How had you allowed yourself to be swept up in everyone else's expectations, losing sight of what truly mattered to you?

You sat back in your seat, letting his words sink in, feeling a strange mix of guilt and liberation. After a long moment, you nodded, your voice steadier now. "Thank you, Yunho. For everything."

He smiled, his eyes kind and understanding. "Go on," he said, tilting his head toward your house. "And don't let fear hold you back this time."

As you stepped out of the car, his words echoed in your mind, igniting a spark of courage you hadn't felt in years.

You turned back, watching as Yunho drove away, his figure disappearing into the night. And for the first time in a long time, you felt a sliver of clarity.

It wasn't too late. You still had a choice to make. And this time, you'd make it for yourself.

The shop was quiet now, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional rustle of paper as Seonghwa meticulously wrapped the Isabelle and Grogu figurines the pair of father and daughter finally agreed on getting. His movements were precise, his focus seemingly sharp, but his mind was elsewhere—stuck on the brief yet piercing encounter that had just walked out of his life again.

"That Kuromi one… it's for the pretty lady earlier, isn't it?"

The father's voice broke through Seonghwa's haze, and his hands froze briefly before resuming their task. He didn't look up, focusing instead on folding the edges of the wrapping paper with unnecessary care. "You might be right," he said after a pause, his voice quieter than intended. "But it doesn't matter if it is."

The man tilted his head, a subtle frown forming as he cradled his daughter closer. "And why's that? It clearly still means a lot to you both."

Seonghwa finally glanced up, forcing a polite smile, though it faltered almost immediately. "You saw it yourself... she's with someone else. Someone better." The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth, laced with a resignation he didn't quite believe in.

The man sighed, shifting the little girl in his arms so she could hold her new Grogu figurine. He regarded your ex with a look that felt far too knowing. "I also saw how she looked at you," he said softly. "And she didn't look like someone who's better off."

Seonghwa blinked, caught off guard, but the customer wasn't finished. His gaze drifted toward the cute purple figurine that was not for sale, and for a moment, his expression softened into something fragile—something etched with pain.

"You know," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "my wife used to love Sanrio too. She had this little Cinnamoroll keychain she carried everywhere." He chuckled faintly, the sound bittersweet. "I always thought I'd have more time to make her smile, to give her the little things that made her happy. But time doesn't wait for anyone. One day, it was just… gone."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, and Seonghwa felt something tighten in his chest.

The man glanced at him then, his eyes filled with a quiet intensity that seemed to pierce through Seonghwa's carefully built walls. "I don't know what's between you and her, Mr Park. But I do know this: regret is a heavy thing to carry. Don't let it weigh you down, not if you can still do something about it."

He gave Seonghwa a small, sad smile, the kind of smile that spoke of lessons learned too late, before taking the bag of purchased items. "Sometimes, all it takes is one step in the right direction. Don't let the chance slip away."

And then he was gone, the bell above the door jingling faintly as father and daughter disappeared into the night.

Seonghwa stood motionless behind the counter, his gaze drifting back to the Kuromi figurine in its glass case. The light reflected off it, casting faint shadows on the shelf behind it. It was meant for you. It had always been for you.

The father's words replayed in his mind, unrelenting in their simplicity and truth. He leaned against the counter, his eyes fixed on the figurine made just for you, but his thoughts were elsewhere—back to you, back to all the moments that had led to this one.

Back then, he'd convinced himself he was doing the right thing, letting you go so you could find the happiness he didn't think he could give you. He thought he was being selfless, noble even, sacrificing his own heart so you could find someone better—someone who deserved you. But now, the cracks in that logic were glaringly obvious. What had any of this accomplished? Neither of you had found happiness in the way he'd hoped.

The truth was harsh: he hadn't even tried. He hadn't fought to be better for you, to grow into someone worthy of your love. Instead, he'd accepted the version of himself the world seemed to see—a man with dreams too small and ambitions too impractical. He'd let himself believe that you deserved someone like Yunho, someone who fit the mould of what your parents and society thought was 'right.'

But things were different now. He wasn't that man anymore. He'd worked hard, not for anyone else but for himself. Every step he'd taken to build his store, every figurine he'd crafted with his own hands, every small milestone he'd achieved—it was proof that he could create something meaningful. And if he could do that, maybe he could create a life with you.

His heart clenched at the thought of you with Yunho, not because he doubted the man's worth, but because he knew Yunho could never hold your heart the way he still did. Yunho was everything society said you should want—stable, charming, perfect on paper. But love wasn't about paper. Love was about the way you used to light up whenever he showed you his newest creation, about the quiet nights you'd spent talking about everything and nothing, about the way your hand had always felt right in his.

Suddenly, the idea of the 'right person' seemed so absurd. There was no such thing. The right person wasn't someone who ticked all the boxes. The right person was the one you chose to love, again and again, flaws and all.

And you had chosen him once.

The real question now was whether you still would.

He straightened, his resolve hardening like molten metal cooling into steel. What kind of love was it if he could stand by and watch you settle for less than what you deserved? Not less in status or wealth, but less in the kind of happiness that made life worth living. What kind of love let you spend the rest of your days with someone who could never truly make your heart race?

Seonghwa wouldn't let that happen—not if he could help it.

His gaze lingered on the Kuromi figurine one last time before he moved toward the back room. He needed to think, to plan, to figure out how to tell you everything he should have said years ago.

If there was even the slightest chance that you still felt the same way, he would take it. Because this time, he wasn't letting fear or pride or anyone else's expectations get in the way.

This time, he was going to fight for you.

"Well...? Aren't you going to ask me how it went?" you asked, your voice sharp, as you stepped into the house. Your mother flinched, bowing her head slightly, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her apron. She hesitated for a moment before coming up to you slowly, her eyes brimming with guilt.

"Yunho called," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "He said he wishes not to force you."

A bitter laugh escaped your lips, devoid of any humour. "Of course, it took an outsider's words for you to finally see how exhausting this has been for me," you said, your tone cutting. "All this talk about marriage, about finding the right man... who is it really for? Who am I doing this for, hm? Is it for my own happiness? Or... oh, right." You smiled grimly. "It never was about my happiness, was it? It was about keeping up appearances, about pleasing everyone but me."

Your mother's face crumpled as her gaze fell to the floor. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken truths.

Your father, who had been sitting silently at the dining table, let out a long, weary sigh. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together as though trying to steady himself. "We thought we were doing what was best for you," he said, his voice low, burdened with regret. "We thought... if we guided you toward someone like Yunho, we were ensuring a future where you'd be safe, secure."

"Safe?" you repeated, your voice breaking. "From what? From being myself? From choosing the person who actually makes me happy? You never trusted me to make my own decisions. You never thought I was capable of knowing what I want, what I need."

Your mother reached for your hand, her touch tentative. "It wasn't like that," she said, though her voice wavered. "We were scared. Scared that you'd make a mistake, scared that you'd regret it later, scared that—"

"You mean you were scared," you interrupted, pulling your hand back. "Scared of what people would say. Scared of what the neighbours, the relatives, society would think. But you never stopped to ask me what I thought. What I felt."

Tears glistened in her eyes now, spilling over as she shook her head. "You're right," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You're absolutely right. We were selfish. We thought we knew better, but we didn't. We never meant to hurt you, but we see now that we did. We hurt you by not listening, by not trusting you."

Your father stood, his movements deliberate, his face sombre. "If he's the one you want, if he's the one who makes you happy, then we'll support you. No more pushing, no more trying to control your life. It's your choice. It always should've been your choice."

For a moment, the room fell silent. The tension that had loomed for so long finally began to dissipate, leaving behind a tentative sense of relief.

You inhaled shakily, the weight in your chest lifting just a little. It wasn't a perfect resolution—there was still so much to work through—but this was a start. A start you'd been longing for. "Thank you," you said softly, the words fragile but sincere. "Thank you for finally understanding."

And as your mother pulled you into a trembling embrace, you allowed yourself to hope that things could finally change. She smiled softly, brushing a hand against your cheek as if to assure you it was okay now. Your father stood behind her, his expression a mixture of pride and something deeper—perhaps the weight of finally letting go.

They exchanged a glance before your father nodded toward the door. "Go," he said quietly, his voice firm but warm. "Go where your heart tells you to. We'll always be here."

You blinked, stunned by their words, and for a moment, you couldn't move. But then, the weight in your chest lifted, replaced by an urgency that made your pulse race. Without another word, you turned and rushed out, barely remembering to grab your keys on the way.

Your car roared to life as you sped through the streets, your destination clear as day in your mind. Star Mars. The silly name you'd suggested in passing all those years ago, never imagining he'd actually use it. Your heart pounded harder with every turn, a mix of hope and fear swirling in your chest. Would he still want you after all this time? Did it matter? Even if he didn't, you needed him to know. You needed to tell him how you felt—how you still felt.

Parking haphazardly in front of his store, you didn't waste a second before bolting toward it. But as you reached the doors, your heart sank. The store was dark, the lights off, the doors locked. "Closed" hung starkly on the door, though the shops around it buzzed with life.

You froze, staring through the glass, confusion and dread pooling in your stomach. It's not even closing time yet... Had seeing you earlier bothered him that much? Had you pushed him away again, without even realising it?

Slumping against the door, you bit back tears, the overwhelming sense of missed chances clawing at your chest. Sure, you could come back another day. But you'd already lost so much time, wasted so many years pretending you didn't want this, pretending you didn't love him. You didn't want to waste another second.

Your gaze drifted inside the store, scanning the shelves. Your breath caught when you noticed something was missing. The Kuromi figurine—the one you'd lingered on earlier—was gone. You frowned, stepping closer to the glass. It had been there before. Where had it gone?

"Looking for this?"

The familiar voice made you spin around so fast you nearly stumbled. There he was, standing just a few feet away, the Kuromi figurine clutched in his hand, still encased in its protective plastic.

Your breath hitched as tears filled your eyes. "You took her off the shelf?" you asked, your voice trembling with emotion as you took a tentative step toward him. "Where were you planning to take her?"

He smiled softly, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears of his own. "I was going to take her to her rightful owner," he murmured, his voice steady but tender.

Your heart stopped at his words, and you whispered shakily, "Was? So you're not taking her anymore?"

He shook his head slowly. "No."

"Why not?"

He hesitated, the weight of years of longing and regret pressing against his chest. But then, the words of the customer from earlier echoed in his mind. Don't wait until it's too late. He looked at you—really looked at you—and knew, without a doubt, that this moment was the answer he'd been waiting for.

Taking a careful step forward, he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing softly against yours. His breath hitched when your fingers instinctively curled around his, holding on as though letting go would shatter everything.

"Because you're already here," he murmured, his voice trembling with unspoken emotion.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, your heart felt whole again. The ache of countless nights spent longing for him, convinced you'd never feel his love again, melted away. Here he was—right in front of you—just like all those years ago. Yet, it felt different now. It felt... right. Because this time, neither of you would let fear or doubt stand in the way. This time, you were both ready to fight for it, to grow, to compromise, and to hold on.

"Hwa, I... I need to tell you something," you began, your voice shaking, each word heavy with the weight of years spent in silence. Your eyes searched his, desperate to convey everything your heart had been screaming in his absence. But before you could say more, he smiled—a small, trembling curve of his lips that held every ounce of love and pain he'd been holding back.

His eyes glistened as he leaned in, his forehead gently meeting yours, grounding you, binding you in a way that no words ever could. The moment felt infinite, a pause in time where your souls met in unspoken understanding.

"I love you too," he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion, raw and honest. Before you could process the words, his lips found yours, soft and warm, carrying all the unspoken promises, all the years of longing, all the love you thought you'd lost.

The world blurred and softened around you—the hum of the street and the glow of the city lights dissolving into nothingness. All that remained was him, the familiar scent of his cologne, the steady warmth of his hands cradling your face, the way his heart seemed to beat in perfect rhythm with yours.

In that kiss, you felt everything: the heartbreak, the yearning, the hope, and, most of all, the love that had endured time, separation, and pain. It was as if every broken piece of your heart was mending, every crack filled with the warmth of his love.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads remained pressed together, your breaths mingling in the quiet night. His thumb brushed away a tear you hadn't realised had fallen, his touch tender and sure.

"This time," he murmured, his voice steady but full of emotion, "I'm not letting you go."

And you knew—you both knew—that this time, nothing would keep you apart.

Istg, this wasn't meant to be so long. I wasn't even sure I wanted to give it a happy ending at first, but then I just kept getting carried away and voila. I swear I am working on Yunho's chapter of By Order of the Black Pirates bit by bit hehe just had to get this out of my system first.

As always, thank you for reading and hope y'all liked this one! Do let me know your thoughts! <3

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@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline

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#edenesth #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #park seonghwa #ateez seonghwa #non idol au #exes to lovers #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x you #ateez angst #ateez oneshot #seonghwa angst #seonghwa imagines #seonghwa oneshot #ateez fic

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cyberg4l · 5 months ago

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┏━ • 𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐓 • ━┓

pairing; GALLY x READER word count; 1.8k summary; you’re reunited with gally after a tumultuous few weeks of grieving his death. warnings; mentions of death and grief, canonical type violence, angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: this is set during ‘death cure’. all the characters are above the age of 18. there will be mentions of death, violence, and the flare. if you’re not in the right headspace to read something heavy, then please take care of yourself.

FOR THE LONGEST TIME, ALL YOU HAD WANTED WAS TO ESCAPE THE GLADE. You spent countless restless nights sitting under the stars and wondering what the world outside was like. There were times when you truly lost hope. There were times when you didn’t think you would make it out alive - that the only time you would ever get a glimpse of what was beyond the grey, harsh walls would be in your dreams. Or even the afterlife.

Now, as you trekked along the depressing streets, you found yourself wishing for that blissful ignorance again. Ben, Chuck, Gally, Winston. Those names were on repeat in your mind almost every night and every morning. They died so that you could live, and that had to count for something.

You remembered vividly what it was like to see a fellow Glader die right in front of you. Sure, Ben was banished; but he had died long before he was sent out into the Maze. He was dead the moment the infection took hold of his body.

Gally was next. His stubborn nature caused his demise, and Chuck’s too. Clenching your eyes, you blinked away the anger and resentment. Gally had been your friend. He was a hard-headed ass, and too overbearing, but he always took care of you when it mattered. Even if he was grumpy about it while doing so.

There was no place for love in the Glade, but if you had to pinpoint the first and last time you felt it, it would be for Gally. The memory of you begging him to come with you haunted your every waking moment. Tears, blood, and sweat covered your face as you dragged his sleeve - crying, almost falling to your knees to convince him. You’ll never forget the way he looked at you, the way he shook you off his arm like you were some pest.

And you couldn’t forget about Winston. His death was still fresh in everyone’s mind. It was hard to forget the echo of the gunshot that had ended his life - even if it was by his own hands.

A harsh slam woke you from your thoughts. Someone had rammed straight into you, trying to pass you. Looking up, you saw them walk past a cargo truck. A tall man was sat on it - gas mask heavy and tight on his face as he seemingly stared straight through you. You shivered before looking away. The streets were too crowded. Thomas held onto your arm tightly as he maneuvered his way around. Honestly, your search was feeling futile.

If you could go back in time, maybe you would’ve never left the Glade. Maybe Gally was right.

“Over there,” said Thomas, pointing to something in the distance.

You squinted, not quite understanding what he was getting at. In truth, you weren’t even sure how he knew what to look for. The Right Arm hadn’t been heard of in years. That’s what everyone had said. You were looking for ghosts.

“Thomas-“ you started, wanting to reason with him. Words caught in your throat as a bullet wheezed straight past you two.

All hell broke loose as swarms of bodies shoved and pulled - trying to escape the danger of being shot. Newt and Brenda had disappeared. Whipping your head around, you yelled for them, not wanting to lose another friend to the chaos that this world offered.

Before you knew it, a strong grip dragged you away, and everything went black as a strange fabric went over your face.

“Let me go!” you yelled, looking at the familiar mask on the soldier’s face. You quickly recognized them as the ones who were riding around town earlier.

The car ride had been brutally long. Your muscles ached, and your eyes were sore from being in the dark for so long. Frantically looking around, you tried to find your friends. Surprisingly so, your arms weren’t tied. The only thing stopping you was the almost painful hold on your upper arm. Whoever these people were, they didn’t seem like they wanted to hurt you - or else you’d most likely be dead by now.

You huffed as you were manhandled into a room. There was something about the soldier - something about them gave you a sense of deja vu. It was the way they held themselves, the way their breaths came in ragged gasps as you stared at their chest. Each moment felt like a distant memory that you had seen before. Furrowing your brows, you decided it was your memory loss messing with you again. It was common for you to think you remembered something from your past, just for it to be a fluke.

You were quickly let go, and you jogged up to Newt, wrapping him in a hug.

“I was worried sick,” he mumbled. “Where are the others?”

You shrugged as your eyes scanned around. Spotting Brenda, you nodded to her. There were significantly less of you than you’d initially had begun with. Had they taken the rest to a different location? Your heart hammered rapidly against your ribcage as you stepped back. You eyed the familiar soldier, noting the way his shoulders squared back as he stood tall.

You shook your head. I don’t know him. It’s all just fake memories. Get over yourself. Get over yourself-

A shout interrupted the awkward and anxious silence. As Jorge began laying down punch after punch on one of the men, Brenda ran up to him to put a stop to it. All your eyes were looking for was Thomas and Fry.

After everything you had all been through, the thought of losing someone else was unbearable. You couldn’t afford another loss like that. Letting out a deep breath, you watched as Frypan and Thomas stepped up, curiously staring down the soldier at the end of the room.

Words were exchanged, but none of them stuck.

His voice. It sounded like…

“What do you mean same side? Who the hell are you?”

The soldier stopped, his arm flexing as he lowered the gun in his hand. He looked away briefly before slowing pulling off his mask. A buzzed head came into view, and you had almost no time to process before his face turned to look at you.

All you could see was blue. The color of his eyes. The same eyes you had looked into as you pleaded and sobbed. The same ones you had watched the light slowly die out of. The eyes you had so long ago fallen in love with.

Both of your gazes locked onto each other’s, and if it weren’t for Newt’s hands steadying you, you genuinely think you could’ve passed out. It was like seeing a ghost.

All you heard was a loud commotion behind you as you turned to sprint out of the room. Another minute in there and you would lose your mind.

Pushing open the door to the balcony, you panted slightly, trying to get your bearings. The cool breeze pinched your cheeks, causing a slight twinge of pain. It was usually warm during the day, but the nights were freezing. In the Glade it had always been warm - never a dull day. Perhaps once every few months you’d get rain, which was always good for the crops, but it was never necessarily cold.

Shivering, you wrapped your arms around you. Weirdly enough you had never been more glad to feel the chill of air run through your bones. It was the only thing reminding you that you were alive.

Alive. Gally was alive.

Burying your face in your palms, you paced around. You spent almost three weeks grieving him. You saw him die - no, correction, you watched and left him to die.

His face tormented you every time you closed your eyes. The tears he cried as he realized he was being left for dead, the scream that had left your body as you were pulled away from the scene. Gally was the first person you had ever truly opened up to. You had been in the Glade for the brunt of 2 years, and over time you’d like to think you had gotten under his tough exterior.

The nights where you both couldn’t sleep. Your head in his shoulder, and his hand intertwined with yours, precariously tip-toeing the line between friendship and something more.

Then, in a split second, it was all gone.

“Hey, firecracker.”

You winced at the nickname. Gally had given it to you on your first week there. He said you would give him a run for his money with the way you snapped and yelled at everyone. Really, it was just because you were scared - especially being the only girl.

You blinked away tears. “Please, don’t.”

Your voice came out more shaky than you had liked. It wasn’t that you weren’t relieved to see him, it’s just that you didn’t exactly end on good terms. Now, seeing him alive and well - and so, unbelievably tall and handsome - it made you question everything.

He whispered your name, and you felt his body heat burn unbearably against your back as he stepped closer.

“Look at me.”

Shaking your head, you clenched your eyes shut, letting a few stray tears fall. “I’m can’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The last time you let yourself cry was that exact fateful day. Every single tear in your body had been used up to the point that you weren’t sure you were even capable of crying anymore.

Your back hit something hard, and you soon realized that two familiar arms were holding you to his chest. He breathed in and out, his inhales pressing against your back, indicating and proving that this was real. That he was real.

“How?” You sobbed, leaning into his arm.

Really, you didn’t care how. All that mattered was that he was here. And bit by bit, you would hopefully fix what was broken - regain what was lost.

Shifting around, you collapsed against him, wrapping your arms around his torso and gripping at his shirt desperately. You felt that if you let go, he would disappear. Just as he did the first time - when you let go of his sleeve, and he slipped away from your grasp, like he was never even there.

The only words that you were able to conjure were feeble apologies as you let yourself sob against his shirt. Inhaling his scent again for what felt like a lifetime, you finally felt like things were piecing together. Like you were whole again. Taking a quivering deep breath in, you finally lifted your head to look at him. He was just as beautiful as the day he left you.

He cupped your face as he rested his forehead against yours. You must have stayed like that for hours - or maybe it was only a few minutes.

All you knew was that no words had to be spoken for you both to understand. You were never going to leave each other again.

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astra-ravana · 2 months ago

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Tips, Fun Facts & Guidelines: From The Grimoire Of Deathful Wombs

☠If you summon a spirit for one purpose, abandon that purpose once the spirit manifests, and then ask for something else instead, the spirit will be furious. Making an additional request impromptu can go alright, so long as the additional request is not too much of a tangent from the original request.

☠The Ars Goetia, which contains 72 demons, was a rewrite of an older grimoire containing 69 spirits. The Ars Goetia included four additional demons and excluded one named Pruflas. 72 relates to the muliebral current of magickal energy, total magickal empowerment, and the Ophidian (draconian/serpentine) current.

☠If you disrespect the demons thoroughly enough, they might attack you, even to the point of having deathly intent. Even when that happens, it is still entirely possible for the deities to forgive you and continue to further your ascent.

☠Forgiveness is easy to get from most spirits, but sometimes forgiveness is partial. Articulated apologies and offerings both make forgiveness easier to get, and making spiritual progress is a big way to regain their favor.

☠Each of us will resonate better with some demons than others from the very beginning of our work. This is based partially upon the idiosyncracies of our physis- you will get the strongest manifestations by working with a demon whose physis is comparable to yours. Invocations of various demons will help you identify which types of spirits you resonate with. The ones most divorced from your physis will be difficult to invoke. By deliberately working with those spirits, you have become gradually attuned to their physis. Not only will this give you the ability to effectively access greater portions of the Numinous, it will strengthen the weak points in your spirituality and balance your own physis. The more balanced your energy is, the more powerful it is.

☠All the deities have their own character, preferences, values, etc. Ra hates psychic vampyres to the extent that he is liable to attack entire covens of them unprovoked, but Tiamat, Qingu, and Absu all love vampyres and are quite interested in their success, evolution, and well-being. Shugara judges people based on character, deeds, and potential. Samael is more strict than most deities.

☠You don't get over shit, you get through it- grieve normally. If you still have an emotional attachment to a bad memory, that means there's something about it you still haven't processed. Spells for emotional healing don't make you weak, they just allow you to cooperate with the spirits who care about you. To rephrase that last sentence: team work makes a dream work.

☠Refuse to distance yourself from the persons and spirits important to you during times of hardship- that's one of the worst things you can do.

☠Do not neglect your own well-being and mundane life for magick. The spiritual high can distract you from your outside life and incline you to procrastinate and neglect your obligations.

☠You'd ve surprised how early in your life certain spirits may have had their eyes on you. Your relationships with them may go back to past lives and/or activities between incarnations. Don't let it bother you if you aren't one of these cases.

☠If spirits call you a fool, that means you're doing the right thing: exploring unfamiliar territory. The Fool symbolizes the initiation process, as does Death. Death also symbolizes change and transformation.

☠Entities who are of a similar spiritual nature to yours or which share the disposition of your personality, will be easier for you to sense, see, hear, channel, evoke, and invoke. There are many factors defining the nature of your personal spiritual make-up, including the state of your alignment with various planetary forces, your Zodiac sign and its alchemical element, your attunement to various types of spiritual energy, and the position of your personality on the spectrum from feminine traits to masculine.

☠Some spirits have their own signature ways to give omens to the magician- Shugara uses the rain, Surgat tampers with locks, and so forth. Omens oftentimes simply serve to either let the witch know the spirit is interested in them or assure the witch of their presence. It's not too uncommon for spirits to hide your shit, appear in clouds, etc.

☠As far as I know, no perfect or omnipotent beings exist.

☠The gods destroy people all the time. Sometimes this can be so subtle that a magickal adept can be destroyed by a deity and think that it's helping them the whole time.

☠If a spirit tells you something you already know or reminds you to do something you already planned on doing, they're doing it for a reason.

☠Offerings do not have to be given during ritual, and you'd be surprised how many different types of viable offerings there are. You can offer fur shed by your pets to a demon (burn it). Fresh picked flowers can be an offering- so can sharing your meal or drink. Incense and lit candles used in ritual can serve as offerings.

☠Demons require offerings for sustenance, but they will only demand them of you if you did something wrong- unless a given offering is simply necessary for a ritual.

☠Ask the demon what they call themselves. If necessary, ask them to explain the symbolism of that title.

☠Consuming part of an offering to a deity takes the essence of that entity into your being.

☠Most practitioners of demon magick have a matron and/or patron demon. When a spirit offers to fill this role, make it official with a personally designed ritual.

☠Refusing to speak about a rite will greatly increase its power, but speaking about it isn't the end of the world.

☠If a deity asks why it should fulfill your request, the right answer is always something to the effect of, "I just wanted your help". Anything else is technically a lie. Lying to a spirit about why you want what you want is a huge mistake, but even the most trustworthy spitits may lie to you about certain things either for your own benefit, to prevent you from knowing a truth you are not ready for, or even just to patronize you. This does not count as hypocrisy on their part- deity-human interactions are a special case.

☠You'll end up looking back at problems you could've solved with black magick.

☠Chances are that whether or not human or animal sacrifice is immoral depends entirely on whether or not it is immoral to kill the person of animal in the first place.

☠Demons hate child abusers.

☠Destructive magick "thins the veil", furthering the alchemical refinement of our universe.

☠Love and lust are very magickally powerful, and sexual interactions with a deity increase your energetic rapport with them.

☠Drawing one of the Goetic sigils is often enough to get the attention of the demon it's attributed to. The demon may even manifest while the sigil is being drawn. Simply looking at any given sigil can make the sigil more powerful permanently. It is even possible to subconsciously activate a sigil by looking at it- this is not a bad thing, nor does it mean that you're being vampyrized by whoever designed the sigil.

☠Some demons think less of you when you think less of yourself. If this becomes a problem with a spirit, tell them you're trying to fix whatever problems you have and ask for assistance.

☠Force yourself to be confident about the effects of a rite during, before, and after its performance.

☠If a particular spirit fills you with intrigue and/or excitement, this means they want to interact with you.

☠When a spirit manifests to give you instructions or warnings, the advice is often as simple as, "do this". "Pay more attention to your surroundings". "Don't trust this person". If a demon tella you things like this, the advice is often necessary for your well-being in your immediate situation. If you plan on doing a rite in the next couple hours and a spirit suddenly tells you to do it at 10:30 specifically, you might find that this is necessary to avoid a grave intrusion.

☠Unless you specifically expect a demon to adhere to its recorded appearance, it will often assume a form hither to unrecorded, even to the extent of changing genders.

☠Even spirits renowned to be the most harsh, demanding, cruel etc. often turn out to have a kinder side.

☠You should only offer your blood to the most important spirits in your path- always seek the guidance of your matron/patron and/or higher self before you offer your blood to a nre spirit. Once you offered blood to a spirit, they are always with you, and their ability to influence you increases. This does not mean that they will take control of you at some point the way people infer. Any amount of blood offered is sufficient to create this connection, and offering more blood later will not strengthen the connection.

☠Cemeteries are great places for demon magick- just don't use them without guidance.

☠Do not think demons are limited to their recorded ranks and attributions.

☠The more you work with, pray to, meditate on, and research an entity, the stronger your energetic rapport with them grows. Generally speaking, when you are thinking of a demon, it is thinking of you.

☠The idea of historical facts is a relatively new invention. Mythical stories often served to contain truth instead of fact. Imagine that a given mythological figure is recorded to have given his last piece of food to a stranger. Such a story would most likely not be intended to relate a specific and factual historical event. Instead, such a story might just serve to convey the mythological figure's generosity.

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blorbologist · 9 months ago

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Y'know, I think I figured out why the Hells still feel like a new low-level party to me, even though they're level 13 and almost 100 episodes in.

I don't quite think it's the lack of conversations, or the fact half the party's plot hooks are big ties to past campaigns - though that definitely plays a part.

... Bell's Hells still primarily rely on quest givers.

Most of their goals are given to them and do not feel organic to the party, and constantly remind us that the Hells are pretty much never the most powerful people in the room. Which is usually something you see with a low-level party.

NPCs offering jobs is not a bad thing; it's a very common plot hook. Matt has been extremely skilled with using NPC quest givers in those two campaigns. Not only do they provide an obvious plot thread, but they can put the party in the path of others (say, the Nein running into the Iron Shepherds while doing a job for the Gentleman and everything that came of that). And the Hells had a solid start with it too - Eshteross was an excellent quest giver!

The problem is that Bell's Hells have never really not had a quest giver.

Maybe it's a byproduct of the more plot-heavy structure of this campaign? But while prior parties have felt like they decided on their course of action and what they prioritized, Bell's Hells feels less like level 13 (13! Level 13!) experienced adventurers and more like an MMO group clicking on the exclamation point over an NPC's head. Where does the plot demand we go next? Who do we report back to?

They're level 13.

At level 13, Vox Machina had just defeated a necromantic city-state to clear their name and Percy's conscience. And, you know, the Conclave just destroyed Emon. No one was explicitly telling the group to gather Vestiges and save the world (though Matt guided them there), and they were usually among the most powerful people in the room. They chose which Vestiges to prioritize, which dragons to tackle when, even if the over-all plot was pretty clear.

At level 13, the Mighty Nein were celebrating Traveler Con (another PC goal, I'll note) after brokering peace between two nations, accidentally becoming pirates and heroes of the Dynasty. The Nein regularly chose what to do based on personal goals, not grand ones. Though definitely smaller fish than Vox Machina at this level, they were very independent and gaining solid political clout.

While we're at it: level 13 is one level lower than the Ring of Brass, who had a huge amount of sway over Avalir. They ended the world, and also saved it, while in the grand scheme of things being only a smidge more powerful than Bell's Hells are now.

Can you really see the Hells wielding that amount of influence, when they're constantly being told what to do next?

The god-eater might be unleashed, so Bell's Hells have no time to do anything but what is asked of them. No time for therapy unless stolen from Feywild time, no travel on foot and late-night watches. They haven't even had time to grieve FCG. Percy was grieved in the middle of the Conclave arc. Molly was grieved when half the party was still in irons.

Matt is in the very unfortunate spot of not being able to give the Hells the same agency as the other two parties. Not only because of the world-ending plot introduced so early on; they are surrounded by characters they know (and the cast knows) are stronger and wiser than them - the familiarity of the past PCs and NPCs is to their disadvantage.

Why would the party reasonably ignore Keyleth's task that will help save the world and go off on a romp? Why would the cast when they know well Keyleth has to be sensible and with the best intentions in mind? The stakes are just too high.

It means that the Hells still feel like they're running errands instead of pursuing their own destiny. Their accomplishments are diminished as just being parts of a to-do list, and any stakes feel padded by several level 20 PCs/NPCs standing 5 steps away ready to catch them.

This isn't Bell's Hell's fault, nor is it Matt's. It could be amended, I think, if the Hells are really left to their own devices for a long period of time without support and shortcuts (like during the party split)... which would be really tricky to pull off at this point in the campaign.

They're level 13. They're big fish, but they're stuck in a pond full of friendly sharks, so they don't feel big at all.

#critical role #campaign 3 #bells hells #cr meta #critical role meta #the percy's conscience thing is half a joke. i love him but man he rlly went there just for the Vengeance. this isnt about him tho #to quote burr: we rlly spent the entire campaign on imogen and orym's backstories and everything else is sidequests #it's just. god. the constant hand-holding paired w the fact there's no TENSION from the fact they're taking the orders #the Nein were allergic to quest givers partially bc they rightfully didn't trust them. But the cast and audience trusts Keyleth and co 100%#it feels like you could put any other characters in this group and Of Course they'd still do roughly the same things on a macro scale #i love Orym and Liam's intent behind the character. but i. think it all boils down to his strong connection w Keyleth ;;#because of Course he'd reach out when things got bad. and of Course they would turn to her for advice.#the other three parties mentioned could Say Things and they would get Done. kinda iffy for the Nein but they could still boss ppl around #who can the Hells delegate smaller tasks to? ask to spy for them? deal with arcane batteries? no one! Because they ARE the small guys!

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maxiemumdamage · 2 months ago

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To me Azula is a tragic character specifically because while she was failed by everyone around her, it also would’ve been unreasonable to expect any of them to save her. Among those who wanted to help her, practically no one had the understanding or power to change her. They couldn’t get Azula to stop being cruel, in large part because they couldn’t change the circumstances that nurtured her worst traits.

Except Ozai obviously. Fuck him. He’s why Azula is like that to begin with. But the power and sway he has over her also made it borderline impossible for anyone else to make her change.

(MUCH more to say about this here:)

People tend to blame Ursa for Azula’s behavior first and foremost. And…yes, Ursa was pretty clearly closer with Zuko than Azula. But of course she was! Ursa’s son was constantly abused and degraded by his father — as per the comics, Ozai outright told Ursa he would do this for all of Zuko’s life in order to hurt his wife. Zuko needed Ursa’s support to have any sense of self-esteem and frankly, for his own safety.

Zuko needed his mother just to be safe and not be alone, while Azula needed her mother for moral education. Even if you don’t think Ursa’s priorities were the right ones…choosing her daughter over her son might not have been enough to change Azula anyway. It would’ve been devastating for Zuko without necessarily improving Azula in any meaningful way, because Ursa didn’t actually have the authority to meaningfully oppose her husband.

By the time it would’ve been evident that Azula had a super skewed moral compass as a result of being around Ozai so much…she still would’ve been like, eight years old max, for one thing. Little kids say and do a lot of fucked up shit, because they don’t understand morals or the world by and by large. For another, once it was obvious she was parroting horrible stuff from her father, Azula also would’ve had no respect for her mother. So what could Ursa do, by the time she realized she needed to do something?

We see in flashbacks that Ursa tried, even when her child didn’t respect her and she couldn’t enforce meaningful consequences for the bad behavior Ozai rewarded. Ursa scolded Azula for saying cruel things. She made Zuko spend time with his sister, rewarding Azula for any moments of kindness or cooperation (even when Azula was just faking it to get an opportunity to bully Zuko and Mai). She tried.

As for Ursa leaving…uh, if she hadn’t, Zuko would have died. He absolutely, 100% would have died if his mother hadn’t cut a deal with Ozai to put him on the throne in exchange for disappearing. She made Azulon and his ultimatum go away because that was necessary to protect Zuko.

Ursa did fail to morally guide her daughter. But to do otherwise would’ve been to neglect her son, then to sign Zuko’s death warrant. I’m not gonna pretend she didn’t choose one kid over the other — I just also think choosing to support the kid whom she knew her husband was mistreating wasn’t necessarily the wrong call.

And even if it was…choosing differently might not have done anything. Because Ursa could only offer affection, while Ozai wielded both the carrot and a stick. Azula would’ve likely still fawned to the more powerful abuser, still learned harmful behavior, and still internalized that her cruelty was not just necessary but acceptable. Rewarded, even.

There’s Iroh to mention as well. He admittedly had a lot more influence and ability to stand up to Ozai than Ursa did, but in fairness…that wasn’t his kid. He had his own son to worry about, and then he was grieving, and then…he chose Zuko too.

For the same reason as Ursa, I don’t quite blame him for it — Zuko needed help much more immediately. When Zuko was banished, Iroh did the right thing by going with. But I do think those in-between years in the palace were a time Iroh (still mourning, but still) had the chance to influence Azula a little. But…

…I’ve seen a post theorizing that Iroh dislikes his niece because she reminds him of who he used to be, and…I think that’s very likely. They’re the golden children of their fathers, the firebending prodigies, the conquerors of Ba Sing Se.

I also think it’s because he and Azula are so alike that he has no idea how to help her.

Iroh didn’t have a moral revelation about the Fire Nation’s conquest, not until it cost him his son’s life. His realization about war being wrong, subsequently becoming more worldly and gaining respect for other cultures, it happened only when the Fire Nation’s system stopped working for him personally. So he wouldn’t know how to make Azula see that system as wrong, to make her change for the better as he did. He can’t recreate his own reasons for changing.

Also, quite frankly — Iroh barely to not at all managed to turn Zuko off the Fire Nation’s propaganda. Zuko always had morals, sure, but he did not have any semblance of the idea that “war (of conquest) is wrong” or even “wow my father is abusive and terrible to me personally” after three years of travel with Iroh. Being an Earth Kingdom refugee and meeting the Gaang was when Zuko really changed. And I think Zuko (who got his face burned off at 13) would probably be a much easier egg to crack on the redemption front than Azula (for whom the cruel and abusive system has always worked, she’s fine with it as long as she’s the one on top).

I also am briefly going off topic here to say…I like the idea of Azula redemption. I agree that she is sometimes condemned too strongly, to harshly, given that she is just a teenage girl. But her youth doesn’t take away from her cruelty. She is someone who knowingly does wrong, because she sees it as a way to protect herself. A meaningful redemption arc for her has to acknowledge that, not just sweep it under the rug by claiming she always loved her victims.

Because yes, Azula’s loved ones who are of a similar age to her but have less power are in fact her victims. They love her, she loves them, but she does hurt them all the same. That also has to be acknowledged in the quest to redeem her.

Zuko and Mai and Ty Lee all flatly have no power over Azula — she has power over them, in fact, thanks to her status as Ozai’s favored child and just as a princess, respectively. Ursa and Iroh were adults who at least wouldn’t be hurt by trying to help Azula, but for her brother and friends? Changing her could be dangerous.

Zuko is nominally safer as the Crown Prince, but…he’s awful at politics and their infinitely more powerful Dad blatantly favors Azula. He can’t stand up to her. And the one time were shown that Ursa, trying to correct Azula’s cruelty, made her son play nice, feels cruel to Zuko. He gets hurt and humiliated for no reason but for his sister’s sake entertainment and (failed) moral education. It’s not his job to redeem his sister.

And then there’s Mai and Ty Lee, who may be nobles, but still can’t do anything to Princess Azula. In fact, even before Mai or Ty Lee have done anything, Azula is threatening their family and bodily safety, respectively, as a loyalty test. They cannot challenge Azula in any meaningful way without endangering their lives and safety. It’s not fair to expect them to fix her.

Who does that leave that Azula is even close to? The Gaang literally know nothing of her but “Zuko’s sister who keeps trying to kill us.” None of the Fire Nation Generals or Nobles will want her to change. Azulon rewarded her bad behavior almost as hard as Ozai. Lo and Li, maybe, but for all they’re the wise old ladies Azula takes advice from, Azula doesn’t actually interact with them very often.

Azula is a tragic character because, while she was a child who should have been redeemed and had better, it makes perfect sense she didn’t. No one could change her. No one could offer a sweeter carrot or bigger stick than Ozai. And by the time he was out of the picture, the story was over.

#atla analysis #atla #avatar #avatar the last airbender #azula atla #azula avatar #ursa atla #iroh atla #ozai atla #max.txt

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scotchiegirl · 1 month ago

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Obviously Nate's father-figure-ness to Hacker/Hitter/Thief is subconscious and rightly so because they're all adults and have adult relationships as well, but I do think that Nate's previous experience as a father does affect how he interacts with his kinda-kids-adult-coworker-family.

For Eliot, obviously, Eliot is Nate's mirror. Eliot is the metaphorical violent foster kid who has a connection with Nate's grizzled mentor persona. They get each other, they understand each other, they're just two fucked up kids from outwardly normal and interiorly fucked up families. They're not parent and child and they never will be, they're too similar for that. They can side-eye each other's references and be a little "girl, what were you doing at the devil's sacrament" with each other's thoughts and they just click.

Nate is a lot more of an active mentor and guide and, yes, father figure to Parker. He defends her ability to be part of a family to Archie so strongly that the old man completely revised his own views. He pushes her to the same level of excellence that Archie did, but for different motives and also provides her with a support system and a soft place to fall.

But for Hardison, Nate's fatherly moments come across far more harshly than with Eliot or Parker. He still feels intense respect for the young man and his skills, but those emotions are more frequently expressed towards other characters and even antagonists than to Hardison himself. It almost feels like Nate is subconsciously uncomfortable with feeling positive mentorly or fatherly feelings towards Hardison.

I'd like to offer the suggestion that Nate is uncomfortable being fatherly with Hardison because Hardison is exactly the son Nate would have wanted Sam to grow up to be.

On a purely physical level, Hardison is the youngest and a male (and mentally has way less baggage to unpack than either Eliot or Parker, making him act more childish on occasion and far lighter than the rest of their little family.) All these things Nate would subconsciously respond to with a distant ping of being reminded of Sam, especially in his grieving state.

But Hardison is also principled, and clever like nothing on earth, and a fantastically hard worker, and sarcastic and funny into the bargain. All things that sound like... Nate. And like Maggie. And as the child doesn't fall far from the parents most times, we can assume Sam would be as well. So by working with Hardison, Nate is almost forced to face that Sam wouldn't have stayed his ten-year-old self for very long. As Nate says in the Cross My Heart Job, he would have eventually become a teenager, and then a young man. And he would have driven Nate up the wall, and probably have inherited all of Nate's "trouble with authority" genes, and maybe, who knows, been good with computers. Much like another young man, a 24 year old genius with a problem with authority and a smartphone.

Nate never stood a chance.

#leverage #nate ford #alec hardison #parker leverage #eliot spencer #sophie devereaux #parker

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o9sessions · 3 months ago

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FRACTURED MASKS ── #1 | ◯ △ □

on the edge of desperation, a chance knocks,

offering salvation wrapped in a red envelope

MASTER | NEXT

wc ; 4.1k warnings ; violence (slapping), cursing

THE hum of the fluorescent lights in the lab was soothing, the faint echo of pens scribbling onto the versitile paper made from processed plant fibers filling the otherwise quiet space. You sat at a corner desk near the back wall away from the other students, bent over your notes; the pages filled with medical terminology and formulas, a language you knew well.

Frankly, it was all you had left—the work, the research, the dream of the future you were still so desperately clinging to, despite the storm brewing around you. You’d always known you were meant for something more, something great.

As a little girl, you’d sit in the back of the classroom in America, your home country, gazing out the window daydreaming about what your life would be like in years to come. The world had so much to offer, and you wanted to be part of the change, part of the movement that would make this world a better place. Studying medicine was your true calling, a everlasting dream to help those in need, just as the doctor who treated your parents had done.

Your grip on the pen nestled in your hand tightened at the thought of them, a heavy sadness weighing in on your heart. They were both hardworking people who fought through their own struggles, but they gave you everything they could—love, support, and dreams of a better future. Your mother had always been the one to say, “You’re going to do something great, something that will change the world.” Your father, though quiet, had always supported that belief, his pride evident whenever you made a small achievement. You were their only child, the only one to carry on their legacy, and they poured everything into your future.

But when they died, everything came crashing down.

It had happened so quickly. One moment, they were fine—healthy, full of life, planning for your future in medicine—and the next, they were gone. The cancer had come back, worse than before, it took both of them in the blink of an eye. You’d never really had the chance to grieve properly; instead you had to grow up in an instant, picking up the pieces of your shattered world.

You found yourself alone in a vast, cold world, with no one to turn to. The grief felt like a dark cloud, following you everywhere. No brothers, no sisters, no extended family—just you. The silence was suffocating. The weight of carrying on your family’s name and legacy felt heavier than anything you could ever imagine. Your parents’ absence was a constant, an unspoken ache carried with you every day.

But you had to keep going. They had invested so much in you. Their dreams had been your dreams, and you couldn’t just let that die. So you packed your bags, got on a plane, and moved across the world to Korea. You’d told herself it was for your future, for your studies, but deep down, you were running—running from the memories that clung to every corner of your childhood home.

Korea was a new beginning. The medical technology there was unmatched, the advancements in treatment and research were groundbreaking, and it was a place where you could finally make you mark. You would build a new life, one far removed from the painful memories of your parents. You threw herself into your studies, determined to not only make them proud but also to prove that their sacrifices meant something.

Your proficiency in Korean, a skill you’d honed since childhood, made the transition easier. You had taken classes since elementary school in preparation for the opportunity to study abroad. It had been a dream of yours for as long as you could remember, and now that dream was within your reach. You were going to be a doctor, someone who could heal the world.

You didn’t notice how lost in thought you were until the PA system crackled to life, breaking your concentration.

“Attention, Miss [name]. Please report to the Head Minister’s office immediately. I repeat, Miss [name], please report to the Head Minister’s office.”

You froze, pen still in hand, the words barely registering in your mind. Dozens of paris of eyes landed on you in an instant, butterflies swirled in your belly from the attention. The sudden, sharp jolt of anxiety hit your chest as you sat up straight, setting the pen down. With haste you began packing materials back onto your bag, quickly scurrying out of the study lab and into the hallway.

Your mind raced—you had no reason to think anything was wrong. You had been keeping up with your assignments, acing exams, staying focused on your studies. What could it be?

Each step echoed down the silent halls of the school. The walk to the Head Minister’s office felt like it took hours, and by the time you stood outside the door, your palms were clammy, stomach twisted in knots. With a shaky breath, you knocked.

“Come in,” a voice called from within.

You pushed the door open, the dim light inside casting long shadows across the room. The Head Minister, a stern-looking woman with sharp eyes, sat behind her desk, papers scattered before her. Her gaze flicked up when the door clicked shut behind you, but there was something in her expression that sent a shiver down your spine—something that made your pulse quicken.

“Miss [name], please, sit,” the Minister said, gesturing to the chair across from her.

You obeyed, feeling the weight of the room settle over the both of you like a cloak. The minister didn’t waste time.

“I’m afraid there’s some troubling news,” she began, her voice cool and detached, as though she had delivered this same message countless times before.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. You instinctively clasped your hands in your lap, trying to still the nervous shaking that had overtaken them.

“Your financial status with the school has fallen into the negatives. There’s a significant amount of debt you have yet to clear, and unfortunately, it’s put your enrollment in jeopardy.” The Minister’s words landed like a punch, each one more suffocating than the last.

Your breath caught in your throat. You had been trying to ignore it, telling yourself it wasn’t that bad, that you’d find a way. But hearing the words spoken out loud, so matter-of-fact, shattered the fragile illusion you had been clinging to.

“Y-You’re saying I’m… not allowed to continue?” you whispered, voice barely audible.

The Minister’s expression softened for just a moment, but the coldness never fully left her eyes. “I’m afraid that’s the case. Until this debt is settled, we can’t allow you to continue your studies here. You’re being put on hold.”

The world seemed to tilt beneath you, the room spinning as the weight of the situation settled into your bones. You had thought she could keep it together, that you could finish what your parents had started for you. But now—now it felt like the ground was slipping from under you.

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you stammered, your throat tightening. “How did this happen? I thought my payments were on track.”

The Minister flicked through a few papers in front of her, her face impassive. “It appears the balance has been building for some time now, and the payments haven’t been made in full. There’s an outstanding amount that needs to be cleared immediately.”

Your hands picked harshly at your nails, leg bouncing in anticipation for the answer she would provide to your next question. “How much is the balance?”

The way she looked at you then, eyes flickering with a slight hint of pity was enough to confirm that it was something way out of your limits.

“60 Million Won.” ($41,120 USD)

Your mind raced, that was at least a years worth of tuition. You couldn’t afford this! Not now! Not when everything you had worked for—everything you had sacrificed—was on the line. Your dream of becoming a doctor, hope for a future that seemed just within your reach, was slipping away faster than you could grasp it.

“I-I can get the money,” you blurted out, panic rising in your chest. “I’ll figure something out. Just give me time, please.”

The Minister’s expression softened again, but only slightly. “I’m afraid time is no longer a luxury we can afford. Until your financial situation is resolved, I’m afraid we cannot allow you to remain enrolled.”

A lump formed in your throat, a hot rush of tears threatening to spill over. You wanted to scream, to beg, to plead for them to understand—but the words stuck, lodged somewhere deep inside you, where they couldn’t escape.

You weren’t used to being vulnerable, to letting anyone see how far the weight of everything was crushing you. But this—this was different. This was your future on the line, and there was nothing you could do.

“Take a few days to process everything, Miss [name],” the Minister continued, her tone unreadable. “We’ll be in touch once the situation has been resolved.”

You nodded, unable to form words, too numb to respond. You stood up, legs shaky, and vision blurring. The room seemed to close in around you as you turned and walked out, each step echoing in the hollow silence.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the reality of the situation crashed down on you with full force. You stood in the hallway for a long moment, not knowing what to do, where to go, or how to keep moving forward. Your entire future had just been ripped away from you, and all you had left was the suffocating weight of uncertainty.

The cold air of the train station bites at your skin, a sharp reminder of the emptiness around you. You sit hunched over on the worn bench, your bag at your feet, clutching your phone like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world. The fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead, casting a sickly yellow glow on the nearly deserted platform.

At this late hour, there are only a few scattered passengers—an old man reading a newspaper, a couple arguing in hushed tones, a woman sipping coffee to stay awake.

But none of them matter.

Your fingers tremble as you scroll through your phone, searching desperately for a contact, a message, anything that might lead you to him. Your sugar daddy—the one who promised to take care of you, who helped you get this far—was supposed to be your safety net. He had always reassured you, always provided. But now, every attempt to call him goes straight to voicemail. Every message the same, ‘not delivered’.

When you’d first moved to Korea, only 19 years old and barley out of high school, things had been manageable. You found yourself a place to stay in Seoul, a small but cozy apartment. You made school friends, and your studies were progressing well. Then came the sugar daddy—an older man who had a fondness for your ambition, an attraction to your foreignerness.

He offered to fund your education, promising to cover your tuition, rent, and even some living expenses. It was an unexpected stroke of luck. You didn’t feel right about it, but you told herself it was temporary—just until you got your footing, just until you could fully stand on your own.

At first, it had been easy to accept his help. You wasn’t using him, you told herself. He didn’t ask for anything beyond your company and very small sexual favors, a kiss here some oral sex there. You’d convinced yourself you could keep things strictly business. But you were wrong. You had fallen into his world, one of easy luxuries and comfort, and for a while, it felt like a dream.

But dreams are fragile, and sometimes, they shatter without warning.

You try his social media, hoping for some sign, but when you go to type in the filmilar username no profile pops up, you’re hit with the harsh realization—you’ve been blocked. Completely.

Your heart sinks further as you stare at the blank screen, the gnawing sense of abandonment tightening in your chest. You never knew his real name. He only ever used an alias, a charming façade that you thought was enough. But now you realize just how little you actually knew about him. No name. No address. No way to contact him outside of the platforms he controlled.

He’s gone.

Your mind begins to race, dozens of questions swirling your brain, yet left unanswered. How long ago had he cut off your expenses? Did he find someone else, someone younger maybe? Did he stop paying your rent aswell?

“Fuck.” The sudden thought caused the curse to slip from your quivering lips. Hopefully you wouldn’t come home to find an eviction notice tapped to your apartment door.

You know you’ve been distant this past year, canceling meetings at the last minute, pushing off wondering touches and kisses. Yet that was no excuse for him to cut you off and leave you completely in the dark. You’ve expressed to have been been stacked with work from your university, trying hard to make it through medical school.

A wave of hopelessness crashes over you, and you press the heels of your hands into your eyes to stop the tears from spilling over. The train station around you feels colder, lonelier, as you sit there, unsure of what to do next. The weight of the debt—the 60 million won looming over your head—feels unbearable.

“You look troubled,” a smooth, unfamiliar voice breaks through your thoughts.

You look up sharply, your eyes meeting a man standing a few feet away. He’s dressed neatly, almost too neatly for this dingy train station, with a crisp suit and a polished demeanor that feels out of place. There’s something unsettling about the way he smiles at you—warm enough to seem kind, yet sharp enough to put you on edge.

“I couldn’t help but notice,” he continues, stepping closer, “you look like someone with a lot on their mind.”

You shift uncomfortably, hugging your bag tighter. “I’m fine,” you mutter, your voice unconvincing even to yourself.

“Are you?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. His tone is calm, almost soothing, but there’s a hint of something behind it—curiosity, perhaps, or calculation. “Sometimes, it helps to talk about it.”

You hesitate, unsure whether to brush him off or let the floodgates open. Against your better judgment, the words spill out before you can stop them. “I’m in debt,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay it off. I’ve tried everything, but now…” You trail off, swallowing the lump in your throat, head bowed in shame.

The man nods slowly, as if he’s heard this all before. “A difficult situation, no doubt,” he says, his voice laced with an odd sympathy. “But perhaps there’s a way out.”

Your head snaps to him so quickly your surprised your neck is still attached to your shoulders. “What do you mean there’s still a way out?”

The man takes a step closer, his polished shoes echoing faintly in the nearly empty station. He sets the briefcase he’s been carrying on the bench beside you with a deliberate precision, the metallic click of the latches breaking the silence. Slowly, he opens it, revealing two neatly stacked piles of red and blue paper squares, along with a thick wad of cash.

You blink at the sight, your heart skipping a beat.

“Miss, would you be interested in a game of ddakji?”

“Ddakji?” you repeated, the name sounding unfamiliar on your tongue. Wasn’t this an old korean kids game? “What is this?” you ask, your voice hesitant as you glance between the vibrant paper and the man’s unreadable expression.

“A game,” he replies simply, his tone light yet oddly menacing. He picks up one of the blue squares and hands it to you. “It’s simple. You take this and try to flip over my red paper square by slamming it down. Every time you succeed, I’ll pay you 100,000 won.”

Your eyes widen slightly at the number, but suspicion quickly creeps in. “And if I lose?”

The man’s smile grows, sharp and knowing. “If you lose,” he says, almost casually, “You pay me the same amount.”

You freeze, your fingers tightening on the paper in your hands. “W-what..?”

He nods, unbothered by the disbelief in your voice. “That’s the risk. It’s only fair, don’t you think?”

Your gaze flickers to the money, then back to the man’s face. The desperation in your chest claws at you, urging you to agree. Sixty million won—the debt that looms over your head—flashes in your mind. Even if you win just a few rounds, it could make a difference.

“What happens if I say no?” you ask, your voice quiet.

“Then nothing,” he replies, his smile unfaltering. “You walk away, and your situation stays exactly as it is.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. “But something tells me you won’t.”

You swallow hard, your hands trembling slightly as you look down at the paper square. Against your better judgment, you nod.

“Alright,” you say, trying to sound more confident than you feel. “Let’s play.”

The man’s grin sharpens, and he places a red square on the ground before taking a step back. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, gesturing for you to start.

You look down at his paper, gripping the blue square tightly. You take a deep breath, then slam it down as hard as you can. The sound echoes through the station, but the red square barely shifts.

The man clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Tough luck,” he says, stepping forward.

Your stomach sinks. “I don’t have the money to—”

“Relax,” he interrupts smoothly, raising a hand to cut you off. “You look like you’re about to cry. I’ll tell you what—we’ll change the terms.”

You blink, confused. “Change the terms?”

“Yes.” He crouches slightly so that he’s at eye level with you. His smile stretches wider, his gaze unrelenting. “Every time you lose, instead of paying me money, I’ll slap you.”

Your breath hitches, and you recoil slightly at the proposition. “Slap me?”

“It’s fair, isn’t it?” he says, his voice calm and composed as if he’s suggesting the most reasonable alternative. “And if you win, I’ll still pay you 100,000 won. No money owed. Just a little pain if you lose.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your ears. The desperation gnaws at you, urging you forward despite every instinct screaming at you to walk away. Slowly, reluctantly, you nod.

“Fine,” you say, your voice barely audible.

The man’s grin widens, and he gestures toward the red square on the ground. “Good. Let’s begin.”

You kneel down again, gripping the blue square tightly. This time, when you slam it down, the red square doesn’t even budge.

The man wastes no time. He steps forward, his hand swinging sharply. The slap rings out loud and clear, stinging like fire across your cheek.

You press a hand to your face, glaring up at him with watery eyes. “You didn’t have to hit so hard,” you mutter, more out of humiliation than anger.

He shrugs, unbothered. “That’s the game.”

You grit your teeth, determination flaring. You pick up the blue square again, readying yourself for another attempt. This time, when you slam it down, the red square flips over with a satisfying snap.

The man raises an eyebrow, mildly impressed. “Atta girl,” he says, pulling a crisp 100,000 won bill from the briefcase and handing it to you.

The money feels heavier than it should in your hand, like a tangible piece of hope. It ignites something in you, pushing you to keep going.

You play again. And again. And again.

The slaps come harder, the sting lingering longer, but every time you win, the money in your hand grows. By the end of it, your cheek is red and sore, your hand aching from the repeated impact of the paper. But you’ve amassed a small stack of cash—a temporary reprieve from the weight crushing your shoulders.

The man finally raises a hand, signaling the end of the game. “You’ve done well,” he says, his tone almost approving. “But if you’re truly interested in changing your life, there’s a bigger game you can join.”

Your heart sinks at the cryptic offer. “What do you mean?”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black envelope, wrapped in a red bow. He holds it out to you, his expression unreadable, although for a second you swear you saw a flicker of uncertainty—guilt, in his eyes.

“Call the number on this card,” he says. “You’ll have the chance to win far more than what’s in your hands right now. Enough to erase your debt and start fresh.”

You hesitate, staring at the card as if it holds the answer to all your problems—and maybe it does. But there’s an edge to his words, a warning you can’t quite decipher.

“Think about it,” he adds, stepping away and closing the briefcase with a decisive snap. “But don’t take too long. Opportunities like this don’t come often.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you alone in the station with the cash in your hands and the card weighing heavy in your pocket.

The familiar creak of the apartqment door echoes in the silence as you step inside, exhaustion pressing down on you like a physical weight. You shut the door behind you, the click of the lock strangely final. Kicking off your shoes, you shuffle toward the tiny kitchenette, your mind too scattered to bother with anything more than a pack of instant ramen.

The fluorescent light above flickers as you fill a cup with water and pour it into the noodles. You toss the packet into the microwave, pressing a few buttons with little thought. The soft hum fills the quiet space, but it does nothing to soothe the growing ache in your chest.

Leaning against the counter, you glance around the small apartment. The peeling wallpaper, the sagging couch, the pile of bills stacked on the coffee table—it all feels heavier now. Without the safety net of your sugar daddy, this place feels less like home and more like a trap.

You exhale shakily, running a hand through your hair. “What am I supposed to do now?” you mutter, the question hanging in the air.

The microwave beeps, but you don’t move right away. Instead, your gaze drops to your bag sitting on the floor by the door. You remember the card. That strange, cryptic envelope the man gave you at the station.

Pushing off the counter, you walk over and crouch down, pulling the card from the pocket of your bag. The glossy surface catches the dim light as you hold it up.

You pull the little envelope open, it’s a small brown card, your thumb traces over the circle, triangle, and square symbols printed on the front before flipping it, revealing the number written inside.

8650 4006

For a moment, you just stare at it, your mind racing with everything that happened today—the minister’s cold words, your sugar daddy’s abrupt betrayal, the stinging slaps, the small stack of cash you’d managed to scrape together.

Sixty million won. The number feels like a noose around your neck, tightening with every second that passes.

You sit down on the edge of the couch, clutching the card in your hand. Your other hand hovers over your phone, trembling as you consider what you’re about to do.

“This could be it,” you whisper, the words trembling on your lips. “My way out.”

Or your way into something worse.

But desperation drowns out caution. You dial the number, the ringing filling your ear like the ticking of a countdown.

On the third ring, someone answers. A calm, even voice greets you.

“Would like to participate in the games?”

You close your eyes, your breath hitching. “Yes,” you say softly, the word carrying the weight of everything you’ve endured.

“I want to play.”

And just like that, your fate is sealed.

a/n — omg guysss first chapter done, so excited to carry on this new story. don’t worry in-ho will be introduced in the 2nd or 3rd chapter i wanted to build up the reader’s background and give you guys an understanding of her thought process and life yk 😭 feel like everyone just rushes their story to get to the good parts 😣🙄 like where’s the build uppp ! hope yall enjoyeddd if you liked to be tagged in the next chapter comment down belowww

#o9sessions #the frontman x reader #frontman x reader #hwang in ho x reader #hwang inho x reader #oh young il x reader #oh youngil x reader #001 x reader #squid game #squid game x reader #fractured masks

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chxmpagneprxblem · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter One - Surprising

Tough Love Masterlist

“I don’t know, I just kind of let her do her thing. I love the girl but she’s kind of a lost cause.” You shrugged and Leah looked up to where Bella and Jake were chatting in the booth opposite them.

“You don’t think it’s weird? That she goes from screaming nightmares to as normal as she gets in a few weeks?” Leah asked and you could only shrug again.

You couldn’t lie and tell her you knew how Bella’s brain worked. Your sister was a mystery to you as much as your mother always had been. You supposed you had been lucky when Renee lost the fight against the temptation to leave and could only mentally cope with one child. The quiet one.

Not to say you had been in any way wild. You had just been older. Set in routine and able to voice your opinion. And your opinion was that your dad was your favorite. A fact Renee never liked.

So every summer you trekked to Arizona where Bella and Renee had ended up and spent two weeks with them only to trek back down with Bella so she could spend her time with Charlie.

It had never been a particularly enjoyable time for either of you. So when Bella packed up and moved to Forks you had already expected to have distance between you both. Adding Edward Cullen to the mix only made things worse.

You could never have expected Bella to shack up with Cullen, much less go batshit insane over him. You would never forgive your sister for the torment she was putting Charlie through every day she grieved a dumb high school fling.

So you escaped her. Escaped her zombified state in the damn chair in her bedroom. Leah had been your saving grace. Harry and Charlie had shoved you both together as kids and the bond had stuck, bringing you to their door whenever you couldn’t stomach looking at Bella.

Although heartbreak was still prominent in the Clearwater home, at least Leah had a reason to be so cut up. Sam and her had plans. They had been together for years. Not a matter of months like Bella and Edward.

You couldn’t help but wonder had you and Bella been raised together would you offer her the support you so readily gave to Leah. “I think she’s found a new boy to focus on.”

Leah tilted her head from side to side as she considered your answer. You didn’t really believe the idea yourself but it was strange, how completely Jacob had turned your sister’s mental breakdown into a memory.

“The kid must have game.” Leah said and you snorted in laughter, your milkshake dribbling pathetically down your chin. “You’re disgusting, you freak.”

“You’re the one thinking weird thoughts about a kid!” You argued and Leah only rolled her eyes. “Gonna have to warn my dad what you’re up to.”

“Shut up, haven’t you got work? Those tents ain’t gonna sell themselves.” She teased and you looked at your watch before sighing.

“Cause you ain’t got a boat to be fixing with your dad, little Ms Nepo Baby.” You scoffed, shoving your way out of the booth. “You think she even noticed I was here?”

“Ah, the nepotism of the boat rental business. A true life of luxury.” Leah knocked you with her elbow. “She hasn’t noticed you once her life. Why would she start today?”

Your smart reply for Leah died on your tongue when three tall shirtless men entered the diner, staring off to the side. Leah dropped her head, her long hair falling to cover her face.

You scoffed, side stepping Paul LaHote with a scowl. Less than a year ago Paul was a minor annoyance for Sam. Someone he had a rivalry with in high school. Now they were best friends and Sam had dropped Leah and picked up her cousin. It was enough to sour your good mood.

“Don’t.” Leah grabbed your wrist when you paused. She knew you wanted to give Sam another piece of your mind. She had stopped letting you when you almost ran him over at the beach a few weeks before.

You rolled your eyes before turning to glare at Sam one last time but Paul moved between you both, staring you down in challenge. You’d like to think you won when his jaw fell slack and he stumbled against the table.

“Fuck those guys.” You huffed once Leah had dragged you out the door. “Hope they catch a cold.”

“Damn killer, take it easy. Not a cold.” Leah laughed but it was strained. “Go to work. Earn enough money so I can quit my job and become a stay at home best friend.”

“Best friend? You’re not even in my top three.” Her laugh was less strained when you both parted ways and you blew her a kiss across the car lot, smiling when she pretended to bat it away.

…

“Can you watch my lane for a few?” You looked up from the schedule you had been trying to organize and blinked at Mike who was trying to look a lot more innocent than he was.

“A few? Like say, ten minutes?” You asked and he shrugged. “Or enough time for me to realize you’re skipping the last thirty minutes of your shift?”

“I’ll do a double next Friday to bail you out if you let me go now?” He offered and you sighed.

“Your name is above the door, kid. I don’t care if you cut or not. Ain’t like I can fire you.” You shrugged and locked your computer.

“Awh, don’t be like that. Dad would quicker fire me and adopt you if he thought Charlie wouldn’t notice. Best assistant manager he’s ever had apparently.” You laughed and shooed Mike out the door, heading for his lane which had conveniently cashed up and gotten ready to hand over.

Friday night wasn’t typically busy in the store. Not many people needed last minute hiking attire for the weekend and so you had time to finish up the schedule that had been bothering you and change the displays in the store windows before you were interrupted by a customer.

Not just a customer though, your sister.

“Everything okay?” You asked her warily. Talking to Bella in the last three months was almost like talking to a wall if the wall had the ability to start screaming at a pitch only dogs could hear.

“Just looking for some new boots.” She hummed and you nodded slowly, pointing her in the direction she needed.

You weren’t entirely sure why she’d need hiking boots. Bella and the outdoors weren’t exactly well acquainted.

And yet she reappeared with the boots and shelled out the cash for them with barely an extra word. To an outsider it would be impossible to tell you knew each other, never mind that you were sisters.

You watched her leave and huffed a sigh. You’d mention it to Charlie in passing. See if he knew why she suddenly wanted to hike with all the recent bear spottings in the woods.

…

Jared was laughing. His whole body shook with it, so much so that Paul could feel the vibrations from where he paced in Sam’s back garden. He’d been stuck as a wolf for almost an hour now because every time he calmed down Jared would piss him off again.

“The only person-“ a fit of laughter interrupted Jared trying to make his point. “The only one that hates us more than Leah and you imprint on her.”

Paul dove for Jared and once again Sam got between them. Paul growled at Sam, backing off once more. He was going to be stuck as a wolf forever at this rate.

Jared controlled himself enough to phase and all three of them padded into the woods.

So what are you gonna do?

Paul sighed at Jared’s question, dropping down to his belly and putting his paws over his eyes as if it would quell the urge to go and look for her.

You need Billy or Harry on your side. It’s your only hope.

Paul lifted his head and looked at Sam who was watching Paul carefully where he lay in the dirt.

Why them?

Charlie, Billy and Harry raised those girls together. You remember how attached Rachel, Rebecca and Leah were with her. Those men will know how to get you in her good books.

Paul considered Sam’s words and huffed a sigh when he realised he had no other choice. If he wanted to get to know you then something drastic had to change.

…

Harry laughed until he was bowed over and then told him to go away. Paul understood, things were less than amicable between the pack and Leah which in turn affected Harry’s ability to help when he didn’t feel he was needed.

It was still fucking annoying.

So Paul found himself sitting at Billy Black’s kitchen table and telling the whole story from start to finish. When he relayed the last detail he sat back and watched Billy process everything.

“You boys can never do anything the easy way.” Billy sighed and ran a hand over his face. “She might hate the wolves more than even Leah. She considers that girl her sister. And watching the hurt Leah suffered because of the imprint bond, well it changed things.”

“I will do anything Billy. Just to be able to have a five minute conversation with her. It’s been two weeks and I haven’t seen her.” Paul sighed, his exhaustion ringing out in every word he spoke.

“Well, we need to plan carefully-“

The front door opened after a short knock and Paul held his breath when your voice called out for Jacob and then Billy.

“Hey, old man. Where’s your kid?” You turned the corner and paused when you took in the scene in front of you. Paul could’ve cheered when you didn’t immediately glare at him.

“He and Bella went out early. I don’t know where. Why do you need him?” Billy didn’t acknowledge that Paul was in the room and he was grateful because it gave him a chance to just watch you, absorb all the details he had missed before.

“My car is doing that stupid thing again. The gear shift keeps getting jammed in reverse.” You sighed and Paul raised his eyes to the heavens above and thanked every spirit there was.

“I could have a look at that, if you need?” He offered quietly and you looked him over, blinking as if just remembering he was here.

“You?” Paul didn’t know if the disbelief was because he dared speak to you or because you doubted his ability.

“I uh, pick up a shift or two in the garage just off the Rez. If you can spare the afternoon I can bring it up now and fix it?” Paul wasn’t sure when he turned into this quiet, meek man. He hadn’t been unsure of himself in a long time.

“I’ve got work. This afternoon.” You explained and Paul shrugged.

“I’ll head up there with you? Take the truck back to the garage and have it back to you before your shift is over.” Paul tensed every muscle in his body and begged the spirits to keep his luck moving.

“Jake won’t be back until after dark. They’ve been doing this for days.” Billy encouraged and Paul could’ve kissed the old man. Instead he vowed to serve him for eternity.

“You’re sure you can fix it today?” You asked and Paul released a breath. “Cause I can just wait for Jake if it’ll take you too long.”

“Two hours, three at a push.” You considered his answer before glancing at the clock on the wall and back to Paul.

“Are you ready to go now, then? I’ve got work in forty minutes.” Paul jumped out of his chair and it clattered to the ground causing everyone to flinch.

“Sorry. Sorry.” He picked the chair up and smiled sheepishly at you. “I’m ready when you are.”

#Paul LaHote #paul lahote x you #Paul LaHote x swan!sister #the twilight saga #twilight #new moon #eclipse #breaking dawn #Bella swan #Paul LaHote imagine #Paul LaHote blurb #Paul LaHote drabble #paul lahote x reader #paul lahote x y/n

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lyrefromthesea · 8 months ago

Note

Hear me out... The hashira rival lover thing.. What if we don't get the chance/they don't get the chance to confess because we die??? 🦅🦅(I'm a sucker for angst)

Male hashira x Reader - Lost Chances

author's note: the hospital doesn't want me anymore, i'm finally back home.

pairing: Tengen x reader x Obanai, Rengoku x reader x Gyomei, Sanemi x reader x Giyuu

content warning: angst, death, descriptions of blood

Tengen and Obanai:

a month had passed since your death. neither of them had seen it coming, nor had they ever received the chance to safe you.

you left for a solo mission back then, promising them to return victorious, and while you did kill the demon in the end, you suffered from a major injury and died the same night.

your death had spread despair and sadness throughout the whole demon slayer corps, but it left the hardest impact on them.

while Tengen grieved over your death, he tried to continue his everydayness. it wasn't for his sake, but for you and the people around him.

Tengen knew you would've wanted him to continue living normally, it was one of the things that made him not only admire but also love you.

he didn't want to hurt his wives either, they didn't deserve to get caught up in his despair.

so while he wished that it would've been him, he tried to keep those thoughts hidden inside his very being, locked away where no one would find them.

Obanai, on the other hand, could not swallow his grief down like Tengen did. he had loved you with all his heart and he felt it break with the message of your death.

despite both of them suffering through the same pain, Obanai didn't have anyone waiting at home, no one too soothe his overactive mind. it was one of the reasons he didn't like to return to his estate.

his eyes were trained on the stone which had your name engraved in it, placing a fresh bouquet of flowers next to it. it wasn't the only one, he knew Tengen would visit you once a week, though they never ran into each other.

not until today.

"come, my wives had offered to invite you over." the hand on Obanai's shoulder felt different than their usual encounters. he had expected Tengen to leave a new bouquet on your grave, maybe a prayer too, and leave again.

despite Obanai's wish to remain alone and the dislike of meeting new people - especially women - he agreed this time.

and when he entered the Uzui family estate, he was surprised by the lively atmosphere and the welcoming smell of warm food.

he was quiet throughout their time eating together, at least most of the time, but he still found himself being comforted by his new surroundings.

Uzui's wives looked happy.

the thought kept repeating in his mind, wondering if you'd enjoyed this as much as they did now. he wondered if life would've been different if he had confessed to you - married you.

maybe you'd have stepped back. there would've been no harm in watching you give up your title and enjoy life.

and while the image of your life as a happy person, greeting him back home and cheerfully talking about your day, consumed his mind, he looked at Tengen.

seeing the other man's eyes soften, a twinge of hidden sadness in them, as he looked at his wives, he knew that Tengen must've imagined the same before too.

in the end, neither of them had been fast enough to hold out their saving hand.

Rengoku and Gyomei:

"take [name] with you and get to the butterfly mansion!" Kyojuro screamed, gripping his sword harder and running after the demon the three of you had fought for a while.

truthfully, people would've expected this mission to be finished without a problem, a team of tree hashira should be undefeatable.

and perhaps that would've been the case for most demons, but not for this one. whoever she was, she was a trickster out of the book, saving herself with movements you've never seen before. you quickly realized her weakness, seeing that she couldn't use her blood demon art without breaks that seemingly grew bigger. in a state of increasing distress and tiredness you shouted for the others to power her out, not expecting her next attack.

the sharp object penetrating your back, soon piercing through your front, didn't nearly hurt as much as Rengoku's expression.

"follow the plan, tire her out!" Gyomei shouted one last time, carrying your body towards the butterfly mansion. he hoped Rengoku had heard him, legs carrying him as fast as possible.

he could feel thick globs of blood escape your wound, staining his hands in a demon's wine. not much more and you'd be dead.

Rengoku, on the other hand, fought with all his might. he didn't fight for his life, he fought with the pain of knowing what this demon had done to you. after increasingly weaker attacks were thrown at him, he finally found a gap and beheaded the demon.

yet he couldn't breathe out in victory.

he turned on his heels, sprinting towards the butterfly mansion. he knew that Gyomei was faster and stronger than him, hoping that you had arrived in time.

all his hope died the second he saw your lifeless body in an infirmary bed, the giant man, who brought you here, sitting by your side.

"i didn't make it." he admitted, voice a whisper, throat running dry. the smell of your blood reminded him of days that had long passed.

Rengoku felt his own throat tighten, quietly closing the door to your room. grief was slowly climbing up his body, threatening to pull him down. even worse, he saw the same feeling behind Gyomei's eyes.

thick tears were staining the giant's face, too focused on your body to notice Rengoku stepping closer. a warm hand placed itself on Gyomei's shoulder.

"don't lower your head, comrade. [name], too, would've wanted us to set our hearts ablaze." the words that left Rengoku's mind had been heard by the male a million times already, but any trace of happiness was gone this time.

Gyomei nodded, not saying another word, not even when he heard the other male desperately try to hold back his own sobs.

Sanemi and Giyuu:

it hadn't taken more than a second - a mere second that left everyone breathless. the uppermoon you've fought wasn't that strong, not that smart, but incredibly fast. so even with three hashira, it was a huge gamble to take him on.

Sanemi was unluckily hit by the demon's attacks, throwing him over half the forest. and while he managed to land safely, it would take him some time to return to Giyuu and you.

"Sanemi!" you screamed, your eyes following him in worry, only to hear him scream back that you should pay attention.

his warning came too late, the demon lunged at you before you even got to turn around.

trying to safe your team from any more harm, Giyuu went after the demon, sword swiftly cutting through his neck. yet the sound that reached his ears with his attack was too other - too different - to be from his sword.

the demon crumbled to dust in a matter of seconds, leaving Giyuu panting. his eyes widened when you came into his line of sight again, but something felt wrong.

you weren't moving, his eyes wandering over your body until they stopped at your torso. he barely managed to land on his knees and catch you before you hit the ground.

the demon wasn't strong, but it was still strong enough to leave a whole in your side in his dying moments.

"[name]!" Giyuu felt his throat dry up, his hands starting to shake like never before. this wasn't happening. right?

"Gi.. yuu.." he wasn't used to seeing your eyes so empty, so devoid of life. you barely managed to say his name before blood spluttered out of your mouth, running down your lips.

"[name], stay alive! ..stay alive!" he didn't know when he last felt this helpless, but his legs wouldn't move. the butterfly mansion was too far away, no help was in sight. he didn't know where he should bring you.

your breathing.

it had stopped not even a minute after you've got hurt, the light having left your eyes for good. Giyuu felt his body tense, not able to move anymore. his hands were full of your blood, he could feel the crimson liquid leaking down his fingers.

the silence was broken by a guttural scream, another person running out of the forest. Sanemi's white hair was a stark contrast to the night's darkness, wind rushing through it as he ran to your lifeless body.

"[NAME]!" he fell to his knees next to you, first wanting to hold you close to his body, then pulling his hands away, too afraid to hold your fragile form. he was consumed in his panic, the sight of your corpse.

the next minutes were filled by screams and cries, Sanemi's agony soon making Giyuu quietly cry as well.

they only stopped when no more tears were left, no more screams to give. and after Sanemi has calmed down, thoughts began to fill his mind.

i should've been faster. I should've been stronger. if i had just been there a bit earlier-

he went quiet, his hands gently taking your body out of Giyuu 's hold and standing up. you deserved a grave, he couldn't leave your body here.

before he turned around to retreat, his dead eyes wandered to Giyuu, looking at him with unspoken malice. "you should've protected [name]."

no more words were said between the two males, Sanemi leaving the forest with your body in his hands, while Giyuu suffered through another breakdown, trying to drag his body back to his estate.

he wouldn't be able to see your face another time, not in this life. Sanemi was right, he failed to protect someone he loved. again.

if only he knew that Sanemi felt the same guilt swell in his chest, desperately trying to hold his cries in.

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