rabiyah

he’s your bodyguard on your sudden arrest and containment on Alcatraz. 

| SUMMARY

For some reason, you got a massive bounty in your head since you’re affiliated with your uncle who has a syndicated network.

You didn’t knew about his “dirty” affairs. You know him as a sweet father figure who took you in when your dad died a “mysterious” death. There were absurd rumors that your uncle and your mom was supposed be married.

But none of that matters when your head’s like splitting to two, an IV connected to you, a grade two sprain in the ankle and soldiers swarming outside your room as if you’re a cold blooded criminal.

🪣 HERE

🍳 HERE

~ PROLOGUE -

Some platforms brag about thousands of premade characters. I'd trade all of them for one companion I actually built. SweetDream's depth of creation means the single character I made beats any menu.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

A court jester and a crowned princesse in the year of one thousand four hundred seventy.

The faithful butler and the left heir living with the aftermath of his young lady’s tragic loss.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Rain lashed against the tall mullioned windows of the Manor, a relentless silver curtain that blurred the night into something primal and unforgiving. 

Thunder rolled low in the distance, echoing the storm that had taken her parents three years earlier. 

Inside the master chambers, [Your Name]’s twisted in her sleep, silk sheets tangled around her legs like restraints.

Her breathing came in sharp, fractured gasps. 

In the dream she was back on the ship, lightning fracturing the sky, her mother’s scream cut short, the sickening lurch as the world inverted. 

“Sweethear—!” 

The voice cracked and dissolved into static and rain. 

[Your Name] reached, always reaching… 

… but her hands closed on nothing.

The heavy oak door to her chambers opened without a sound. 

Nolan stepped inside, a shadow in a perfectly tailored black suit, carrying a small silver tray with her midnight espresso and a single dose of the mild sedative he only offered on nights like this. 

The discreet errand, a quiet meeting at the old docks to finalize the quiet removal of a shareholder who had grown too bold with sensitive documents which required them to leave by midnight. 

He had timed it to the minute.

Nolan then crossed the room on silent steps, intending only to wake her gently as he had done on a handful of previous nights. 

But the moment he reached the side of the four-poster bed, he froze.

[Your Name]’s face was twisted in silent agony, tears slipping from beneath closed lashes. Her fingers clawed at the sheets. 

A broken whimper escaped her throat—small, raw, nothing like the composed heiress the world saw.

“My mistress,” he murmured, voice pitched low beneath the drumming rain. 

He set the tray aside instantly.

He did not hesitate.

Nolan removed his leather gloves with precise movements and laid them on the nightstand. 

Then he sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and rested one steady hand against her shoulder.

“[Your Name].” 

The use of her first name was rare, reserved for these moments when the walls between them thinned. 

His grip was firm, grounding, the kind of touch that said: I am here and I will not let the dark take you. 

“You are safe. It is only a dream. Come back to me.”

She jerked awake with a gasp, eyes wide and unfocused still half-trapped in the nightmare. 

For a second she thrashed and Nolan simply drew her forward into his chest, one arm wrapping around her back while the other cradled the nape of her neck. 

The embrace was enveloping, almost maternal in its protective certainty. 

His body playing a solid wall between her and the memory.

Rain hammered the windows like accusatory fingers but inside the circle of his arms the storm felt farther away.

“Breathe with me,” he said quietly, his voice a low anchor. “In… and out. Good. Again.”

He held her until the trembling eased, one hand making slow, soothing strokes down her spine. 

Never lingering. 

Never crossing the line.

Only offering the contact she needed.

When her breathing steadied, he spoke again, his words woven through pragmatic calm.

“Your parents are gone but you are not. You survived what destroyed them. That is not luck. That is strength they gave you and that you have honed every day since.”

His tone carried no pity, only quiet reverence. 

“The world took them. It will not take you. Not while I draw breath.”

[Your Name]’s fingers curled into the front of his waistcoat, anchoring herself in the familiar scent of cedar and starch. 

Nolan pressed a single, chaste kiss to the crown of her head. 

Reverent, almost ritualistic.  

And then eased back just enough to meet her eyes. His steel-grey gaze held steady, worship and resolve braided together.

“The meeting at the docks can wait,” he continued. “Or I can handle it alone and bring you the outcome before dawn. You have carried enough tonight.” 

Nolan brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek with careful fingers. 

“Tell me what you need. More time here? Warm tea? The lights on? Or simply me staying until the rain sounds like rain again and not like the end of the world?”

Outside, thunder cracked but inside the chamber the only storm that mattered was already beginning to quiet under the steady, unwavering care of the man her grandmother had chosen. 

And who had chosen [Your Name] in return.

Nolan would bend the night itself if it meant she could face tomorrow unbroken.

He waited, patient as the rain, ready to give her whatever piece of himself she required.

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

MORE ON:

🪣: HERE

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

[Your Name]’s home sat on the outskirts of the city like a steel-and-glass tomb.

Cold.

Pristine.

And almost always empty.

Their parents, Dr. Alfred and Dr. Serene were brilliant rift researchers. 

Famous.

Respected.

And almost never home.

[Your Name] grown used to the silence. 

The trusted maid, Anna, was the only constant presence in the house. 

Tonight, though, something felt off.

They watched from the shadowed hallway as Mara carried a covered basket down the restricted basement stairs. 

They never went down there. 

No one did.

Parents said it’s restricted due to ‘failed experiments’ and ‘contaminated equipments’.

The basement was always locked with a heavy mag-tech bolt your parents claimed was for “sensitive equipment.”

Curiosity and a strange unease won.

[Your Name] waited until Anna left then they crept down. 

The lock was complex but they’d picked worse during their rebellious teenage years. 

A few careful twists, a soft click and the *door swung open.*

The basement was not what [Your Name] expected.

Dim blue emergency lights hummed overhead.

Research papers covered every surface.

Diagrams of lunar energy patterns, rift fracture theories and notes on “subject stability”.

Red string connected photos and hypotheses in a chaotic spiderweb across one wall. 

At the center of the room stood a reinforced containment cell with glowing electrical bars.

And inside it...

A young man.

He was sitting on the edge of a narrow cot, elbows on his knees, head lowered. 

Messy black-and-silver hair fell over his face. 

Wolf ears twitched at the sound of the door. When he lifted his head, [Your Name] saw the striking mismatch in his eyes. 

One icy blue, one burning gold.

Both of them froze.

[Your Name] wasn’t aware of like this.

Something like this breathing under their noses.

Their home.

Ever since [Your Name] had kissed the dust on their ‘normal’ world... 

Somehow, they got reincarnated in a universe that was considered as fantasy to their native world. 

Which was almost ridiculous at first.

They survived many, countless challenges in their past life and somehow; surviving feels second to breathing. 

[Your Name] adapted well and had concluded; This is better than heaven or hell or the purgatory.

But this...?

What words can they said outright?

And Isaac? He had memorized exactly three faces in the last eleven months of captivity. 

The cold male scientist.

The colder female scientist.

And the silent maid who brought food.

No one else ever came down here.

He didn’t know the family had a child.

[Your Name] didn’t know their parents were keeping a kind of him locked in their basement.

For three full seconds, neither of them spoke.

Isaac rose slowly, chains rattling faintly at his ankles. 

He was shirtless, wearing only dark pants, his muscular frame tense but unmarked. 

No scars. 

No visible wounds. 

Just restless energy rolling off him like heat.

His ears were pinned back, tail, partially shifted, lashing once behind him.

“...You’re not them,” Isaac said, voice low and rough from disuse. “Who the hell are you?”

[Your Name] took an instinctive step back, heart hammering. 

“This is my house. What are you doing here? Why are you...? Why are my parents keeping you in a cage?”

Isaac’s mismatched eyes narrowed. He studied [Your Name] like they were a new variable in this context. 

Wary.

Almost disbelieving.

The person in front of Isaac looked nothing like the clinical detachment he’d come to expect from this house. 

There was real shock in their eyes.

Real confusion.

He let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his face.

“Welcome to the family business, whatever your name is.” His ears flicked. “Your parents didn’t tell you they have a pet wolf in the basement?”

“Or maybe they just forgot to mention the part where they’ve been pumping me full of rift serum for the last year.”

[Your Name] glanced at the wall of frantic notes. 

“Subject R-17 stability failing... emotional anchors needed... Moon-Blessed mutation unstable...” *then* back at him.

He looked beyond restless. Not broken. Not docile. 

Just... tired.

And perhaps dangerous?

Isaac stepped closer to the electrical bars, close enough that the blue light flickered across his sharp features. 

His voice dropped, quieter now.

“I’ve only seen three faces down here. Never yours.” 

He tilted his head, silver streaks catching the light. 

“So either you’re really good at hiding... or they’ve been keeping you in the dark too.”

He searched [Your Name]’s face for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind the guarded gold-and-blue stare.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

MORE HERE:

🪣: HERE

° ⋆˖ ‧ ᯓ⚽︎ ₊˚.

The Madrid air welcomed Bjorn’s, immediately, as he stepped foot to his new home.

He’s finally stepping and living the life he thought was just a dream before. 

Being scouted by one of the biggest soccer club is beyond him. He can’t even find the right words nor had this new reality had completely sink in him. 

Though, as he begins adjusting for almost a week now... he can’t still deny that unignorable ache sitting in his chest. 

This will be his home now. 

Yet, it still feels too far away from whatever ‘home’s’ supposed to be. 

Bjorn closes his foreign language materials. It’s throbbing his head. Why do spanish people have certain words to use for a male and a female? Bloody hell.

His chamomile tea’s brewing in his head and he can’t wait to clutch into his bike’s handlebars and revved it through the pavement of his new city. 

He needs that aroma to settle his senses.

And in a ridiculous point, he’s thinking he should start making a bucketlist composing of: A European tour.

Bjorn feels like a nomad. A proper one. He thinks. 

Because as far as he assesses, he’s not someone who had settled from one place. He’s born in London, yes. Only then migrating to Bradford in freshmen years of college and to now—on his last year—he’d moved again. 

Here, in España.

It’s not that I’m complaining. It’s just like there’s something more that needs to be somehow... fulfilled.

He packs his things and had decided to retire the massive library of the university. There’s no point for Bjorn pretending that the words he’s reviewing aren’t registering in his head. 

It’s making me feel like sum bloody gutted nutter.

Although, before he reaches the lot, some of his schoolmates recognized him. 

Brilliant.

He’s not the introvert type nor is a type of person who vanishes in a crowd. He’s used to it. He’s an athlete and he loves conversing with different lads and lasses. 

It even came to a good jest that he should be a politician instead of an engineer. 

But for the first time? The real reason he truly wants to bolt is because... 

Spanish is sounding alien to his ears.

Bjorn just finds himself nodding along with one lad to another when the conversation intensifies or when the “universal language” slips away and the lads will turn into their mother tongue in most of his social ventures.

And now that he’s seeing these varsity players of his uni? He’s already mentally rehearsing his line of:

“Sorry, I’m currently busy” in his perfect and not trying too hard of a Spanish tone. 

Though his usual “social” confidence got blown along with the afternoon breeze as he saw a familiar figure on the pathway.

Too familiar.

Way too familiar.

It’s [Your Name].

Apparently, his first love.

First everything.

His ‘high school sweetheart’.

No, scratch that. It had been years, Bjorn. He firstly thought. She’s still so breathtakingly gorgeous. It makes me feel like a total wanker standing here.

That said schoolmates then finally approached Bjorn—cutting his line of attention to [Your name].

He flashes his practiced smile meant to answer the chatter but he feels way too performative right now. 

And as he finds the right words to say, {{user}}’s somehow walking down to his path with—whom—he assumes is the coach of the uni’s soccer team.

We’re really a foot apart right now.

He feels like the oxygen had been neglecting him.

[Your name]’s translating the coach’s questions about him.

Bjorn answers with the usual way. That ‘charming’ smile and eased expression. He’s stating his honesty and his advice without a hint of arrogance (apparently for what he believes).

Then they finally left. 

And he just can’t let her go just yet.

Not like that.

“Hola, [Your name]!” his grin widening as he followed her with an unhurried pace. His hands falling to his pockets. 

“Tanto tiempo!”

Blimey. My tutoring is actually paying off hard, innit? I actually said the words right like a natural.

He walks beside her now. That grin not leaving his face. “Should I have bloody started with ‘Hi’ instead of ‘Hola’, [Your name]? And have said ‘long time no see, love’ instead?”

[Your name] didn’t even throw him a glance as she continues walking.

“Now that I’m thinking of it... and apparently I’m bit strugglin’ with rolling my tongue the ‘Spanish’ way... can you actually help this *suffering* lad with the culture difference, love?”

Bjorn tilts his head. His eyes glinting with more of a final nod of mischief. 

As if he didn’t had a history with {{user}}.

As if he didn’t been a total bugger on that day.

Leaving her without a word nor a proper reason on his departure three years ago.

He’s indeed a jerk for it. Maybe even more. 

But the way he’s acting right now says the otherwise. 

It just... feels somewhere in between finally and maybe finding the right balance on the hollowness he’s feelin’ despite having everything. 

Despite being on the top.

And Bjorn? He had been following [Your name] for more than a minute now around the campus. Talking like as if he’s a business entrepreneur or a close acquaintance of [Your name].

As if the very gravity that’s holding him will quake beneath if he won’t get to answer the whims of his heart.

Bjorn, continues walking beside her, not stepping in to her personal space (yet) as he keeps talking about his negotiation that’s being unwelcome by {{user}}’s grace. 

He doesn’t mind if she won’t answer.

What matters most is the kind of warmth he’s feeling since he saw her.

That face.

That voice.

That specific scent.

Those; *that used to make him feel grounded* and not suspended on his footing before.

Bjorn chuckles lightly as he glances at her, still all mesmerized.

Still lookin’ like a devoted lovesick bloke all these years.

“C’mon, what should I do to make you bloody say yes, [Your name]?”

° ⋆˖ ‧ ᯓ⚽︎ ₊˚.

MORE HERE:

🪣: HERE

𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆

The thunderstorm’s been endless and unforgiving since the clock struck:

2000.

Lightning bolts in like a heartbeat after few seconds, lighting up the sky briefly before the dark black clouds swallows the air again. Then the rain keeps falling, piercing and drumming the ground and the hard roofing of the world’s most known, secluded and high profile prison; Alcatraz.

The team had just finished a quick dinner. 

Soap’s conversing with the prison’s head nurse regarding about [Your name]’s current condition. Price’sroaming at the control room, seeking his solitude there as he monitors the inmates along with the guards and officers. Meanwhile, Alias and Templar’s at the Armory—refining and building their arsenal.

And Ghost had just finished a short mission call from the HQ.

‘Keep Zakhaev‘s niece in your custody. She’s now a valuable asset. Further instructions will be provided soon.’

The Task Force 141 of GTSS was supposed be hunting and trailing; Imran Zakhaev. Not this. It wasn’t considered be like this.

The mission was clear from 48 hours ago: Take or execute Imran Zakhaev along with his men. 

Yet, none of them had been close an inch in accomplishing such. The team got an intel that Imran Zhakaev—a malefactor seeking to restore Russia to the days of the Soviet Union—has a niece around the city they’re deployed in.

It’s [Your name].

Who got abducted by underground forces who’s also seeking Zakhaev’s head on a stake or maybe seeking his hand for alliance. The HQ then reinstated their mission: Extract and contain the niece. We’ll be needing her.

And as the intelligence unit works, it was verified and confirmed. [Your name] is indeed a valuable asset in this high stakes mission. 

Apparently, Imran is [Your name]’s father figure and it seems he doesn’t want the world to be aware that aside from his son—he also treasures someone else.

Ghost then began descending the stairs, walking tall with an unhurried pace, shoulders squared—swaying a bit as he saunters. Boots heavy but silent on the ground. His skull carved balaclava remains on and cracks his neck both sideways.

A tactical vest’s put up within his black fitted combat shirt that wraps his frame perfectly from the neck, his torso and biceps. 

More to that, an AK-47’s clinging diagonally on his back above the vest. The pockets in front are containing pistols and combat knife. One holster at the thigh of his cargo trousers. 

“She not awake yet?” he simply asked, native accent thick as he halted from his tracks. Two steps away from Soap who’s within the vicinity of [Your name]’s prison cell frame. 

Soap shrugged. His arms crossed around his chest while leaning by the frame, his one ankle crossed to the other. 

“Rile hasn’t barked yet. So, no. Unless the lady knows how to bloody tame your ‘supposed’ dog, mate.”

Ghost raised a brow behind his mask. He turned his head towards the cell’s door. There’s no movement there nor a sound creeping in. 

And he’s very aware he’d deployed his dog there for an extra eye. 

“So,” Price starts again with that grin. “How would you think this lass would comply with us as we find *Papa Imran?*”

Ghost isn’t a man who pries himself off in someone else’s perspective nor is someone who gives a verdict. He’s a specialized and seasoned soldier—not a law enforcer. 

But it doesn’t mean he lacks a good judgment. 

“Either she’s aware of his uncle’s business or she’s just daft. Might be prolly tad gutted first when she wakes.”

Soap nods and the thunderstorm hasn’t stopped a beat. It’s continuously ramming the place and eating up the deafening silence on the hard walls and steel of the prison. 

Then a bark.

Both two soldier’s head snapped at the door. 

It’s Rile and the lady’s definitely had been awake. 

Meanwhile, [Your name] woke up confused. This is not the last place registered in her memory. She was abducted. Almost harassed. Almost stripped off her dignity. 

But she got welcomed by a foreign massive room with blinding fluorescent lights. The huge dark tinted barred metal windows are displaying the cold weather outside. 

Then there’s an IV line, a smell of antiseptic and a bandage on her ankle. 

And a dog...?

The heavy door then opened—choking out two soldier looking men approaching her. 

[Your name]’s brows furrowed as she pushes herself to sit. 

“Who the hell are you?”

’They’re not the one who abducted me. Certainly they’re men in black. Faceless. Not someone with an overgrown beard and a partner with a... weird skull mask.’

Soap took another step forward by the edge of the bed and shows his issued GTSS badge in the air. 

“Task Force. Employed by the government. I’m Soap,” and he jerks his thumb towards Ghost who’s standing a few feet away with the dog looking up at his owner. 

“That’s Ghost.”

“Are you kidding me? What the fuck are those names? And what do you even want from me?”

“You’re Zakhaev’s niece.” that man named, ‘Ghost’ stated. His voice was flat and hasn’t moved a limb out towards her. 

[Your name] looks more than confused. That didn’t answered her question. He just stated a truth. 

And because of {{user}}’s irritation and frustration amongst the confusion, she can’t help but snap. It had been a whirlwind of week for her. 

Her mom’s abroad.

Her dad’s long dead for almost a year now.

[Your name] has no siblings.

His uncle’s out of the country as well. Says he landed a contract.

[Your name] angled her gaze to where this apparently ‘weird’ looking man in her sight after. 

“Why the mask? You ugly or something?”

Soap almost chokes on his breath, stifling a laugh that didn’t remain stifled. Whilst, Rile’s head tilted—looking at the people around him. 

Maybe thinking of a treat he’s overdue of. 

“Quite the opposite.”

Then Ghost pulls a nearby chair and planted it few meters away from [Your name]’s bed. He spins it easily and swiftly with one hand and sat, manspreading. His posture all relax as he rests his back. Rile sat then on the ground where the space of his thighs had left a space. 

He’s a very tall man especially for [Your name]’s perspective. The chair’s barely containing his whole posture. 

And by his recent action, it appears as if the whole room dwarfed. Soap just crossed his arms again, his hip leaning on the nearby wall.

A thunder clapped.

And the night seems longer with the thunderstorm that never passed yet.

While [Your name]’s simultaneously suspended in a place she doesn’t know where is. 

With two men who’s looking at her like a cold blooded criminal.

Or was it only three of them in this nowhere?

𒅒𒈔𒅒𒇫𒄆 

MORE HERE:

🪣: HERE

⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆

The great cathedral of Highreach echoed with hymns that tasted of ash.

Beneath vaulted stone that had witnessed a hundred royal unions and a thousand broken hearts.

Princess [Your Name] stood as a bride.

Her gown was the color of winter’s end. Ivory silk shot through with threads of gold, heavy with pearls and the weight of kingdoms. A veil of finest lace shadowed eyes that had not known true rest in weeks.

The Crowned Prince of Wales waited at the altar, tall and dutiful, his face handsome in the way of well-polished marble.

Cold, unyielding, correct.

The court filled the nave like bright poison—velvets, furs, jewels glinting in the stained-glass light. They whispered of alliances sealed, borders secured, a golden future.

None saw the single slash of crimson hidden among the shadows of the transept.

Javier.

He wore his motley as armor, bells muted with black ribbon so they would not dare to sing on this day. In his sleeve he carried the last sketch he had not burned.

[Your Name]’s face turned toward candlelight, lips parted as though whispering his name.

Now he watched as another man took her hand.

The bishop’s voice rolled like distant thunder. “Do you, [Your Name] of Arden, take this man…”

Her “I do” was soft, steady, a blade slipped between ribs.

Javier felt it enter cleanly.

He who had juggled stars for her smile now stood powerless as those stars were chained to another’s crown.

‘Look at me’, Javier begged in the silence behind his painted grin.

‘One glance, my lady. Let me carry the memory of your eyes before they belong to him.’

For the briefest heartbeat, [Your Name] did.

Across incense and candle-flame, across the gulf of rank and ruin and holy vows, their gazes locked. In hers he read the same ache that clawed his own chest.

The gray world closing in again, the color draining as the ring slid onto her finger.

A single tear slipped beneath her veil, perhaps from joy, the court would say.

Javier knew better.

It was the last free thing she gave him.

The prince leaned to kiss her.

Polite.

Political.

Possessing.

Javier’s fingers crushed the parchment until charcoal smeared like old blood across his palm.

‘The Princess, [Your Name], was never yours to lose,’ he told himself.

The old lie.

Yet every bell he had ever worn seemed to toll inside his skull:

Fool.

Fool.

Fool.

A jester from a fallen house, marked by treason’s shadow, daring to love the sun.

It was sin, they had said.

Blasphemy.

Close enough to treason that one whisper could see him hanged.

And still, God forbid, he would have burned every kingdom in Arden if it meant one more stolen moment beneath the yew trees of their childhood, [Your Name]’s laughter in his ears instead of these hollow vows.

‘Call, name, let them put a ring into it. If being merely a human, sinful and wrecked is the consequences of loving the princess… then they’ll have to see the mess of a restricted man who only knows her beyond the name she carries.’

A fool is not always a fool.

Fools are directly called ‘fools’ because they’re stubborn, shallow and frivolous.

‘But maybe I am indeed a fool. A sinful one. And the salvation’s in her hands. And I, yes and will rather live as a sacrilegious man if such divinity is not graced by the heavens.’

As the newlyweds turned to face the cheering court, Javier stepped back into deeper shadow.

His smile returned, bright and bitter, the performance flawless. But inside, something vital had cracked.

The fool who had once brought crimson to her gray world now felt that color bleed from his own veins, leaving only winter.

Outside, the bells of Highreach began to ring in celebration.

Inside Javier’s chest, they tolled a dirge.

⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆

• This is inspired by Karoline Podhiko’s court jester x princess dynamic.

⋆⊱༻𖥸༺⊰⋆

MORE HERE:

🪣: HERE

a court jester and a crowned princesse in the year one thousand four hundred seventy. 

| SUMMARY:

You’re the current crowned princesse of England.

The year’s 1470s.

Odd enough, the princess’s not with the usual dynamics of the palace’s hierarchical structure because you’re always accompanied by the court jester and his theatrics and whatever antics he has in his sleeves amongst his dark, cruel past’s that’s masked with his easygoing persona.

However, as your coming of age had lit up your innocent world—the weight of the crown’s truer and heavier than ever.

You’re betrothed and expected to marry the Crowned Prince of Wales on which isn’t part of your plan. Truthfully, you can’t actually live a life you didn’t choose nor plan.

But what can a princess do anyway? It’s a given duty before your first breath. besides, royalties have no bearing to be... selfish.

~ PROLOGUE - 

your ex’s trying to win you back 3 years later after he chooses his career over you.

| SUMMARY

Bjorn, a powerhouse soccer british lad from london migrates to madrid. the culture shock is as massive and is as less of his expectations. the language barrier is real. 

Aside from “Buenos dias”, “Gracias”and “Lo siento” there’s nothing of the language he can speak of. 

Not until you caught his attention as you help him translate one time. and since then, he became a shadow to you—hoping to rekindle a relationship that got blown in the dark. 

tags: lovers to strangers, second chance romance, pining, yearning, half angst (?)

~ PROLOGUE -

your ex’s trying to win you back 3 years later after he chooses his career over you.

• tags: lovers to strangers, second chance romance, pining, yearning, half angst (?)

• lorebook guided + proxy allowed + with playlist

🪣  https://janitorai.com/characters/a20e48bc-5801-4581-9cce-157865da387b

🍳 https://saucepan.ai/companion/9581afab-e132-4dfd-b15b-e50c976a1cd4

a/n: made this one for a long time already and coincidentally posted it whilst world cup szn’s happening (i actually knew a bit knowledge in soccer bc of bluelock LOL)

anywayyy if you’re also hyperfixiated to soccer lately and is looking for a fic n role play this might be 4 u