#{ poised and oh so refined }

[apostatizing]

Lost (And Found) [ Panette & Timerra ]

“Boss? Boss!? Oh, where could she have gone…” Though the two had entered the monastery together, it soon became clear to Panette that the acceptance process would not be the same for a commoner like herself and a crown princess. Still, the berserker made sure to search every inch of the monastery...save for the cathedral. The school itself being such a holy landmark was hard enough to stomach, Panette saw no reason why she should have to subject herself to other people’s piety when she knew for a fact the boss wouldn’t be there.

But now she was certainly in quite the pickle! No matter where she looked there was no sign of the crown princess…and that in itself was unusual. The bright eyed Timerra often left a trail behind her everywhere she went, and she is sure that their new home would be no different.

The ugly thought that something bad might’ve happen to her crosses her mind, and though it lasts only for a moment, it consumes her. What if someone laid a hand on her!? Panette could already feel her blood boil, her fists and teeth clenching as she stomped down the courtyard with the full intention of knocking some sense into whatever thug thought that touching the Princess of Solm was a good idea—

…Ah. Princess Timerra was fishing.

“Boss. I have been looking absolutely everywhere for you! I was beginning to think something had happened!” Still, Panette knows that Timerra would have been able to handle herself. She relaxes her posture slightly, looking over at whatever fish was in her basket. “It seems the fish of Fódlan have yet to learn whom they should fear now that you’ve arrived!”

@solmtinel

[solxamber]

Hiiii so I really liked your unhinged reader x Leona fic and I just saw your post about mal and vil

If you have the time, could you do the same thing for mal and/or vil?

Vil and Malleus with an Unhinged reader

thanks for the request <3 it's always fun writing for mal and vil!

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit prided himself on his poise. He prided himself on his grace, his refinement, his ability to maintain control in any situation.

And then there was you.

A walking, talking whirlwind of chaos with absolutely no regard for personal safety or the consequences of your actions. You had this thing—this habit—of showing up wherever Vil was, just appearing out of thin air like a feral cat who found a way into the palace.

“Vil!” you called, striding confidently into the Pomefiore lounge one afternoon, without a care for the looks you were getting from the perfectly groomed students. “Guess what I did today?”

Vil didn’t look up from his tea. “Do I even want to know?”

You, with the biggest grin on your face, flopped into the chair across from him like it was a casual meeting and not the sanctum of beauty and refinement. “Okay, so. Hear me out.”

“No.”

Ignoring him completely, you launched into your story. “So I was in the botanical gardens, right? And I saw this big, fancy plant, and I thought, ‘What if I just… take it?’ You know, for science or something.”

Vil lowered his tea slowly, eyeing you like you’d just declared you were going to break into a highly secured vault for fun. “You what?”

“I took it! It’s in my bag!” You looked so proud of yourself as you patted your bag. “I was thinking it’d look great in your room.”

Vil blinked at you, mouth slightly open, as his brain struggled to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. “You stole a plant? From the botanical gardens? For me?”

“Yup! Because you like pretty things, right?”

A strangled sound came from Rook, who had been quietly observing the conversation. Vil shot him a glare to silence him before returning his attention to you. “Let me get this straight,” Vil said slowly, carefully, as though speaking too quickly would cause his head to explode. “You, with absolutely no regard for rules or consequences, took a rare and likely highly poisonous plant, stuffed it into your bag, and brought it to me?”

You blinked innocently. “It’s poisonous? Huh. Well, that explains the rash.”

Vil’s hands went to his temples as he let out a long, pained sigh. “You have a death wish, don’t you?”

“Pfft, nah. I just get bored.”

There it was. The sentence that encapsulated everything about you—no self-preservation, questionable morals, and an insatiable hunger for something, anything, to entertain you.

Vil leaned back in his chair, staring at you as though trying to comprehend how someone like you even existed. “Do you realize how dangerous that is? How reckless? How utterly insane?”

You shrugged. “Danger is subjective, really. And anyway, you’ve faced worse in your overblot, right? At least I didn’t curse anyone.”

“That’s not the point!” Vil snapped, standing abruptly and fixing you with a glare so intense it could wilt your newly acquired plant. “You’re acting like an absolute menace!”

“And yet,” you said, leaning forward with a grin that could only be described as unhinged, “you still keep letting me hang around.”

Vil opened his mouth to retort but stopped. He couldn’t deny it. No matter how infuriating you were, no matter how many ridiculous situations you threw yourself into, he never really tried to distance himself. Sure, he scolded you, lectured you about proper behavior and responsibility, but at the end of the day, you were still there, waltzing into his life like you owned it.

“And,” you added, leaning even closer, “you can’t deny that you like it. Admit it. You’d be bored without me.”

Vil scoffed, turning his nose up. “As if. I have plenty of things to occupy my time.”

You tilted your head, that same manic gleam in your eye. “Oh really? Then why haven’t you kicked me out yet?”

Vil’s eye twitched. You had him there. He could list a dozen reasons why you were the worst—your lack of decorum, your disregard for rules, your baffling ability to be where you weren’t supposed to be—but at the same time, you were… fun. Infuriating, yes, but you always kept him on his toes. You were different from the people who usually fawned over him, who tried to impress him. You didn’t care about any of that. You just did whatever you wanted.

He took a deep breath and turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. “Fine. I’ll admit it. You’re… amusing, in a way.”

You grinned wider. “See? I knew you liked me.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Vil said quickly, trying to maintain his composure. “You’re a menace to society and a walking disaster waiting to happen. But…” His voice dropped to a soft murmur, “you’re not entirely unbearable.”

“Wow, that’s practically a love confession coming from you,” you teased, still beaming like you’d won some sort of grand prize.

Vil turned away to hide the faint blush creeping up his neck. “Don’t get any ideas. I simply tolerate your existence.”

“Tolerate it all you want,” you said with a wink. “But I’m still going to hang around and cause chaos.”

Vil rubbed his temples again, as though trying to stave off the headache you were undoubtedly giving him. “I hate you sometimes.”

“Liar,” you sing-songed.

He glared at you, but there was no real heat behind it. “One day, you’re going to get yourself killed. Or worse—ruin my skincare routine.”

You laughed, pulling the now-wilting plant out of your bag. “Wanna help me plant this in the dorm garden?”

Vil stared at you in disbelief. “No. Absolutely not.”

“You say that now, but I’ll grow on you. Just like this plant.”

“I am going to bury you and that plant together.”

You winked. “As long as I’m with you, Vil.”

Vil groaned, but he didn’t kick you out, didn’t storm off in disgust. And somehow, that was all the confirmation you needed.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus Draconia, prince of Briar Valley, feared and revered by many, could handle just about anything. He’d faced fierce enemies, commanded respect with just a glance, and maintained an air of elegance befitting his royal status.

And then there was you.

You, with your complete and utter lack of self-preservation. You, who seemed to treat life like an ongoing game of “how can I make the Grim Reaper quit?” You, who treated Malleus Draconia like just another guy in your chaotic orbit.

“Tsunotarou!” You barreled toward him one evening, skidding to a halt at the last second, as if barely remembering that you shouldn’t throw yourself headfirst into the chest of a centuries-old fae prince. “You’ll never guess what I did!”

Malleus blinked, tilting his head in curiosity. “What have you done this time, Child of Man?”

You grinned like a cat who’d eaten the canary. “I may or may not have… accidentally started a small fire in the potionology lab.”

Malleus’s eyes widened slightly, though he remained composed. “A fire? Are you unharmed?”

“Oh yeah, I’m totally fine! But Crewel’s coat definitely wasn’t. That thing went up in flames like it was soaked in gasoline.” You waved your hand dismissively, like setting your teacher’s coat on fire was a normal Monday activity.

Malleus stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he let out a soft chuckle. “You are truly fearless, aren’t you?”

“I like to think of it as ‘enthusiastically living life without regrets,’” you replied, crossing your arms proudly. “Besides, if something goes wrong, I have you to bail me out.”

“Do you intend to make a habit of relying on me to prevent your untimely demise?” Malleus asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You shrugged. “I mean, if the shoe fits. You’re like my own personal dragon-shaped safety net.”

Malleus blinked. “I am not a net, Child of Man.”

“No, no,” you waved off his literal interpretation. “You’re like the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card. Like, if I almost die doing something dumb, you’ll just bring me back, right?”

Malleus paused, tilting his head again, as if genuinely pondering your question. “I could… but do you not fear death?”

“Nah. It’s not that big of a deal.” You grinned, clearly thrilled by the look of confusion that passed over his normally composed face. “Besides, it’s boring to worry about things like that.”

Malleus stared at you, his lips parting slightly as if trying to comprehend how you could be so nonchalant about life-threatening situations. He was used to dealing with those who were cautious around him, who feared his power or treated him with excessive reverence. And then there was you—just casually asking him if he could resurrect you after you threw yourself into danger like it was a sport.

“What am I to do with you?” Malleus mused, more to himself than to you.

You perked up. “Take me on a super dangerous adventure?”

Malleus blinked. “I was thinking more along the lines of keeping you out of danger.”

“But that’s boring!” You leaned forward, poking his chest with a mischievous grin. “C’mon, big guy, don’t you ever just wanna go wild? Let loose? Maybe blow up a tower or two for funsies?”

Malleus raised an eyebrow. “Blow up a tower?”

“Yeah! Like a good ol’ fashioned castle demolition!” You threw your hands up in the air like you were some kind of crazed architect.

Malleus let out a soft sigh, but there was an undeniable hint of fondness in his gaze. “I believe we have different definitions of fun.”

“And that’s exactly why you need me,” you said with a grin. “You need some excitement in your life! Can’t just sit around being all broody and regal all the time.”

Malleus looked at you, something unreadable flickering in his emerald eyes. “You are… quite unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

You beamed. “That’s because I’m awesome.”

“That is certainly one word for it,” Malleus said, suppressing a smile.

“And you like that about me,” you teased, leaning even closer with zero respect for the concept of personal space. “Admit it. You enjoy the chaos I bring into your life.”

Malleus chuckled softly, a deep, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “It is… refreshing.”

“Ha! I knew it!” You jabbed a finger at him. “You love my reckless, devil-may-care attitude!”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it love…” Malleus started, but you were already on a roll.

“Face it, Tsunotarou! You’re absolutely smitten with my chaotic energy.”

Malleus watched you with that same fond amusement, his eyes glimmering in the moonlight. “You are certainly… something,” he said, his voice soft, yet filled with warmth.

“And don’t you forget it!” You twirled dramatically, like you’d just won some invisible competition. “Now, let’s go scare some people in the hallways. We’ll use your glowing eyes and spooky fae vibes to freak everyone out.”

Malleus sighed again but stood up, towering over you with a resigned yet playful expression. “If I agree to this madness, will you at least promise not to throw yourself into any more dangerous situations today?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. No promises, but I’ll try.”

“That is the best I can hope for, it seems,” Malleus murmured, shaking his head with an affectionate smile.

As you grabbed his hand and began to drag him toward your latest scheme, Malleus couldn’t help but think that, for all your recklessness and lack of self-preservation, you brought a kind of chaos into his life that he hadn’t realized he was missing.

And strangely enough, he didn’t mind it.

Masterlist

[edenesth]

02. The Gentleman — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang member!Seonghwa x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 21.5k

Summary: The Black Pirates' poised diplomat, celebrated for his refined demeanour, sharp wit, and unmatched negotiation skills, is always in control. But his composure falters when he encounters an unwilling captive trapped in the Red Room—a ruthless training ground for spies. Driven by an unexpected urge to save her, he finds his carefully maintained boundaries beginning to unravel.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, human experimentation, scars, murder, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

"Ooh, look who's in charge of the Red Room alliance now," Wooyoung teased, sauntering into Seonghwa's office with his usual swagger. The eldest, meticulously double-checking the contents of his briefcase for the upcoming critical meeting, barely spared him a glance. "I'm busy," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "Go bother someone else."

Unfazed, the Charmer smirked and plopped into his brother's vacant chair, spinning it around before propping his legs up on the desk. "Oh, come on, hyung. You're about to be surrounded by women—not just any women, mind you—the finest of the fine. Think you could put in a good word for me? Maybe convince Hongjoong hyung to let me tag along? You know we'd make an unbeatable duo." He winked cheekily, his grin as mischievous as ever.

Seonghwa sighed, snapping his briefcase shut and securing the safe after confirming everything was in place. He turned to face the younger man, his expression deadpan. "You? Of all people?" he scoffed. "I'd sooner bring Yunho—if only he were available. A word of advice: focus on your own mission. You can't even handle one bodyguard, let alone navigate an entire organisation of trained spies."

Wooyoung gasped dramatically, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Ouch, hyung! Why so harsh? Last I checked, Cap's the one nursing a broken heart, not you."

At that, the Gentleman's demeanour shifted, his gaze sharp as he stepped forward and smacked the younger man's feet off the desk. Wooyoung stumbled forward with a surprised yelp, glaring up at the elder. "That's quite enough, Woo," Seonghwa said sternly. "I'd advise you not to push your luck with Hongjoong right now. One Mingi is already more than enough."

There it was—the unshakable calm and maturity of the Black Pirates' eldest member. Even the most chaotic among them couldn't rattle him. Recognising defeat, Wooyoung grinned sheepishly, standing to nod at his brother. "Fine, I'll behave since you asked so nicely," he mused, watching Seonghwa nod in approval and stride toward the door. "Safe journey, hyung. Get back in one piece."

The taller man paused, glancing over his shoulder to offer one of his rare, gentle smiles. "I will," he replied confidently. "When have I ever let you down?"

For fuck's sake, who the hell was I kidding?

Now, he wished he could smack himself across the face for his foolish confidence. If only he had known how it would all turn out, how the plan would go sideways so suddenly. He reclined against the stiff guest room bed, the pristine white ceiling offering no answers to the storm brewing in his mind. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to sort through the frustration. The weight of his earlier decisions pressed against his chest like an iron vice.

Just what in the world was he doing? He replayed the day in his head for the thousandth time, dissecting every detail. The mission had started seamlessly—his confidence unshakable. He had left the mansion that morning, projecting the poise expected of the Gentleman, cautioning his brothers to behave in his absence, and promising Hongjoong he'd return triumphant.

His arrival at the spy training facility had gone smoothly, his awe carefully masked by quiet professionalism. The place's grandeur was undeniable—dark, imposing, yet breathtaking in its meticulous design. He marvelled silently at how these women had built something so formidable, so self-sufficient, despite centuries of systemic oppression.

The security was tight, the multiple checks before getting to the building's main entrance were a testament to their efficiency. By the time he was greeted by Madame Scarlet, an elegant woman who appeared to be in her fifties and the enigmatic founder of the Red Room, his admiration had only deepened.

"We hope you had a wonderful journey here. The Red Room welcomes you, Captain Kim of the Black Pirates," the woman had said, her tone formal yet inviting.

Seonghwa had bowed lightly, offering his most disarming smile. "Thank you, Madame. But I must clarify—the Captain was unable to attend due to urgent matters back home. I am his right hand. You may call me Gentleman Park."

The lady's subtle reaction—a raised brow and the slightest tightening of her lips—didn't escape his notice. Still, he handled the rest of the meeting with the same elegance, navigating their discussions with ease. Everything had been on track.

Until it wasn't.

One step—one final step—was all it took to close the deal and forge the alliance. All he had to do was say yes and sign the contract. He cursed under his breath, recalling the words that had left his mouth—words that had deviated from every carefully laid plan.

"I would like to think this over a bit more. While I agree that this would be in both parties' best interests, I would just like to spend some more time here to have a clearer picture of how things work, to better understand our ally, if you will. I hope that's alright with you."

The room had stilled, the practised neutrality of the Red Room's representatives masking their surprise. But one person couldn't hide their reaction—the sole reason for this madness—you.

He saw it, the way your shoulders stiffened, the slight lift of your head as you dared to glance his way. Your wide eyes met his, and for a fleeting moment, the world around him disappeared.

That moment was his undoing.

It was supposed to be simple: finalise the alliance, leave without looking back, and report a flawless success to Hongjoong. But you... you had thrown a wrench into his perfect plan.

The deal could have been closed smoothly, had it not been for one of the trainees who captured his attention almost the moment he stepped through the doors. You stood out like a sore thumb among the neat lines of female operatives in training—your trembling eyes and subtle gulp betraying your struggle to hold back tears. Maybe you were just having a bad day, he reasoned, perhaps a failed performance during a gruelling session. Training couldn't be easy here; the Red Room was notorious for its brutality.

But his curiosity refused to fade. Throughout the visit, his gaze kept drifting to your fragile, trembling figure trailing behind Madame Scarlet and her trusted aide. It wasn't just your withdrawn demeanour or the way you seemed to shrink into yourself—it was the unmistakable fear etched across your features. Pure, unadulterated terror surfaced when a trainer called on you, and in that fleeting moment when your eyes met his, there was desperation—a silent plea for help that cut through his composure like a blade.

You didn't belong here, not even the slightest. Something deep within him stirred, a compulsion he couldn't ignore—a need to act, to intervene, to save you.

His reasons for staying defied logic, and he knew it. By lingering, he jeopardised the alliance, risked his position in the gang, and invited potentially disastrous consequences. Yet the pull was undeniable—an unrelenting drive to uncover the truth about you and why he couldn't let you become just another face in his memory.

Now, in the stillness of the guest room, Seonghwa sat up, elbows resting on his knees, his head cradled in his hands. With you finally out of sight and his mind beginning to clear, the sharp sting of rationality returned. He couldn't help but imagine how the rest of the gang would react once they learned of his recklessness. Everyone had trusted him to seal this alliance, especially Hongjoong. The man was already grappling with enough turmoil—this was the last thing he needed.

And then there was Mingi. If he messed this up, the Firestarter would never let him or the Captain live it down. Not that the tall bastard's teasing mattered in the grand scheme of things, but the stakes here were monumental. This alliance was vital; without it, the White Serpents could easily exploit their instability. So, what the hell was he doing, letting himself get derailed by a girl—a trainee, no less? If only he had minded his own business, he'd already be on his way home, mission accomplished.

But no, here he was...

Yet, deep down, he couldn't shake the memory of your terrified expression. That raw, unfiltered fear—it wasn't something he'd seen in a long time. Not like this. Fear wasn't new to him; in their line of work, it was an almost daily occurrence. But those pleas for mercy typically came from people who deserved their fate, criminals and scumbags who'd wronged others. This, however, was different. Your fear wasn't rooted in guilt but in helplessness.

For a brief moment, Seonghwa wondered if this was what Hongjoong had seen, too. Was this the same spark that had ignited his leader's own impulsive choices?

Shaking his head, he let out a quiet groan. Even if he wanted to help you, how? He had no plan, no resources. He was alone here, without the gang's collective strength. Yunho and Yeosang's clever solutions weren't at his disposal, nor were San and Mingi's brute force. Jongho's unshakable composure, which always kept their missions on track, was sorely missed. Hell, he even found himself longing for Wooyoung's antics, if only to lighten the suffocating tension.

If Hongjoong were here, none of this would have happened. The Captain would have stayed focused, unyielding. But then... what would have become of you?

"Goddamnit," he muttered under his breath, the weight of frustration and uncertainty bearing down on him. He dragged a hand through his hair, his voice dropping into a bitter whisper. "We're fucked."

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The dim light of your cell-like room flickered faintly, casting long shadows against the stark walls. Sleep, elusive as ever, teased the edges of your consciousness but refused to claim you. Your mind was restless, tumbling through a cascade of thoughts, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, they weren't entirely about the nightmare you endured daily.

They were about him.

The man—the Gentleman, as Madame Scarlet had introduced him—was unlike anyone you'd seen before, not just because he was the first male face in years, but because he looked at you as though you were more than just another broken thing in this place. His dark eyes had lingered on you, his gaze following you like a soft, unspoken question. You felt it, even when you tried not to.

You had no idea why he stayed. It was madness, sheer idiocy, for him to risk what should have been a clean, uncomplicated deal. That was how it always worked—outsiders came, signed the agreement, and left as fast as they arrived, never daring to peel back the pristine mask of the Red Room's operations. But he didn't follow the script.

Why?

The question burned in your chest, twisting into an unfamiliar ache. You wished it were annoyance, that you could dismiss him as another arrogant man playing a dangerous game. But it wasn't. It was fear—raw and desperate fear—not for yourself, but for him.

He had no idea what he had walked into. You could tell he wasn't oblivious; his calculating demeanour and sharp wit proved that much. But he was still a fool to stay. What did he hope to accomplish? Surely, it wasn't because of you.

Your heightened senses—the ones the Red Room had painstakingly sharpened until they bled into paranoia—picked up on every stolen glance, every small, deliberate movement. From the moment he entered, you knew he had noticed you, not just as an anomaly but as something... else. You'd been trained to anticipate motives, to understand what people wanted, but his attention baffled you.

It scared you.

The others didn't miss his glances, either. You'd caught the sidelong looks of the senior operatives, the way Madame Scarlet's lips had curved just slightly at the edges, a subtle acknowledgement that she was watching too. It was only a matter of time before they decided he was a liability.

If he stayed, they'd break him.

You clenched your fists tightly against the rough sheets beneath you, trying to quell the overwhelming tide of emotions threatening to drown you. Emotions—weaknesses, as they called them here—were the enemy. You had learned that the hard way. But now, despite everything, your heart betrayed you, pounding with the terrible clarity that he wouldn't last a day if he truly understood what went on here.

You shut your eyes, trying to block out the memory of his face, his voice, the ridiculous bravery in his words as he locked eyes with you and said he needed more time. If he knew—if he lived even a fraction of what you endured—he would've bolted at the first opportunity.

"Fool," you whispered into the stillness, your voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the facility. "What did you get yourself into?"

You hated him for staying, for giving you this fragile, fleeting sense of hope that things could change. You hated him for being so careless with his life. And yet, more than anything, you hated yourself for wishing—just for a moment—that he might be strong enough to do what you couldn't.

Run. Escape. Fight.

Save himself.

Because if he stayed, the Red Room would devour him whole, just as it had done to you.

Perhaps it was already beginning to.

On the other side of the building, the guest room felt colder than it should have. Seonghwa, too, lay sprawled on the rigid mattress, the pristine white walls around him offering no comfort, no reprieve from the maelstrom of thoughts battering his mind. He flipped onto his side, then his back, then his stomach, a frustrated growl escaping his lips as sleep evaded him entirely.

His mind was a battlefield, each thought warring for dominance. Was this all a trap?

It would make sense. The Red Room was too efficient, too methodical, to let someone like you slip through the cracks unnoticed. Maybe your fear, your weakness—it was all calculated. Perhaps they had planted you there, your trembling frame meant to bait him, to test him. Maybe the terror in your eyes wasn't actual terror at all but a meticulously crafted act designed to lure him into a false sense of sympathy.

What if you were a rebel?

His fists clenched tightly against the sheets, jaw set as the possibility burned in his mind. If you were working against the Red Room, you'd have every reason to use him, to exploit the cracks in this precarious alliance. And if you weren't a rebel, then what? Were you a spy? An assassin in training? A failure?

"Dammit," he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. He couldn't shake the image of you—those wide, haunted eyes that seemed to plead with him, even though you hadn't said a single word. He cursed himself for the millionth time that night.

This wasn't like him.

He wasn't the kind of man who acted rashly. Calculated precision was his forte, keeping his emotions locked behind an impenetrable wall. Yet the moment he saw you, it was as though something inside him had cracked, and all the logic he prided himself on was thrown to the wind.

What the hell was he doing?

His brothers were counting on him. Hongjoong, who had trusted him enough to send him in the Captain's stead; Yunho, who would've meticulously planned every contingency if only he'd been given more time; Yeosang, who'd always had a knack for seeing through deceptions; Mingi and San, whose combined strength could've handled this mess in a fraction of the time. Even Jongho, with his unflappable calm, would've been a better choice to stand in this precarious position.

And Wooyoung... God, Wooyoung would never let him live this down.

The Gentleman sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, head cradled in his hands again. He felt the weight of their expectations, of the responsibility he carried, bearing down on him like an iron chain. He had to get this done. He had to sign the deal, leave, and return home with good news.

Not fuck this up over some girl.

You weren't supposed to matter. You were just another face, another casualty of this ruthless place. He had seen plenty like you before—broken people trapped in broken systems. He had told himself he was immune to that kind of thing, that the world was too harsh for him to care.

And yet, when he thought of you, the logic he so carefully cultivated unravelled.

The terror in your eyes wasn't like the fear he was used to seeing—the kind born of guilt or desperation. This was deeper, rawer, something that twisted in his chest in a way he didn't understand.

And he hated it.

He hated that he was here, that he'd let himself get dragged into this, that he'd let himself care.

But no matter how much he hated it, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was already in too deep.

"Tomorrow," he muttered, his voice a low growl in the empty room. "I'll get it done tomorrow."

He repeated the words like a mantra, as if saying them enough times would make them true. He would go through with the deal, close this chapter, and walk away.

But deep down, he knew the truth.

Things weren't really going to go his way.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

Come on, you can do this.

It has been hours since the chamber door hissed shut with a deafening finality, the sound echoing in the narrow space like a harbinger of dread. You sat on the cold metal chair, your wrists clamped to the armrests by invisible shackles of terror. The fluorescent lights buzzed above you, their harsh glare illuminating every crack and scratch on the otherwise featureless walls. No windows. No exit. Just four oppressive walls closing in on you with every passing second.

The robotic voice came through the unseen speakers again, its clinical tone devoid of any humanity.

"How do you feel?"

Regret. Endless regret.

You squeezed your eyes shut, teeth clenched as if that could hold back the flood of emotions threatening to betray you. Your hands trembled in your lap, but you forced them still, your fingernails digging into your palms hard enough to draw blood.

"Nothing," you whispered, the lie cracking in your throat.

The tears you had fought so hard to suppress welled up in your eyes. Regret clawed at your insides like a caged animal, howling against the walls of your mind. It had been there since the day you were dragged into this living nightmare, growing stronger with every dehumanising test, every soul-crushing exercise designed to strip you of your essence. But they couldn't know. They could never know.

"Tell the truth. How do you feel?"

The voice was a hammer against the brittle shell of your composure, striking again and again.

You let out a shaky breath, your chest tightening as if a vice had clamped around your lungs. "Nothing," you repeated, louder this time, willing yourself to believe it even as the walls seemed to close in on you.

The isolation chamber had become your recurring purgatory. You had been here so many times you'd lost count, but the panic never abated. No matter how many hours you spent in its suffocating grip, the claustrophobia seeped into your bones like a cold fog.

The lights dimmed suddenly, plunging you into darkness. You stiffened, knowing what was coming next. A low hum reverberated through the walls, growing louder until it drowned out the sound of your own heartbeat. The vibrations rattled the chair beneath you, a disorienting rhythm meant to shake loose any remnants of control you clung to.

Your mind spiralled back to where it all began.

Regret.

You were just a struggling college student, barely scraping by, when you saw the advertisement. It promised compensation for volunteers to participate in what seemed like harmless clinical trials or government-sponsored programmes. The language was vague, but the money was too tempting to ignore. You signed up, thinking it was your ticket to financial stability.

And then they took you.

Regret.

You learned too late what you had walked into—a secret experiment buried in the heart of this monstrous training facility. Madame Scarlet's calculating gaze haunted you at every turn, her icy demeanour radiating an unsettling confidence. She watched your every move, her success hinging on breaking you, the so-called pioneer of their new programme.

Regret.

You were their first, their proof of concept. The goal: emotion suppression and control. To strip operatives of fear, guilt, and compassion, leaving only a cold, efficient shell. They chose you because of your heightened emotional sensitivity, believing that if they could break someone like you, they could break anyone.

And so they broke you.

The lights flickered back on, brighter this time, the sudden glare piercing your eyes like needles. Your breathing quickened, panic clawing at your throat, but you swallowed it down. You couldn't let them win.

"Repeat your response. How do you feel?"

Your lips quivered, the taste of iron on your tongue from where you had bitten the inside of your cheek. You couldn't let them see.

"Nothing at all," you said, the word hollow and lifeless.

The voice paused, as if deliberating. Then, with clinical detachment: "Well done, Subject 01. See you in your next session."

The door hissed open, and you sagged in the chair, your body trembling with the effort of holding yourself together. You were alive. For now. But the endless regret followed you like a shadow, a constant reminder of what you'd lost and what you could never reclaim.

Fortunately or unfortunately, you weren't the only one drowning in regret. Unbeknownst to you, someone else shared the same sentiment.

The dining room exuded a haunting elegance, its dark, polished wood surfaces and deep red drapes creating an ambience that felt both regal and oppressive. Seonghwa sat stiffly at the long table, his hands clasped on the white tablecloth as he worked to maintain a composed exterior. The weight of his regrets pressed down on him like an anchor, but his resolve was firm.

Today, he would end this. No more distractions. No more detours.

He tightened his tie, adjusted his cuffs, and forced a charming smile onto his face as Madame Scarlet settled into the seat opposite him, her presence both commanding and chilling. Her sharp gaze landed on him, and he inclined his head respectfully.

"Good morning, Gentleman Park. I trust you had a restful night?" she greeted, her voice smooth and calculated.

"Good morning, Madame. I did, thank you," he lied, his tone courteous but distant.

This was it. Today was the day he would close the deal, leave this place behind, and never look back. No more pity for doomed souls. No more foolish meddling. He had learned his lesson the hard way.

He was done—done trying to help people whose fates were already sealed. He should have learned from his past mistakes, should have known better than to get involved. But flashes of a helpless child's face resurfaced in his mind, haunting him. He squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, willing the image away.

That child… the one he'd thought he was saving, only for his interference to lead to a fate worse than the one he'd tried to prevent. The memory was a dagger he couldn't dull. He had sworn back then that he was finished with helping anyone. From the moment he became a sworn member of the Black Pirates, he had vowed to leave his misguided sense of justice behind.

With a deep breath, he straightened his suit, slicked back his hair, and forced his face into an impassive mask.

This is it—no more nonsense.

But then you entered the room, and every shred of determination faltered. Oh, fuck me.

Your entrance was unassuming, yet the impact was seismic. The elegant wisteria ruffle lace ballerina dress you wore flowed around you like a delicate mist, a stark contrast to the utilitarian uniform he had seen you in the day before. You looked almost otherworldly, as though you didn't belong to this cold, merciless world.

His breath caught, and he cursed himself silently. He quickly averted his gaze, chastising himself for the slip. But it was too late—the image of you was already seared into his mind.

You bowed respectfully to the founder, then to him, your movements poised but weighed down by an invisible heaviness he couldn't ignore.

"Ah yes," the lady said, a hint of amusement lacing her words. "Our star trainee has arrived. Gentleman Park, you mentioned wanting to better understand our work and methods. As requested, we have arranged for only our best girl to accompany you."

Seonghwa's polite smile tightened, his jaw clenching slightly at her words. Our best girl.

The way she said it unsettled him, her tone almost lecherous, as though you were a prized possession rather than a person. He caught a fleeting look in your eyes—disgust, fear, or perhaps both—before you quickly masked it with a practised smile.

His stomach churned. Something was deeply wrong here.

You moved to take the seat beside him, your steps graceful but hesitant, as though the act of simply approaching carried an unspoken risk. He noticed the stiffness in your posture, the way your hands folded tightly in your lap as if to stop them from trembling.

The elderly woman continued speaking, her voice droning on, but the gang member could no longer focus. He nodded along automatically, his mind elsewhere.

You were too composed, too controlled. Every subtle movement screamed restraint, like a bird in a gilded cage. And while he knew the Red Room's operatives were trained to suppress emotion, there was something uniquely disconcerting about your demeanour. This wasn't the hardened stoicism of a seasoned spy. This was survival.

Why were you so different from the others? Why were you here?

The questions swirled relentlessly in his mind, chipping away at the resolve he had built that morning. Curiosity gnawed at him, and worse—a protective instinct he didn't want to feel.

He stole a glance at you, catching the way your gaze remained fixed downward, avoiding both him and Madame Scarlet. The tension in your shoulders was palpable, and he swore he could feel the unease radiating from you.

What were they doing to you?

The founder's voice snapped him back to reality.

"Gentleman Park, I trust you will find her guidance enlightening. She is one of our finest examples of what the Red Room can achieve."

He forced another smile, though his mind was spinning. "I look forward to it," he replied smoothly.

Beside him, you shifted slightly, your hands tightening in your lap. He wondered if anyone else noticed the subtle cracks in your otherwise perfect facade.

As the conversation continued, Seonghwa found it harder to concentrate. The more he observed you, the more his suspicions grew. Every interaction, every gesture seemed to hint at something darker lurking beneath the surface.

And despite the thousand regrets that weighed on him, despite his earlier resolve to stay detached, he felt the pull again—that unshakable need to understand. To help.

But helping had only ever led to ruin.

Under the table, his fists clenched in frustration. No more distractions, he told himself, repeating the mantra like a prayer.

Yet as you sat quietly beside him, your presence a silent cry for help, he couldn't help but feel that fate had other plans.

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The dining room was suffocating. Every clink of cutlery, every flicker of the ornate chandelier above, felt like a weight pressing down on you. You sat rigid in your chair, the elegant wisteria dress clinging to you uncomfortably—a constant reminder of how little say you had in your own existence here.

The meal in front of you might as well have been poison for all the effort it took to take a bite. Every mouthful felt like swallowing stones, your throat tightening against the gnawing anxiety twisting in your gut. You tried to focus on anything but the endless discomfort—tried to ignore the way your skin crawled at the thought of what Madame Scarlet had planned for you.

Your mind drifted back to earlier, to the icy shower they'd thrown you into after pulling you from the isolation chamber. You'd been scrubbed raw, the roughness of their hands leaving you feeling violated, though that was nothing new. That had been your reality since the day you were dragged into this hell. But today was different. Today, they'd put you in this dress.

You knew what it meant.

The dress marked you as "special," a chosen one to entertain the esteemed guest. But this dress… this wasn't like the others. The fine fabric and intricate lace were almost too much, too extravagant. And that terrified you. This wasn't going to be simple. Whatever they had planned for you—and perhaps for him—wasn't ordinary.

You risked a glance at the man seated beside you. Gentleman Park of the Black Pirates. He didn't belong here, not like the others you'd encountered before. He was the only one foolish enough to willingly extend his stay in this nightmare.

Why?

Before you could dwell on the question, the elderly woman's smooth voice broke through your thoughts. She was halfway through one of her rehearsed speeches—the kind meant to dazzle and manipulate—when her right-hand woman entered the room, leaning down to whisper something in her ear.

Her sharp eyes flickered, and she nodded, her painted lips curving into a smile. "Goodness, I'm so sorry to have to excuse myself, but there is an important phone call that I must take," she said, her tone dripping with saccharine politeness.

The man beside you inclined his head slightly. "Of course," he replied, his voice courteous but distant.

Madame Scarlet turned to you then, and you immediately straightened in your seat, your spine going rigid under her gaze.

"I shall leave you in the good hands of our chosen one," she announced, her smile growing sharper. The weight of her words made your stomach churn, and your blood turned cold as she continued, "I trust you to take care of our guest, darling. Show him around a bit, dance for him, won't you? Do what you do best."

Her wink sent a shiver down your spine.

"The success of this deal depends on you, I'm afraid," she added with a lilting laugh that felt like nails against your skin.

You swallowed hard, lowering your gaze as you bowed your head. "Yes, ma'am," you said softly, your voice steady despite the panic clawing at your insides.

The Gentleman beside you cleared his throat, the sound breaking the heavy silence. "Don't worry about it, Madame," he said, offering a polite smile. "I'm sure this young miss will do excellently."

You caught the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw as he spoke, his discomfort almost palpable. But that didn't stop the lady from seizing the opportunity to twist his words.

"Oh, I'm sure she will," she said, her grin turning suggestive, her tone dripping with implication.

The room seemed to freeze.

You felt your cheeks flush with humiliation, though you forced your expression to remain neutral. This was nothing new; you were used to being reduced to a pawn in their games, to being paraded and objectified.

But the gang member's reaction caught you off guard. His polite smile faltered ever so slightly, and you saw the flicker of realisation in his eyes—realisation of how his words had been twisted. He cringed, his discomfort evident as he averted his gaze, a faint flush colouring his cheeks.

"I didn't mean it like that," he murmured, almost to himself.

But the damage was done. Madame Scarlet's laughter echoed through the room as she swept out, leaving you alone with him.

The silence that followed was suffocating. You kept your gaze fixed downward, your hands folded tightly in your lap as you tried to make yourself invisible.

For his part, Seonghwa stared at the table, his mind racing. He hadn't meant it that way, hadn't meant to disrespect you or contribute to whatever hell you were enduring here. But the way the elderly woman had twisted his words, the way she'd left you here as if you were some sort of offering… it churned his stomach.

The tension in the room was suffocating, thick enough to choke on. You tried to steady your trembling hands by folding them in your lap, resisting the urge to fidget.

He cleared his throat again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He could still feel the weight of the founder's suggestive tone lingering in the air, her insinuations poisoning the atmosphere even after she was gone.

You didn't dare to look at him, your eyes fixed on the untouched plate of food in front of you. The silence stretched between you, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the distant clinking of cutlery from the other rooms.

He studied you from the corner of his eye, his brows furrowing slightly. There was something deeply wrong about all of this. He couldn't place it exactly, but your subdued, tense demeanour set off alarm bells in his head.

"Look, I... I really didn't mean it like that," he said suddenly, his voice low but firm.

You blinked, startled by his words. Slowly, you turned your head to glance at him, wary and confused.

"I mean what I said earlier," he clarified, his expression earnest now. "About you doing excellent. I just meant… I trust you're good at what you do. Whatever that may be."

Your lips twitched in the faintest semblance of a bitter smile, but it didn't reach your eyes. Good at what I do? You wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. What were you even supposed to be good at here? Surviving? Being obedient? Being… entertaining?

"Thank you," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. It was the safest response you could muster, even though the words felt hollow.

Seonghwa's jaw tightened. Your tone only deepened the unease coiling in his chest. He leaned back slightly, forcing a casual posture, though his mind was anything but at ease. "They really put a lot of pressure on you, don't they?"

Your fingers tightened in your lap, but you didn't answer. It wasn't safe to.

"I'm sorry," he added after a pause, his voice softer this time. "If I made you uncomfortable earlier."

His apology caught you off guard. You glanced at him again, searching his face for any sign of insincerity. But his eyes—dark and guarded—seemed genuine.

"It's fine," you murmured, though the words tasted bitter on your tongue.

It wasn't fine. Nothing about this was fine.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. The man struggled to focus on the reason he was here, on the deal he needed to secure, but your presence was proving to be a distraction—a quiet, aching reminder of things he'd tried so hard to bury.

He hadn't come here to get involved. He hadn't come here to care.

But the way you sat there, so small and subdued, made it impossible not to wonder. Impossible not to remember.

His thoughts drifted unwillingly to a certain little boy from his past—the one he had failed so utterly, so completely. The one whose blood was on his hands, no matter how many times he told himself he'd been trying to do the right thing.

And here you were now, another fragile soul caught in a similar cruel web.

He clenched his fists under the table, willing himself to stay focused. He couldn't let himself care. Not again.

But then you spoke, your voice trembling just enough to make his heart lurch.

"What deal is she making with you?" you asked cautiously, barely looking at him. "If you don't mind me asking."

The question threw him. For a moment, he didn't know how to answer. Madame Scarlet's words echoed in his mind: The success of this deal depends on you.

He hesitated, studying your expression. Your guarded eyes, the slight furrow of your brows, the way your hands trembled ever so slightly in your lap—it all spoke of someone desperate for answers, for any shred of control in a situation that offered none.

"I'm here for… business," he said vaguely, trying to sound nonchalant.

You didn't press him further, but your expression betrayed your thoughts. Business. Of course. That's all anyone came here for. Deals made in shadows, forged with blood and broken spirits.

He didn't miss the way your gaze dropped back to your lap, your shoulders sagging slightly as though his answer had only confirmed what you already knew.

Something twisted in his chest—a pang of guilt, perhaps, or regret. He wasn't sure anymore.

"Listen…" he began, his voice low and hesitant. "Whatever this is… whatever they're making you do…"

You looked at him sharply, your eyes wide with alarm. "Don't," you whispered urgently, cutting him off.

Seonghwa froze, startled by the intensity of your reaction.

"Please... don't say anything," you said, your voice trembling but firm. "It'll only make things worse."

The fear in your voice was palpable, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

He nodded slowly, though the knot in his stomach only tightened. He didn't know what they'd done to you—what they were still doing—but he knew enough to see the cracks in your facade, the quiet desperation you tried so hard to hide.

And despite every warning screaming at him to stay out of it, he felt the pull again. That damnable instinct to help. To fix. To save.

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"Dance for him, won't you?"

The phrase echoed in your head, relentless as you changed out of the heels they'd given you and slipped on your worn pointe shoes. Your fingers trembled as you tied the ribbons securely, each movement automatic from years of practice. Ballet—your biggest nightmare—had been drilled into you until it became second nature. It was one of the Red Room's many requirements, justified with cold rationale: flexibility, endurance, stealth, elegance, performance. They were all virtues of an operative, but here, ballet wasn't just about utility. It was a tool of awe and seduction, a weapon veiled in grace.

Perhaps, on some cruel level, this was what you did best—or what you were left with no choice but to excel at.

You stepped into the mirrored practice room, the walls reflecting infinite versions of yourself. The grand mirrors felt more like prison bars than windows of elegance.

And there he was. Seonghwa sat stiffly in the centre of the room, the single chair isolating him like a king on a throne. Except he didn't look like a king. He looked like a man caught in the wrong place, his discomfort etched into every line of his tense body. His hands gripped his knees as though anchoring himself, and when you entered, his gaze darted to you and quickly away again, like he couldn't bear to watch but couldn't bring himself to look away.

You curtsied, the movement sharp and deliberate, your head dipping just enough to complete the mockery of submission. "Enjoy the show, Gentleman Park," you said, your voice carrying an edge of bitter politeness.

His jaw tensed as he sat up straighter, trying to project composure. "Please, you don't have to do this," he said, his voice tight, a plea slipping through the cracks.

A smile ghosted across your lips, brittle and humourless. If only that were true. Madame Scarlet's orders weren't optional. If you refused, she would know. She always knew. And the consequences of disobedience… No, there was no room for refusal.

"Nonsense," you said, shaking your head as though dismissing his concern. "You are our esteemed guest, and I have been bestowed with the duty of entertaining you. So, please—allow me to do what I do best." The words were delivered with a practised calmness, but the insincerity in them hung heavy in the air.

Seonghwa slumped back into his chair, defeated. He didn't believe you, and you didn't expect him to. His hands fidgeted on his lap, his fingers clenching and unclenching as he watched you take your place. The way you carried yourself—head high, movements precise—might have fooled anyone else into thinking you were eager, even proud. But he wasn't fooled. He could see the misery you carried like a weight on your shoulders, even as you rose to your full height, poised and elegant.

And then you began.

The first step was light, a delicate glide that barely disturbed the air. Each movement flowed seamlessly into the next, your arms creating arcs of motion while your legs executed every step with breathtaking precision. The choreography was mesmerising, a performance of impossible beauty.

But to him, it was unbearable.

You were stunning—he couldn't deny that—but beneath the grace and poise, he saw the truth. Every pirouette, every leap, every extension of your arm carried the bitterness of a caged bird forced to sing. This wasn't a gift. It was a sentence.

He clenched his fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms. This was his fault. If he hadn't asked to stay, hadn't let Madame Scarlet pull him into this world, you wouldn't be here, dancing for him like a puppet on strings. He should have known better. He always did this—lingered too long, cared too much, and inevitably made things worse.

When will I learn?

His gaze dropped to the floor as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of you, but it was futile. Flashes of the past flooded his mind. The boy's face haunted him—a child he'd thought he was saving. His naivety had cost that boy everything.

He could still feel the small hand clinging to his, the hope in the boy's eyes as Seonghwa had whispered promises of escape. He had meant well, but his actions had backfired spectacularly. The traffickers had found them, dragged the boy back, and exacted a punishment so horrific that he could barely think of it without feeling sick.

He had thought himself a hero, but he had been a fool. Good intentions didn't save anyone—they only destroyed.

Now, as he sat there, forced to watch your anguish play out in the guise of artistry, that guilt returned with a vengeance. He wanted to save you, to rise from his chair and demand that you stop. But what good would it do? He knew better. Intervening would only bring more pain, more suffering, and this time, it would be yours.

"No more," he whispered to himself, his voice trembling. "No more of this madness."

As you spun into another turn, the sight of his head bowed, his attention elsewhere, sent a jolt of despair through you. I've already lost him, you thought, the words clawing at your confidence. A failure, even at this. So much for excellence. The self-criticism came sharp and unrelenting, and in your distraction, you misstepped. Your foot slipped out from under you, and you tumbled forward, a small, startled yelp escaping your lips.

The sound shattered his trance. His head snapped up, eyes wide with alarm. In an instant, he was on his feet and kneeling before you. The swiftness of his reaction caught you off guard, but it was the touch that followed that left you paralysed. His gloved hands found your bare shoulders, steadying you with gentleness so foreign, so alien to you, it almost broke you.

Concern radiated from him—real and unguarded. It was something you hadn't felt in so long that it almost hurt more than the fall. Your chest tightened, the ache unbearable. Why was he doing this? Why was he making it harder to keep the walls up?

But you couldn't afford to dwell on the warmth of his touch, nor the kindness in his gaze. The room felt smaller, suffocating now, as the weight of your mistake bore down on you. You had tripped, faltered—something they would undoubtedly notice. And in the Red Room, mistakes weren't just mistakes. They were crimes. Punishable ones.

Shit.

The realisation hit you like a punch to the gut, and it took every ounce of control not to let the panic show. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, but as you did, your gaze flickered past him—toward the cold, unblinking lens of the camera perched high on the wall. You knew it was watching. They were always watching.

He followed your line of sight, turning his head slightly. By the time his eyes returned to yours, you had schooled your expression into something harder, even as your heart hammered in your chest. The trembling breath you took gave you away, though, as you leaned closer and whispered, your voice barely audible, "Never let your guard down. Not here. No matter how untouchable you think you are, no one is immune to the hands of the Red Room. Not even you, Mr. Park."

His brows furrowed in confusion, but before he could respond, you tilted your head ever so slightly, drawing his attention to the camera again. That was when it hit him. The room wasn't just a stage—it was a cage. For you. For him. For both of you.

When his gaze returned to you, your words came softer but with an edge sharp enough to cut. "If you know what's good for you, you'll finish whatever business brought you here and leave. Today." Your voice wavered, but your warning was resolute. "Do yourself a favour. Go. Run while you still can. And forget."

The words cut through him, a dagger sinking deep into his chest. He stared at you, his throat tightening, the air around him thick and suffocating. He hated this—hated the helplessness, the way your truth wrapped around him like chains. The echoes of his past whispered cruelly in his mind: You can't save anyone, not without destroying them first.

After a long, agonising silence, he released you, his hands falling away slowly, reluctantly. The absence of his touch left you colder than you wanted to admit, but you forced yourself to push that feeling down, deep where it couldn't hurt you. This was for the best. It had to be.

He nodded, the motion stiff, his jaw tight. "You're right," he said finally, his voice strained, every word sounding like a defeat. "I'll go."

You offered him a sad, weary smile, one that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Good."

The weight of your final word lingered in the air between you. As if on cue, a firm knock on the door had you both stiffening, like deer caught in headlights. The door creaked open, revealing the founder's right-hand woman. "Gentleman Park, the Madame is ready to see you again," she announced, throwing you a sideways glance that sent chills down your spine.

It did the same to him. Rising to his feet, Seonghwa hesitated, casting one last glance in your direction. His eyes spoke volumes, but you knew there was nothing he could do. And then, with a quiet exhale, he turned and walked away. The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Your knees buckled, and you sank to the floor, the ache in your chest blossoming into something unbearable. You pressed a hand to your heart, willing the trembling to stop. But it didn't. It never did.

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The founder's voice was a symphony of mockery, laced with faux regret. "Oh dearie, I heard our star trainee did not perform too well. We deeply apologise for that, Gentleman Park," she said, her smile sharp and deliberate as she gestured to her aide. The woman stepped forward with a sleek black folder, placing it delicately on the polished mahogany table between them. "Rest assured, we will train her better. We do not tolerate such mistakes in the Red Room. Please know that through this alliance, we will only provide our best spies where needed. After all, one bad apple does not define an entire tree, now does it?"

Seonghwa's stomach churned at her words, the subtle cruelty wrapped in politeness. He straightened in his seat, his jaw tightening. "Not at all," he said quickly, shaking his head. "There's no need to apologise for that. She did—" he hesitated, swallowing down the knot in his throat, "—amazingly."

Madame Scarlet tilted her head, her smirk widening as if she found his words amusing. "That was hardly amazing," she countered, her voice silk laced with venom. "There's no need to be lenient on her behalf. She lost your attention early on and completely butchered her routine. A failure through and through." Her eyes glinted as she slid the folder closer to him, a pen perched on top. "But we appreciate your understanding. If all is well, the Red Room is happy to finally solidify this treaty with the Black Pirates."

His hand hovered over the pen, his fingers trembling as he picked it up. He tried to steady his grip, but the weight of her words bore down on him like a crushing tide. Look at what you've done, his mind hissed. Your hesitation, your distraction—it's your fault she'll suffer for this. She'll pay for your mistakes.

The pen hovered over the pristine paper, but his vision blurred as a storm of conflicting thoughts raged inside him. You need to leave, he reminded himself. That's the mercy you can give her. Don't make it any worse by staying.

The faces of his brothers flashed in his mind—waiting for him, relying on him. He couldn't jeopardise their safety over this. Caged birds like you existed everywhere, caught in a world of power and cruelty he couldn't fix. He had to let it go. This isn't your battle.

His resolve hardened as he straightened his back, forcing all thoughts of you from his mind. He tightened his grip on the pen, its barrel pressing against his fingers with an almost painful intensity. It would all be fine, he told himself. As long as he got out of here, far away from whatever nightmares took place in the Red Room, it wouldn't be his problem. None of it ever was. He exhaled shakily, lowering the pen to sign.

Then, a sudden, sharp thud jolted him from his thoughts.

He froze, turning toward the source of the sound. Through the decorative latticework of the lounge's window, he caught a glimpse of movement in the corridor beyond. His breath hitched as his eyes landed on you—stumbling, tears streaking your face, a trainer gripping the back of your neck like you were some unruly beast.

The trainer yanked you forward, her other hand poised in warning, but it wasn't the rough handling that made his chest tighten—it was the bruise blooming dark and vicious on the side of your face. Even from a distance, his sharp gaze caught the slight trembling of your legs, the way your breath hitched as you struggled not to cry out.

This is what "train her better" looks like, he realised, the Madame's earlier words reverberating cruelly in his head.

His heart clenched, a searing ache spreading through his chest as the sight of you being dragged away ignited something primal within him. The pen in his hand creaked under the force of his grip, nearly snapping in two. He closed his eyes briefly, drawing in a shaky breath to steady himself.

But he couldn't.

The image of you—broken, trembling, afraid—was etched into his mind, refusing to let go. Every instinct screamed at him to do something, to stop pretending he could walk away unscathed. The storm inside him threatened to break through, but he forced himself to bury it, replacing the turmoil with the practised mask of a Gentleman.

He set the pen down deliberately, the click of it against the table sharp in the heavy silence. "No," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible.

Straightening in his seat, he lifted his head, a disarming smile curving his lips despite the turmoil beneath. "I agree, Madame," he said smoothly, his tone light and persuasive. "It would be our greatest honour to solidify this union. But where's the rush?"

The lady raised a sharp eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Do you reckon it would be alright for me to stay another day or two?" he continued, the words flowing effortlessly despite the storm within. "I believe it would be to our benefit to get to know one another better before taking such a significant step."

Her eyes flickered with intrigue at his sudden shift in tone. Her sharp smile widened, but it was the calculating glint in her eyes that unsettled him. "Hm, a Gentleman who values thoroughness. How admirable," she purred, leaning back in her chair as though savouring the upper hand she thought she held. "I see no harm in prolonging our discussions. After all, alliances built on patience tend to be the strongest, wouldn't you agree?"

Seonghwa nodded, though his throat felt dry, each word a bitter pill. "Absolutely."

Inside, his heart was a cacophony of regret and determination. The image of you, bruised and terrified, was burned into his mind. The sight of you being hauled away like some disposable object clawed at his resolve, unravelling all the arguments he'd carefully constructed to justify his departure. You can't save her, you fool, a voice whispered in his head, cold and unforgiving. You'll only make it worse. For her. For yourself. For everyone.

But another voice—quieter, trembling yet insistent—refused to be silenced. What if you can?

The Madame's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. "Well then, Gentleman Park, consider yourself our guest of honour for another day... or two, if you'd like." She gestured to her aide, who deftly whisked away the unsigned contract. "We'll arrange better accommodations for you. Do let us know if there's anything you require during your stay."

His lips curved into a polite smile, though his stomach churned with unease. "Your hospitality is most appreciated."

The elderly woman inclined her head graciously, but there was no mistaking the glimmer of suspicion in her eyes. "It's always a pleasure to work with someone who values... thoroughness," she repeated, her words deliberate. She waved a hand dismissively. "You're free to explore as you please, though some areas remain restricted for your safety, of course."

Seonghwa bowed his head in acknowledgement and rose to his feet, his body moving automatically, though his mind was elsewhere. The moment he stepped out of the room, the air felt heavier. He couldn't shake the image of your trembling figure, the bruise on your face, the sheer hopelessness in your eyes.

He paused in the corridor, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. Get it together, he told himself. One wrong move and you'll only get her killed.

But what was the alternative? Walking away while you endured unspeakable horrors? Letting his silence serve as complicity in your suffering? He felt as though he were drowning, the weight of his choices crushing him from all sides.

The sound of muffled cries pulled him from his thoughts. His head turned sharply in the direction they came from, his steps unsteady but driven by an undeniable force. He trailed the sound through the maze-like corridors, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind screamed at him to stop, to turn back before he did something reckless. But he couldn't. Not when the echoes of your pain were right there, slicing through the walls like jagged glass.

He rounded a corner and froze. Through a half-open door, he could see you kneeling on the floor, a trainer standing over you, barking orders. Her boot slammed into your ribs, and you crumpled further, a choked gasp escaping your lips. The sight hit him like a physical blow, and he felt the air leave his lungs.

He should leave. He should turn around, walk away, and pretend he'd seen nothing. That's what he'd been taught—to compartmentalise, to prioritise the bigger picture over fleeting emotions. But as he watched you struggle to breathe, watched you choke back sobs and force yourself to stand under the trainer's cruel gaze, something inside him snapped.

This wasn't about logic. It wasn't about alliances or gang politics. It wasn't even about you, not entirely. It was about what this place represented. The Red Room was a cesspool of power wielded without mercy, a machine that broke people and discarded the pieces. And you—you were a living reminder of everything he despised about this world, everything he'd tried to escape.

He turned on his heel, his jaw set, his movements deliberate. There was no time for hesitation. No time for second-guessing. If he was going to do this, he had to do it now, before his courage faltered. He made his way back to the lounge, his stride steady but his heart pounding.

Madame Scarlet raised an eyebrow as he re-entered the room. "Back so soon? I trust everything is—"

Fuck it.

"I have a request," Seonghwa interrupted, his voice calm but firm. He saw her brows lift in surprise, but he didn't give her a chance to speak. "I'd like to oversee her training."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Her expression shifted, her eyes narrowing with interest. "Her training?" she repeated, her tone laced with curiosity. "And why, pray tell, would a Gentleman of your standing wish to concern himself with such matters?"

He met her gaze, unwavering. "If this alliance is to succeed, I want to ensure that every asset provided is of the highest quality. She shows potential, but she needs refinement. Let me handle it." His lips curved into a disarming smile, one that masked the storm raging beneath the surface. "Consider it my contribution to strengthening this partnership."

The founder studied him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she leaned back in her chair, her smile returning. "Very well," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "Let's see what Gentleman Park can do."

He inclined his head, hiding the relief that flooded through him. He had no plan, no clear idea of how to fix this. But for now, he'd bought you time. And he'd be damned if he let that time go to waste.

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"He's extending his stay... indefinitely?!" Wooyoung burst out, pushing his chair back with enough force to send it skidding against the floor. His voice, sharp with disbelief, rang through the meeting room. "What in the world is going on there?!"

Hongjoong sighed deeply, pressing his fingers against his temples as if willing away the tension. "That's what the messenger said. I don't—"

Mingi cut him off with a scoff, leaning back in his seat with arms crossed, his expression a storm of frustration and doubt. "First, it was a day. Then another. Now, who knows if Seonghwa hyung's ever coming back? What kind of lion's den did you send him into, huh?" He tilted his head, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So much for being the 'best leader.'"

Jongho shot him a warning look and reached out as if to calm him, but the taller man pulled away, his resentment tangible.

The Captain's gaze turned icy, his composure hanging by a thread. "What exactly are you trying to insinuate, hm?" His tone was sharp, the growl in his voice betraying the pressure he was under. His mind was already a whirlwind of guilt and worry. First, his love was sent away, and now his closest brother was stranded in that infamous and dangerous training facility. What was keeping him there? Had the Red Room made unreasonable demands? Was the alliance at risk? Why hadn't he gone himself instead of sending Seonghwa? He should've been the one bearing the risk.

The Firestarter laughed bitterly, rising to his feet, his frustration reaching a boiling point. "What I'm saying is that you think everything's fine just because you were noble enough to send her away? Don't act like we haven't noticed you're still wasting our resources to keep tabs on her, to protect her from afar!" His voice was biting, the weight of his accusation filling the room.

Hongjoong stood as well, the anger in his chest clawing its way to the surface. "Watch your damn mouth, Song Mingi," he snapped, his voice low but dangerous.

Before either could escalate further, San slammed his fist on the table, the resounding thud silencing the brewing argument. "Will you two just stop already?!" His tone was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Is fighting about the same damn thing over and over going to bring Seonghwa hyung back? Will it help us figure out what's happening to him?"

His words hung in the air, and for a moment, no one spoke. The Tempest sighed, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He hated this—hated how divided they'd become, the bond they once shared splintering under the weight of their choices. They used to be united, inseparable. Now, everything felt fractured, and the cracks were only growing. Didn't they see how short life was? How fragile their bond could become?

"Listen to me," San continued, his voice quieter now but steady with resolve. "I say we go after him."

The leader's jaw tightened. His instincts screamed at him to agree, but Yunho shook his head, breaking the silence. "Absolutely not," he said firmly. "We can't make a hasty move like that. What if it backfires? What if we put him in even more danger?"

Yeosang nodded, his voice calm but resolute. "Exactly. Have you all forgotten the code for danger? If Seonghwa hyung were truly in trouble, he would've used it. Whatever's happening, it doesn't seem like he's in immediate danger."

"Not yet, at least," the Anchor murmured, drawing everyone's attention. His voice was quiet, but the weight of his words settled heavily over the group. He opened his notebook, flipping through its pages until he found what he was looking for. "If we're serious about helping, we need to focus on crisis management. Let's map out every possible outcome and prepare contingency plans for all of them. We need to be ready for anything."

The room fell into a heavy silence as Jongho's words sank in.

Hongjoong exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He hated the idea of waiting, of being passive, but he knew the youngest was right. Losing his temper, indulging in Mingi's provocations—none of it would help their brother.

"That's the best course of action for now," he admitted, his tone quieter but steady. "Thank you, Jongho."

The team nodded in reluctant agreement, though unease lingered in the room. As they began strategising, one truth resonated in each of their hearts—no alliance was more important than Seonghwa. He was family, and they weren't about to let him go without a fight—even if it meant jeopardising the entire deal.

Forgive me, my brothers.

While the Gentleman shared their sentiment, something else weighed heavy in his mind as he strode through the shadowed halls of the Red Room, every step measured, deliberate. His brothers—his family—would never understand this choice, this betrayal of their trust. But they weren't here. They hadn't seen what he'd seen, hadn't felt the cold weight of torment that clawed at his insides. For now, he had to shut them out. He had to focus.

Stopping just outside the door where he had last seen you, the memory of your broken form flashed like a burn mark across his mind. He straightened his shoulders, setting his expression into a mask of indifference—a carefully crafted lie. The trainer inside sensed him immediately, turning to meet his gaze. Her eyes, calculating and hard, met his as though he were an accomplice rather than an outsider. Seonghwa offered a curt nod, polite but distant, and received the same in return.

His gaze flickered to you, and time seemed to stretch thin for a moment.

There you were—collapsed on the cold floor like a discarded doll. Your body was unnaturally still, save for the faint tremble in your fingertips and the shudder of your uneven breaths. Whatever they'd done to you had left you completely drained, your small frame appearing even more fragile than before.

The trainer crouched beside you, the scrape of her boots against the floor grating against his ears like nails on stone. The gang member remained rooted to the doorway, his body rigid, his expression unreadable as she reached out to you, fingers threading mockingly through your tangled hair.

"Look at you," she sneered, tucking a strand behind your ear with a gentleness so condescending it twisted something sharp in his gut. Her hand shifted, suddenly locking around your jaw with enough force to make you flinch and whimper. "This should teach you. The Madame has high hopes for you, little one. Stop disappointing her like this, will you?"

Your red-rimmed eyes rose weakly, glazed and unfocused, but you managed the smallest nod, your breath stuttering painfully in your chest.

It wasn't enough.

Her grip tightened cruelly, claws pressing into the soft skin of your cheeks until you whimpered again, the sound soft but devastating. "Answer me," she demanded, her tone low and icy.

"Y-yes, ma'am," you choked out, the words barely more than a whisper.

Satisfied, she released you, and you slumped forward like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Seonghwa's fists curled tight at his sides, his knuckles white from the pressure. Every muscle in his body screamed to move, to tear her away from you, but he forced himself to remain still. The mask didn't crack—not yet. When the trainer finally turned her gaze to him, he managed to shift, allowing a smug, composed smile to play on his lips as though none of it mattered to him.

"You've worked hard, comrade," he said smoothly, his voice calm and polite. "Let me handle the rest."

The trainer smirked, standing to dust off her hands as though your pain had tainted her. "How kind of you, Gentleman Park," she cooed, her mockery like acid on his ears. "Very well, then."

With one last unsettling grin, she turned on her heel and marched off, her boots echoing ominously down the hall until she disappeared.

The silence she left behind was suffocating.

He remained still, standing by the door, though his chest burned with the need to move—to act. He was cautious, his sharp mind reminding him of the cameras lurking in unseen corners. He couldn't afford to rush to your side, not yet. Any show of care, any crack in his facade, would confirm their suspicions. They had eyes everywhere.

He forced himself to stay rooted in place, his gaze lingering on you as you stirred faintly. Slowly, painstakingly, you began to force yourself upright. Seonghwa's heart twisted at the sight of your trembling hands and the way your body shook with every small movement. It was as though each muscle screamed in protest, but still, you pushed forward. The sheer determination etched into you was unlike anything he'd seen. You weren't just enduring—you were surviving.

Blinded by pain, you didn't notice him.

Your silent tears fell unchecked, and you hugged your bruised arms to yourself as you limped toward the exit, your steps slow and agonising. Every inch you covered showed your strength, but it also burned an ache deep in his chest. You shouldn't have to fight this hard just to move.

Finally, you reached him. Your head was still lowered, so at first, you only saw his shoes. You froze, your breath hitching sharply. Slowly, your wide, tear-streaked eyes lifted, and when you registered him standing there, shock overtook your features.

Your legs wavered, weakened beyond their limit, and you began to fall forward.

That was it. Seonghwa moved without thought, his body acting on pure instinct as he lunged to catch you before you hit the ground. His arms came around you securely, holding you steady. You gasped softly, fresh tears clouding your eyes as you struggled weakly to push yourself away from him.

"Stop it," he murmured, his voice low but steady, as he bent to scoop you into his arms. "You're hurt enough as it is."

The fight left you at his words, and you slumped against him, the side of your forehead pressing tiredly against his cheek.

"You goddamned idiot," you whispered brokenly, your voice trembling as quiet sobs escaped you. "I told you to go. You're going to get yourself killed…"

Your words hit him like stones, each one carrying the weight of your desperation and anger. You hated him for this—for being so stubborn, so damn stupid. And yet, there he was, carrying you like you weren't a burden at all.

You hated him for giving you hope. Hope that maybe the world wasn't entirely cruel. Hope that not all humans are monsters. Hope that maybe, someday, you'll get to escape this hell.

He didn't speak, but his hold on you tightened just a fraction as he carried you toward your room—the place they'd told him was yours at least. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the Red Room, not the cameras, not the precarious alliance.

All that mattered was you.

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Seonghwa tightened his hold on you as he carried you through the cold, labyrinthine corridors of the facility, the weight of your frail body pressing against his chest. Every step he took was deliberate, his movements careful to avoid jolting you any further. He didn't speak, the silence filled only by your shallow, uneven breaths and the faint sound of his boots against the hard floor.

Somewhere along the way, he felt you soften in his arms. The tension in your body—a tension he imagined had been present since you first stepped foot in this hellish place—began to ease. Your head nestled into the crook of his neck, and your arms, though weak, clung lightly to him as if afraid he might disappear.

Then, your breathing evened out, soft and rhythmic, and he realised with a pang in his chest that you had drifted into sleep. He couldn't explain the mix of emotions that overcame him. Relief? Guilt? Fury? That here, in this wretched place, in the aftermath of torment, his presence could bring you enough comfort to let down your guard. It shouldn't be like this. You shouldn't have had to fight so hard just to feel the smallest sliver of peace.

You, meanwhile, were lost in the strange sanctuary of his embrace. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the gnawing sense of danger and fear slipped away. You couldn't understand why—what it was about him that allowed you to let go—but it was undeniable. The warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat, the steady strength of his arms around you—it was unlike anything you had felt since the days when life was simpler, kinder.

Your mind wandered back to those days. College. Classes. Part-time jobs. A life that was chaotic in its own right but filled with a kind of normalcy you now yearned for. You missed that life, the one where being tired meant something as mundane as staying up late to study or pulling extra shifts. Not this. Not exhaustion born from fear, pain, and endless suffering. You wished, futilely, that all of this was some terrible nightmare you could wake from.

But it wasn't.

As if your subconscious sensed the reality of your surroundings, your eyes shot open, your body jerking in reflex. A cry of pain escaped your lips as fire shot through your nerves, the abrupt movement too much for your battered body.

"Whoa, hey, it's okay," came a deep, familiar voice, steady and calming. Gentle hands pressed against your shoulders, guiding you to lie back down. "Don't push yourself."

Your gaze darted toward him, and the memories came rushing back. Park. The Red Room. The training. The punishment. It all settled over you like a heavy fog, suffocating and undeniable.

Blinking against the dimness, you squinted at your surroundings. The room was unfamiliar. Plain walls, a bed—a proper bed—and a small desk. Your breath hitched in disbelief.

"Wh-where the hell am I?" you croaked, your throat raw.

Seonghwa frowned, his expression confused but soft. "It's your room, is it not?" he replied, his tone gentle, almost questioning.

You let out a humourless laugh, shaking your head weakly. "My room?" you repeated, incredulity lacing your words. "People like me don't get rooms."

Your voice was a whisper now, bitter and hollow. "They lied to you."

The implication of your words made his chest tighten painfully. His mind raced with the possibilities, each one worse than the last. Where have you been sleeping? On the floor of some cold cell? In a corner, chained, left to fend off the darkness alone?

He didn't ask. He couldn't. Not yet.

Instead, he looked at you, his jaw tightening as he swallowed back the anger boiling within him. You didn't need his rage right now—you needed his steadiness.

"I'll make sure they don't lie to me again," he said quietly, a promise woven into his words. He reached for the blanket at the edge of the bed and gently draped it over you. "For now, just rest. You're safe."

Safe? Here...?

You sighed, shaking your head. "I don't think that's something within your control, Mr. Park. Clearly, they're deceiving you for a good reason. If you know what's best for your own safety, you'd go along with their every wish and leave this place at your first chance."

Your eyes burned with tears forming in frustration, but you were too drained to argue, muttering weakly again, "Why... God, why are you even still here? You're insane..." You trailed off, the blanket's warmth and the bed's softness—luxuries you hadn't known in so long—lulling you into an uneasy but welcome stillness.

Perhaps you were right. Perhaps he really was insane for this. But Seonghwa knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if he walked away today and left you behind, he would never be able to live another moment in peace.

As he sat by your bedside, his dark eyes lingered on your face, the faint lines of pain etched into your features even in sleep. He couldn't stop the rush of emotions building within him—a storm of guilt, admiration, and something else he couldn't quite name.

Your earlier words echoed in his mind. "Why are you even still here? You're insane..." Even in your weakened state, you had been more concerned for his safety than your own. How was it possible for someone who had suffered so deeply, endured such unspeakable cruelty, to still care for someone else? For him, a stranger who had inadvertently become the reason for your suffering.

His chest tightened painfully as he thought back to the chain of events that had led to this moment. If he hadn't pushed so hard for answers, if he hadn't drawn their attention to you...

I'm so sorry. You suffered all because of me.

His jaw clenched. It wasn't your fault. None of this was. You had simply been caught in the crossfire of forces far beyond your control. And yet, you bore the weight of it with a quiet resilience that humbled him.

If only he knew the truth—how your unyielding empathy had been the very trait that had landed you in this nightmare. The kindness that allowed you to care for others, even at the cost of your own well-being, had marked you as a failure in their eyes. To them, your compassion was a flaw to be eradicated, not celebrated. If their experiments had succeeded, if they had stripped you of every last shred of emotion, perhaps you wouldn't have to feel any of this now. Perhaps it would have been mercy.

But mercy wasn't what they had given you.

Seonghwa exhaled shakily, forcing himself to focus on the present. His gaze dropped to the small bundle he had brought with him—an emergency kit he'd tucked into his coat before leaving his quarters. Pulling out the small jar of ointment, he opened it carefully, its sharp medicinal scent filling the air.

This seemed as good a time as any to use it.

He dipped his fingers into the ointment, its cool texture spreading easily against his skin. His movements were slow and deliberate as he leaned closer to you, his free hand brushing your hair aside to get a clearer view of your wounds. You stirred slightly under his touch, but he froze, waiting until your breathing evened out again before continuing.

As he worked, the Gentleman couldn't help but notice the scars that marred your skin, each one a painful testament to what you had endured. His hands hovered over the worst of them, as if hesitant to touch. But he pressed on, spreading the ointment with a feather-light touch, determined not to wake you.

The faint lines of pain on your face seemed to soften as the salve worked its magic, and he found himself watching you again. Not just your wounds, but you—the curve of your cheek, the faint flutter of your lashes, the subtle rise and fall of your chest. He wondered how someone who had been through so much could still carry this quiet strength, this humanity that he wasn't sure he would have been capable of holding onto if he were in your position.

Something shifted in him then, something he couldn't quite name. It wasn't just guilt or admiration anymore—it was something deeper, something that unsettled him even as it stirred a strange sense of purpose within him.

"You shouldn't have to feel this," he murmured softly, the words meant more for himself than for you. "None of this."

His hands paused briefly, trembling as the weight of his emotions threatened to spill over. But he steadied himself and resumed his task, meticulously tending to your wounds until every last one had been treated.

When he finally sat back, exhaustion tugging at his own body, he couldn't bring himself to leave your side. Instead, he stayed there, his gaze never straying far from you.

Seonghwa had made many promises to himself over the years, but as he watched over you in the dim light of the room, he made one more—a silent vow that whatever it took, he would find a way to free you from this nightmare. Even if it cost him everything.

I won't leave you behind... not this time.

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The next morning unfolded in a fog of tension and fleeting memories that lingered in his mind as he sat across from Madame Scarlet. The dining room, grand and dripping with opulence, felt more like a gilded cage than a place of comfort. The soft clink of silverware and the hum of hushed conversation grated against his nerves, the air heavy with artifice. His grip on his utensils tightened as your words echoed in his thoughts, each syllable etched with quiet despair.

"It's not as simple as you think, Mr. Park. There's more to this place than merely spy training. They have more... elaborate plans. And I'm... part of that plan."

Your voice had wavered, the fear laced within it unmistakable. He could still see the way your eyes darted to the door, your movements taut with the paranoia of someone constantly monitored. Your unfinished confession repeated itself in his head like a haunting refrain.

"I'm not just a regular trainee here... I'm—"

The memory was interrupted by the sharp sound of boots in the hallway, the rhythmic echo cutting through the tension like a blade. Your voice had faltered, replaced by a gasp as the footsteps grew louder. And then she had entered—the woman you called your trainer. Her expression was stern, impassive, as she spared Seonghwa a curt nod before dragging you away without explanation. The sight of you, so resigned yet terrified, had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Before he could so much as process what had happened, another figure had arrived, the right-hand woman, beckoning him to breakfast as though nothing had transpired.

And now, here he was, a mask of calculated charm concealing the storm within as he faced the Madame. The founder, draped in her cold authority, watched him with an unsettling smile, her words poised and deliberate.

"So, you find our ways effective?" she asked, her voice dripping with saccharine diplomacy. "I knew we could trust decisive men such as yourself from the Black Pirates to agree with our methods."

Her praise felt like poison, each word curdling in his gut. Seonghwa forced a smile, swallowing his revulsion with practised ease.

"Of course, Madame," he replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the turmoil beneath. "It is only necessary. After all, the best diamonds are produced in the rough."

Her approving nod was like ice slipping down his spine. As she turned her attention to the next topic, his thoughts drifted back to you, unable to ignore the gnawing questions.

What were you going to say? If you're not just another trainee, then what are you? What twisted plans are they weaving around you?

He pictured you before this nightmare—living a life untouched by the horrors of this place. Perhaps you had once been a girl who laughed freely, who dreamed without fear. The thought felt like a knife twisting in his chest.

What are they doing to you now? What are they turning you into?

"Gentleman Park?" Madame Scarlet's voice cut through his spiralling thoughts, sharp and expectant. He blinked, his façade unbroken as he nodded and delivered a fabricated report of your supposed punishment. Each lie tasted bitter, but he forced it down.

I'll find out. Whatever it takes.

Deep under the building, the isolation chamber felt alive, its oppressive darkness wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud. The relentless hum of machinery echoed in your ears, each vibration a cruel reminder of your imprisonment. Your body trembled, exhaustion weighing heavily on your limbs, but it was nothing compared to the weight of your thoughts. Then came that voice, cold and devoid of humanity, slicing through the silence.

"How do you feel?"

Your fists clenched, nails digging into your palms as a spark of anger flickered to life. "Nothing," you bit out, your voice shaking with frustration. But even as you said it, the word felt hollow, a lie you couldn't quite believe. You didn't feel nothing—no, it was anger, sharp and scorching, that had taken root inside you. Frustration flared hotter with every second, fed by the memory of Seonghwa's words, echoing in your mind like a cruel whisper.

"I'll be here to stay... indefinitely now."

You had stared at him, disbelief coursing through you like a tidal wave. "Wh-what do you mean indefinitely?" you had asked, your voice unsteady, heart pounding with the weight of implications you couldn't yet comprehend.

He hadn't looked at you, his gaze fixed on the jar of ointment in his hands. You hadn't noticed it then, but now, in the suffocating dark, the memory of his careful hands tending to your wounds replayed with an unexpected tenderness. The way his fingers had moved—gentle, deliberate—like someone who cared. His voice, soft and almost hesitant, echoed in your mind.

"I... proposed to oversee your training."

You had blinked at him, confusion and frustration crashing together in a storm of emotions. "What...? Why? Whatever for?" you had demanded, searching his face for answers.

And then his eyes met yours. Determination burned there, fierce and unyielding. It caught you off guard, stole the breath from your lungs. "I'm going to help you," he said, his voice steady, as though the very idea of failure didn't exist.

The memory of his words ignited a whirlwind in your chest—anger, disbelief, and something else you weren't ready to name. Help me? The thought had made you scoff, a bitter laugh escaping before the tears threatened to follow. You had shaken your head at him, the hopelessness in your heart spilling out like poison.

"You don't even know what's happening here—hell, you don't even know me. Why would you risk everything for someone like me? You can't save me from something you don't understand. And they... they'll never let you find out."

You remembered the crack in your voice as you pointed to yourself, desperation seeping into every word. "This... this isn't something you can fix, Mr. Park."

The robotic voice snapped you back to reality, the chamber's suffocating atmosphere closing in again. "Subject 01, how do you feel?"

You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to steady your breathing. You needed to focus on something, anything, to keep the darkness at bay. And there he was again in your mind, that damned determination lighting up his face. His words refused to let go of you.

"Well, they don't have to let me. I'll find out myself, one way or another. And besides..."

You could see it so clearly—the way he smiled at you then, soft and genuine, so different from the carefully constructed smiles he wore for everyone else. It wasn't fair, the way it disarmed you, the way it stirred something you didn't want to feel.

"I have you."

Tears pricked at your eyes again, but this time they weren't born of despair. They carried something heavier, something far more dangerous. Hope. And you hated him for it—for giving you something to hold onto when you had spent so long letting go.

The voice interrupted again, clinical and uncaring. "Subject 01—"

Your eyes flew open, defiance blazing in them as you glared into the black void where you knew the camera was. "Nothing at all," you said, your voice steady, though the fire within you burned hotter than ever.

"Wonderful," the voice responded, its detachment grating against every nerve.

But for the first time, you didn't care. Your focus was sharp, your resolve harder than steel. You would convince him to leave, to abandon this reckless idea before it consumed him too.

And yet... a part of you wanted him to stay.

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The week crawled by in a haze of calculated cruelty and simmering defiance. With Madame Scarlet's permission, Seonghwa was now a near-constant presence in your training sessions, his sharp eyes watching from the shadows or perched casually at the edge of the room. Most of your sessions, anyway. The ones he was allowed to witness.

The others—those sessions—took place far away from his sight, shrouded in secrecy and hidden deep within the facility's labyrinthine corridors. Those sessions were the ones that drained the light from your eyes and left you stumbling back to your dormitory, wearier and more hollow than before. And each time, he noticed.

Though the trainers and the founder kept him occupied with mealtime conversations or endless discussions about "enhancements" to your regimen, he saw it. He saw the shadows under your eyes deepen. He saw the tremor in your hands as you reached for water. He saw the stiffness in your movements, as though your body were fighting a losing battle with pain.

It enraged him, but he hid it well. He always hid it well. Instead of letting his anger show, he catalogued each new bruise and each broken look. He filed it away as fuel for his determination.

Today was no different. Another training session, another round of impossible tasks. The founder herself was present, her sharp gaze piercing through the room like a predator sizing up prey. She pushed you harder than ever, setting you up for failure with tasks that even the strongest would falter under.

"Faster," she barked as you stumbled mid-sprint. "You call that speed? A child could outrun you."

The other trainees averted their eyes, some wincing at the venom in her tone. But you kept going, jaw tight, pushing your battered body to obey despite its protests.

When you managed to finish the drill, she sneered. "Pathetic. And here I thought we were cultivating something special."

Seonghwa, standing to the side with his arms crossed, broke the silence. His voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. "I've seen worse recover faster. She's more resilient than you think, Madame."

The founder turned her sharp eyes on him, her expression unreadable. "Resilience isn't enough, Gentleman Park. What we need here is excellence."

"Excellence takes time," he replied smoothly, his face a mask of polite detachment. "And she's proven capable of rising to challenges when given the opportunity."

His words deflected her attention just enough to ease the pressure on you. And you hated it.

You hated the way he intervened, hated the risks he was taking by challenging the founder—no matter how subtle. It was reckless. It was dangerous. And it was entirely unnecessary.

When the session finally ended, you didn't linger. You stormed out of the training hall, your body aching and your mind racing. But as you turned the corner into the hallway, there he was. He leaned casually against the wall, waiting for you with an unreadable expression.

Your anger boiled over. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" you hissed, marching up to him. "You don't need to make my battles yours!"

His calm demeanour didn't waver. He straightened, meeting your glare head-on. "I'm not trying to fight your battles."

"Then what the hell was that back there?" you snapped, gesturing wildly toward the training hall. "Do you have any idea what you're risking? Why do you keep—"

"I'm just trying to make sure you live to fight them," he interrupted, his voice low but steady.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your breath hitched, the anger in your chest faltering as something else crept in.

His gaze softened just slightly, but the determination remained. "You don't have to like me being here. Hell, you can hate me for it. But if I can take even one ounce of that weight off your shoulders, then it's worth it."

Your fists clenched at your sides, words caught in your throat. You didn't know what to say. You didn't want to believe him, didn't want to let that flicker of hope take root again.

But damn him, he made it so hard.

You're being stupid, Park. You'll regret this.

Later that night, the training room was cloaked in dim light, the overhead bulbs casting fractured shadows across the walls like shards of glass. It was late, long past curfew, but the ache in your chest and the founder's voice echoing in your mind wouldn't let you rest. The sting of humiliation lingered like a wound left raw, and you poured it all into the combat routine—every sharp strike and block an attempt to claw your way free from the weight crushing you.

But your body betrayed you, trembling under the strain of endless days without reprieve. Exhaustion blurred the edges of your movements, and frustration burned hotter with every imperfect step.

The quiet sound of a door opening went unnoticed until a voice sliced through the haze, steady and low.

"Your form's a little off."

You spun around, fists raised on instinct, only to find Seonghwa leaning against the doorframe, his presence unassuming yet commanding. His gaze lingered on you, calm but observant, and it unsettled you in ways you couldn't name.

"What are you doing here?" you snapped, wiping sweat from your brow, your voice sharper than you intended.

He stepped closer, each movement deliberate but unthreatening. "Couldn't sleep," he said simply, his tone betraying no judgement. "Figured I wasn't the only one."

Your glare hardened, walls snapping into place like armour. "I don't need you here. Go back to your room."

Instead of retreating, he crossed the room with measured steps, his eyes flicking over your stance. "You're letting frustration get the better of you. It's making you sloppy."

His words struck a nerve, cutting deeper than they should have. "I don't need your help," you bit out.

"I'm not offering help," he countered, his calm tone steady as steel. "Just advice."

Before you could fire back, he gestured to the training mat. "Show me what you're working on."

For a moment, you hesitated. Letting him see you like this—raw, vulnerable, struggling—felt like exposing a wound to someone who could twist the knife. But there was no mockery in his gaze, no condescension. Just an infuriating patience that chipped away at your defences.

Reluctantly, you demonstrated the routine, your movements sharp but uneven. He watched silently, his brow furrowed with concentration, and when you finished, he stepped closer.

"Your footing's off here," he said, nudging your leg into position with his foot, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric. "And your weight—it's leaving you open to counters."

You flinched at the proximity, but he didn't retreat. Instead, he adjusted your arm with a careful, steady hand. "Try it again."

This time, your movements flowed with more control, more precision. When you stopped, he nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Better. But there's still something missing."

"What?" The word slipped out before you could stop it.

He stepped behind you, his hands hovering just above your arms, his voice a quiet murmur. "You're too rigid. Combat isn't just about strength—it's about flow. Anticipation. Trusting yourself."

His closeness was overwhelming, the heat of his presence and the steadiness of his breathing weaving into the moment. His hands guided your movements, the gentleness of his touch unravelling something tightly wound inside you.

The routine transformed, no longer a drill but a dance. Each motion flowed seamlessly into the next, and for the first time, you felt a sense of grace beneath the weight of your exhaustion.

"You're stronger than they'll ever give you credit for," he murmured, his voice soft, like a secret meant only for you.

And just as the moment began to settle, he stepped away, leaving a hollow space where his presence had been. You stood there, breathless and unmoored, the room suddenly colder without him near.

He turned to leave, his steps quiet, but something within you resisted. Before you could think better of it, you called out, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Mr. Park... thank you."

He paused, glancing over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

"Seonghwa," he corrected, his smile faint but disarming. "Just... call me Seonghwa. And you're welcome, my lady."

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the stillness, your thoughts tangled and your heart betraying you in ways you hadn't thought possible.

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"Message from Seonghwa hyung."

Jongho's voice cut through the suffocating silence of the Captain's office, and Hongjoong's head shot up from his hands immediately. The younger man stepped forward, closing the door firmly behind him before placing a neatly wrapped package on the desk.

"He sent this through the secret messenger," the youngest continued, his tone laced with urgency.

The leader's stomach churned. That alone spoke volumes. Seonghwa wouldn't have risked using such a method unless it was vital. His hands trembled as he tugged at the twine, unwrapping the package with uncharacteristic clumsiness.

"A secret messenger…" he muttered under his breath. "If the Red Room finds out—"

"They won't," Jongho interjected firmly. "He knows what he's doing. But you need to see this, hyung. It's important."

The package fell open, its contents spilling across the desk in a disorganised heap: photographs, documents, and a few unmarked videotapes. Hongjoong froze, his unease morphing into dread. With a sharp nod toward the small TV in the corner, he gestured for the Anchor to play the first tape.

As the screen flickered to life, a chilling silence settled over the room.

The grainy footage revealed sterile white rooms filled with cold, metallic equipment. A girl restrained on a table. Her eyes, wide with terror or dulled by sedation, seemed to pierce through the screen. The audio crackled with muffled voices—clinical orders interspersed with the occasional scream.

"What the fuck…" Hongjoong whispered, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the desk.

Jongho's face remained impassive, though his jaw was set tight. The footage shifted, showing a stark, windowless chamber—a single chair in the centre equipped with electroshock restraints. The same girl. The same hopelessness.

"This isn't just training," the youngest said, his voice thick with disgust. "This is something else entirely."

The Captain's fingers sifted through the documents spread before him: test results, progress notes, and schematics outlining the chilling details of the experiments.

"They're not just training spies," he murmured, his voice hollow. "They're manufacturing weapons. Breaking people down and rebuilding them into... into something inhuman."

His hand faltered as he reached the bottom of the stack. A profile sheet caught his eye, its clipped photograph grainy but unmistakable.

A lab rat.

No—a person.

His stomach dropped as he scanned the page. The subject's identity was stripped away, replaced with a mere clinical description:

Female. Mid-twenties. High pain tolerance. Physical capabilities surpass expectations.

Jongho broke the silence, his voice grim. "They're trying to turn her into a machine. Stripping away everything that makes her human."

"And Seonghwa..." Hongjoong's voice cracked, the weight of it crashing down on him. His eyes caught the scrawled words on the package's exterior:

Project Android by the Red Room.

A cold shiver ran down his spine. The eldest wasn't there for diplomacy anymore. He was trapped in the epicentre of something far darker than they'd ever anticipated.

The leader slammed the final page onto the desk, his gaze locking onto a message scribbled in their coded language:

"Keep this evidence safe. I'll work on getting her out while securing this deal. I'll use the code if I need help. For now, have faith in me. Sorry for letting you down, Joong."

His jaw tightened, his gaze snapping to the Anchor. "We need to come up with a backup plan. If things go south for him—"

Jongho nodded sharply. "And the girl?"

For a moment, Hongjoong faltered. The weight of it all—the impossibility of what they were up against—threatened to break through his composure. But then his resolve returned, hardened like steel.

"We don't leave anyone behind," he said firmly, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "Not if we can help it."

He leaned back in his chair, his mind already racing through contingencies. Sure, the Black Pirates weren't exactly saints, but even they had their limits.

And this?

This crossed every single one of them.

Back at the Red Room, Seonghwa could only hope his package had reached its destination safely. It was the sliver of hope keeping him tethered amidst the suffocating tension that defined this place. What you didn't know—what no one knew—was how far his determination had driven him. Every moment he wasn't with you or under the watchful eye of Madame Scarlet and her loyal hounds, he was spying. Not because he trusted the system but because he trusted himself more.

He knew he couldn't endure this oppressive environment much longer, and he refused to leave without you. So, he worked tirelessly. Nights passed with little sleep as he used his sharp senses and meticulous skills to catalogue every camera, memorise the labyrinth of hallways, and navigate spaces no one else dared to. His stealth was unmatched, a testament to his experience. At times, he found it bitterly ironic—this was a spy training facility, yet he roamed freely, undetected, a shadow in a house of shadows.

He'd known for some time now what you were to this place. He knew the pain you carried, the torment hidden behind the veneer of precision and obedience. But he hadn't found the courage to confront you about it, not until tonight.

Like many other nights, he found you awake past curfew. Tonight, you were in the ballet practice room—the same room that had led to your punishment, all because of him. This time, you finished your routine with precision, each movement a testament to your perseverance. When you stopped, his soft applause startled you, but only for a moment. By now, his late-night appearances had become so common you no longer questioned them.

And yet, you feared the comfort they brought you. Comfort felt dangerous here.

You sighed, turning away as the corners of your heart warmed against your will. "Can't sleep again, Mr. Park?" you asked, your tone guarded but laced with weariness.

He clicked his tongue in mock annoyance as he sat beside you, just far enough to respect your boundaries but close enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence. "Told you to call me Seongh—"

"Mr. Park," you cut him off, sharp but not unkind. Your eyes met his in warning, firm enough to halt his words.

He sighed in surrender, leaning back against the mirror beside you. The room fell into an uneasy silence, the tension between you as palpable as the moonlight streaming through the tall windows.

You broke the quiet, your voice hesitant but unwavering. "Why..." The single word hung in the air, weighted with the unspoken questions you hadn't dared to voice until now. "Why are you still here? Be honest with me. You're Gentleman Park—a feared member of the Black Pirates. Mercy isn't exactly your calling card. And yet, you're here. Risking everything. For what?"

His lips curved into a bittersweet smile, his eyes unfocused as if staring at a memory only he could see. For a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. Then, in a voice as soft as the moonlight, he began.

"I once tried to save someone like you," he said, the weight of his confession pressing against the fragile quiet of the room.

"When I was young, before the Black Pirates, I wanted to make a difference. Believe it or not, I was studying to join the police force, still naive enough to think I could change the world." His voice carried a bitterness that made your chest tighten. "One day, I met a boy begging on the streets. He looked so lost, so scared. I found out he was trapped in a human trafficking ring. I thought I was saving him when I helped him escape."

You watched as his expression hardened, his jaw clenching against the flood of memories.

"For a little while, I thought I'd done it. I believed I'd saved him. But those bastards retaliated. They found him again. And they punished him." His fists curled tightly in his lap. "What they did to him… It was worse than anything he'd suffered before. And he didn't survive."

Your breath caught at the raw anguish in his voice.

"I thought I was his hero, but I was the reason he suffered more. After that, I joined the gang and stopped trying to save people. I told myself the world didn't need heroes—it needed survivors." He looked at you then, his gaze piercing but soft. "And then I saw you. At first, I thought I'd learned my lesson. That getting involved would only make things worse. But—"

"Your first instinct was right," you interrupted, your voice calm but resolute. "You should've left me behind."

Seonghwa flinched, your words slicing through him. "You don't mean that," he said softly, almost a plea.

"Don't I?" You turned to face him fully, your eyes sharp but heavy with exhaustion. "You think I don't know what I am to them? What I am to this place? My life is already ruined. But you… Look at what you've dragged yourself into because of me."

The words hung in the air, a thick, suffocating silence settling between you. If you thought your harshness would drive him away, you were wrong. For, instead of retreating, something inside him warmed, a flicker of hope igniting in your pain. You weren't angry at him for making your life worse. You were still thinking of him. You were still asking him to leave, to protect himself. And that thought alone was enough to keep him from walking away.

"No," he said at last, his voice steady, more resolute than you'd ever heard it before. "My first instinct was wrong. The old me wasn't strong enough to protect the people I cared about. But now, I won't make the same mistake. This time, I'll protect you. No matter what it takes."

People he… cared about? Me?

The weight of his words hit you like a freight train. For a moment, you were speechless, the walls around your heart trembling under the sheer force of his unwavering conviction. He wasn't just speaking to you; he was believing in you. And for the first time, a small, fragile seed of hope took root inside you. Maybe, just maybe, he was someone you could trust. Someone you could believe in.

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"Quick, in here!" Seonghwa whispered urgently, pulling you into the narrow closet in the corner of the ballet practice room. The door shut softly behind you, his hand lingering on your wrist to steady your trembling form. You were both about to leave for the night when the unmistakable echo of footsteps down the hall froze you in your tracks. Instinct took over as you tugged him toward the nearest hiding spot—the changing room.

The space was suffocatingly cramped, every breath shared between you as you tried to steady your racing heart. The faint rise and fall of his chest told you his was no calmer. Only a sliver of moonlight seeped through the slats of the door, illuminating the tension that now filled the air.

You swallowed hard, throat dry as you became painfully aware of how close he was. Barely an inch separated you, his broad chest right there, the faint, intoxicating scent of leather and spice curling around you. When your eyes met his, they held a storm of unspoken emotions. Another inch closer, and your lips might have touched. The thought made your breath hitch, but the sound of approaching footsteps snapped you back to the danger at hand.

The two of you froze—not from the proximity this time, but the unmistakable panic that crept in as the footsteps entered the room.

Turning away from him, you leaned forward slightly to peek through the slats in the door. As you shifted, your hair moved, revealing the nape of your neck. In the dim light, Seonghwa caught sight of something he hadn't seen before—seared into your skin was a barcode. Below it, the words: Subject 01.

He stiffened behind you, and though the footsteps eventually faded, it wasn't until silence filled the room again that you dared to exhale.

"She's gone," you whispered, relaxing slightly as you turned back to him. You reached for the door, but his grip on your arm stopped you.

"Did it hurt?" His voice was soft, almost tender, but the barely concealed edge betrayed the anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Did what hurt?" you asked, frowning. Then his gaze dropped to the back of your neck, his fingers brushing the spot lightly, almost reverently. The touch sent a shiver down your spine. Realisation hit you like a wave. He'd seen it.

The gasp that left your lips was involuntary as you instinctively stepped back, but his hold on you was firm, steady, as though he feared you might crumble under his touch.

"It's okay," he murmured, his tone calm despite the fire in his eyes. "I know. I know everything—what they've done to you, what they plan to do. I know that you're... Subject 01 of Project Android."

His words sent a chill down your spine. The strength drained from your legs, and you would have fallen if not for his steady arm supporting you. "H-how…? They'd never—" you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

He sighed deeply, leaning forward until his forehead rested gently against yours. His breath was warm, grounding, even as your mind spun in chaos. "Like you said," he muttered, his voice laced with a hint of bitter irony, "I'm Gentleman Park of the Black Pirates. There's nothing I can't uncover when I put my mind to it."

Your hands balled into fists against his jacket, your voice trembling with anger and despair. "So you knew?" you asked, incredulous. "And you stayed? Do you have any idea what these people are capable of? You should've signed that contract and left. There's nothing you can do for me. Like you said, doomed souls are everywhere. I'm just another one."

Your eyes narrowed, challenging him. "Why are you even here? Why are you working so hard for me? It's not because of me, is it? It's because this experiment poses a threat to your crew. If Project Android succeeds, it'll be a threat to the Black Pirates too, won't it? That's the real reason—"

"Stop." His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. Then his expression softened, his eyes meeting yours with a raw, unfiltered vulnerability you hadn't expected. "You silly girl," he said, shaking his head lightly. "Do I really seem like that to you? After everything I've told you? It's… it's because I can't leave you here."

The quiet admission hit you like a punch to the gut. His voice was raw, carrying the weight of emotions he wasn't trying to hide. "I tried convincing myself this wasn't my fight," he said, his tone steady despite the tremor of emotion beneath it. "That it wasn't my place. But I can't look away—not from you."

You stood there, stunned, his words unravelling every defence you'd spent years building. For so long, you'd believed no one cared, that you were nothing more than an expendable experiment. And yet here he was, defying all logic, holding on when anyone else would have let go.

For a fleeting moment, it felt like more than just a declaration of resolve—something deeper lingered in his tone. But there was no time to entertain such thoughts. Survival was the only thing that mattered now.

"Seonghwa…" His name escaped your lips in a fragile whisper, but he shook his head gently.

"We'll talk later," he said firmly, the resolve in his voice leaving no room for argument. "Right now, we need to focus on getting you out of here."

And for the first time, you didn't argue.

The hallway was eerily silent as he guided you through the winding maze of corridors. His hand hovered near your arm, not quite touching, as though even the smallest contact might betray too much. You followed in reluctant steps, each one heavier than the last as the realisation sank in: he wasn't leading you to the fake room they'd assigned you for appearances. No, this route was different. Familiar.

Your heart clenched when you recognised it—this was the way to your actual room. Or cell, as it truly was. The sterile walls, the reinforced door, the cold, suffocating solitude that awaited you there. He really did know everything.

Your thoughts spiralled as you walked. Did he also know how you ended up here? Did he also know the pieces of you that had been stripped away, piece by agonising piece, until nothing but a shell remained? Did he also know about the dreams you used to have—the kind of dreams the old you had cherished? The ones where you imagined falling in love with someone kind, someone who could see the best in you? Someone like him.

But he wasn't supposed to be here, warming the frozen corners of your heart, making it ache in ways you'd long forgotten. He wasn't supposed to make you hope.

"We're here," his voice broke through your thoughts, soft yet steady. You stopped, realising you'd reached the corridor just outside your cell. He'd led you to a blind spot—where no cameras could see—but this was as far as he could go.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You stared at the path ahead, the one that led to your isolation, and swallowed the lump in your throat. "We are," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

"Seonghwa," you started, your gaze dropping to his hand. Your fingers twitched, hesitant, unsure whether to reach out. The war between your heart and your mind raged louder than ever. Before you could decide, he closed the distance, his larger, warmer hand enveloping yours.

Your breath caught as his touch sent a jolt through you. His grip was firm yet gentle, grounding you in a way nothing else ever had. You looked up, finding his eyes already on you—deep, searching, and unguarded in a way that made your chest tighten.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice a soft murmur that carried so much weight it made you dizzy. He didn't know it, but your world shifted with the way he looked at you, as though you were the only thing that mattered.

You opened your mouth to speak, only to falter as the emotions welled up, threatening to spill over. Gratitude. Guilt. Longing. Words felt inadequate. Instead, you squeezed his hand, a small, fragile gesture that felt monumental in the space between you. "I…" You swallowed hard, summoning the courage to continue. "I just want to thank you for trying so hard. For… caring."

His brow furrowed slightly, but he stayed silent, letting you finish. "I need you to know," you continued, your voice trembling. "It doesn't matter if I get out of here. I'm just… glad to have met you."

Your heart ached with the weight of the truth behind your words. You knew what you were saying wasn't fair to him, that it sounded like a goodbye. Slowly, you began to pull your hand away, but he held on, his touch firm yet tender, as though he couldn't bear to let go.

And then he did something that made your breath hitch—something you didn't expect.

Leaning in, Seonghwa pressed his lips to your forehead. The gesture was soft, deliberate, and filled with more emotion than any words could ever convey.

Your eyes closed instinctively, your breath catching as his warmth lingered. When he pulled back, his gaze burned with a fierce determination that left no room for argument.

"No," he said, his voice low but resolute. "Don't say that. Don't act like this is the end. I already have a plan, and rest assured…" His hand tightened around yours, his determination radiating through his touch. "I will get out of here tomorrow—with you."

The certainty in his voice left you stunned, your chest tightening as tears brimmed at the corners of your eyes. For a fleeting moment, the silence between you spoke louder than any words could. How...? you wanted to ask, but the question stayed lodged in your throat. You were exhausted—exhausted from fighting, from merely surviving. For once, you wanted to let someone else carry the weight for you. So, you didn't question him.

You simply nodded, unable to summon your voice. Turning to walk the final stretch alone, your steps felt heavier with every inch that separated you. Still, an inexplicable pull made you glance back one last time. His eyes were on you, unwavering, filled with a promise that neither of you dared put into words.

The moment stretched, unspoken yet profound, and though nothing was said, everything was understood.

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"How has he been?" Madame Scarlet asked, her tone sharp and expectant as she gazed at your trainer.

The woman lowered her head respectfully before responding, "He's… unexpectedly cooperative and professional, ma'am. He's provided us with some excellent ideas for enhancement and has never once intervened in any of Subject 01's training—the sessions he was permitted to supervise, at least."

The founder raised a brow, a self-satisfied grin curling her lips. "Hm. Perhaps the Gentleman truly does admire our ways," she mused, leaning back in her chair. "I suppose his extended stay would only be beneficial to us. After all, we'd be foolish not to recognise his value as an influential figure within his group. His prolonged presence serves as leverage. Keep him close—subtly manipulate his loyalty and extract information. The Black Pirates wouldn't even realise we're gaining the upper hand in the alliance."

A low chuckle sounded from the doorway, smooth and familiar. "How smart," Seonghwa drawled, stepping into the room with deliberate confidence, "but not nearly smart enough."

The founder's grin froze, her eyes snapping to the intruder with disbelief. You followed closely behind him, your heart hammering as you caught the flash of unease in her expression—a crack in the armour of control she always wore.

"G-Gentleman Park," she stammered, rising from her seat. Her composure wavered, but she quickly tried to mask it with a welcoming smile. "You're surprisingly early today. And you, my darling," she said, her gaze shifting to you with forced sweetness. "Aren't you supposed to be—"

"At her daily isolation chamber session?" the gang member interrupted smoothly, his lips curling into a sardonic smirk. "Ah, Madame, do you take me for a fool?"

The trainer stiffened, her hand twitching toward her hidden pistol. Madame Scarlet's smile faltered as her eyes flicked to the briefcase in his hand. Her mind raced, trying to assess the situation.

Seonghwa stepped closer, placing the briefcase on her desk with a measured grace. "I believe I've overstayed my welcome," he said casually. "On behalf of my Captain, I declare it's time to finalise our alliance and take my leave—on one condition."

The lady narrowed her eyes, her voice cold and sharp. "Name it."

"I'm taking her with me," he said, gesturing to you without hesitation.

The founder's face darkened, her calm slipping further. "Over my dead body," she hissed.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "That can be arranged."

The trainer moved, but he raised a hand in mock surrender, laughing lightly. "Relax. I'm only kidding. How would our alliance flourish if you were dead, Madame?" He tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes, though his tone carried a weight that silenced the room.

"You're playing a dangerous game," Madame Scarlet warned, but her voice lacked its usual confidence.

"Oh, I never play without knowing I'll win," he countered, his smirk sharpening as he opened the briefcase. Inside lay meticulously organised files, a hard drive, and a stack of DVDs. He slid a folder across the desk toward her.

"In here," he began, his voice dropping to a measured calm, "you'll find all the proof you need of your inhumane operations. Experiment logs, surveillance footage, and even testimonies from staff who've grown tired of being complicit. What do you think would happen if a third party were to get their hands on this?"

The lady's hand trembled as she opened the folder. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes scanning the damning contents.

"You wouldn't," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

"Oh, I would," Seonghwa replied, leaning forward slightly. "And I'll make sure your rivals and the authorities receive copies if you refuse my terms. Imagine the chaos that would bring to your empire."

Her composure shattered for a moment, her nails digging into the desk as she glared at him. "You underestimate me."

"No," he said, his voice soft but firm, "I don't. I know exactly who you are, Madame Scarlet. That's why I'm giving you a choice: agree to let her leave with me, or watch your empire crumble under scrutiny."

Her fury was almost tangible, her chest rising and falling with barely contained rage. But she was cornered, and they both knew it.

Madame Scarlet's nails dug into her palm, her usual composure shattered as she took a step closer to him. Her voice, laced with venom, quivered just slightly. "You realise what you're risking, don't you? My network reaches farther than you can imagine. The Black Pirates may be formidable, but do you truly believe your Captain will protect you once I make you a liability?"

Seonghwa didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Oh, Madame, threats only work when they hold weight. Do you think I'd walk in here unarmed? The Captain knows everything. This"—he gestured to the briefcase—"was sent with his blessing. Your reach ends where my ship begins."

The elderly woman's jaw clenched, her desperation now thinly veiled. "If you expose me, you'll bring chaos to yourself as well! The Black Pirates thrive on secrecy and reputation. Do you want to be the man who compromises that for some… experiment?" Her gaze flickered to you, cold and calculating.

"Nice try," he said, his tone turning colder. "But let's not pretend this is about me. The difference between you and me is simple: I protect the people I care about. You exploit them."

She growled in frustration, turning her attention to you. "And you?" she demanded, her voice suddenly softening as she changed tactics. "You're really going to leave with him? After all we've done for you?" Her words dripped with artificial kindness, a mask of sympathy stretched over her true intentions.

"I saved you from a life of obscurity," she continued, taking a step closer to you. "You'd still be a nobody if not for me. I gave you a purpose, a reason to exist. Is this how you repay me? By abandoning everything I built for you?"

You hesitated, her words striking a nerve. But the warmth of Seonghwa's hand slipping into yours steadied you, his unwavering presence a reminder of what truly mattered. Taking a deep breath, you turned to face her fully, your voice trembling at first but growing stronger with every word.

"You didn't save me," you said, your eyes locked on hers. "You broke me. You took everything I was—everything I could have been—and turned it into a weapon. You didn't give me a purpose; you stole it from me."

Her face darkened, but you pressed on, the weight of your emotions spilling over. "And now, you want me to feel sorry for you? To believe that what you did was for my own good? No, ma'am. The only thing you ever gave me was pain. And I refuse to let you keep me in chains any longer."

Her façade cracked completely, her expression twisting with rage and disbelief. "You ungrateful—"

The Gentleman's voice cut through her outburst, sharp and final. "Enough." He stepped between you and the founder, his presence a wall of protection. "You've lost, Madame. Accept it with what little dignity you have left."

Her hands shook, her gaze darting between the two of you. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. The power she had wielded so effortlessly for years was gone, slipping through her fingers like sand.

As the gang member led you out of the room, you cast one final glance over your shoulder. Madame Scarlet stood frozen, her empire teetering on the brink of collapse. The desperation in her eyes was a silent scream, her ironclad control shattered. For the first time, you felt no fear, no guilt—only a liberating wave of freedom as the door began to close behind you.

But then, in a heartbeat, that freedom threatened to slip away. Your blood ran cold as you spotted your trainer's hand darting to her concealed weapon as she muttered one last, "You're not going anywhere." The barrel of her gun gleamed, aimed directly at your saviour's back.

"Seonghwa—" you started, your voice catching in your throat.

He didn't need the warning. As though he had anticipated every move, he spun around with fluid precision. The room seemed to freeze, the air electric with tension. Before she could even pull the trigger, a single gunshot cracked through the silence.

The trainer's body crumpled to the floor, her lifeless eyes wide in shock. A gaping wound marred her forehead, blood pooling beneath her as her weapon clattered uselessly from her grasp.

You stood rooted in place, your breath caught in your chest. The woman who had tormented you for so long was gone—forever silenced, her cruelty ended in an instant. A part of you felt the weight of her death, but a stronger, quieter part of you reveled in the knowledge: she could never hurt you again.

Seonghwa lowered his gun with practised ease, his expression unreadable as he turned to the elderly woman. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as he tilted his head, mock apology dripping from his voice. "Oops," he drawled, his tone light but laced with menace. "I warned you there'd be consequences."

He took a deliberate step toward her, the dominance in his presence impossible to ignore. "This alliance between us is hereby solidified, by order of the Black Pirates. I trust the terms and conditions are now clear, Madame Scarlet?"

Her gaze flickered from the corpse of her loyal trainer to his unyielding stare. Fury bubbled beneath her trembling exterior, but she nodded sharply, biting back the venom she longed to unleash.

As Seonghwa turned back to you, his hand steady and reassuring on the small of your back, you caught the flicker of regret in the founder's expression. She had underestimated him, underestimated you. Letting your paths cross was her greatest mistake—a mistake she would carry for the rest of her life.

With every step you took away from that room, you felt the weight of your chains fall further behind. This time, freedom was not just a fleeting thought—it was real. And nothing could take it from you now.

The tension in Seonghwa's shoulders finally eased as he guided you into the sleek black car waiting outside—a vehicle Hongjoong had discreetly arranged to ensure your safe departure. The weight of what had just transpired lingered heavily in the air, but for the first time in what felt like forever, the Gentleman allowed himself a quiet moment of relief.

The engine purred to life, and as the car rolled away from the Red Room's shadowed compound, he turned to you. His smile was soft, almost hesitant, as his dark eyes met yours. There was no victory in his expression, only a quiet resolve.

"You're safe now," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "With me."

But even as he said it, his mind remained sharp, calculating. He knew the cost of what he'd done. The alliance between the Black Pirates and the Red Room is now balanced on a precarious thread of necessity rather than trust. Madame Scarlet's eyes would always be watching, her reach always extending, waiting for an opportunity to regain the upper hand.

And then, there was home. The gang wouldn't welcome you without question. The members' wrath would be swift and fierce—his brothers would demand an explanation for his actions, for the risks taken, for the unknown you now represented. What would they do with you? The uncertainty gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed it aside for now.

The road ahead would be anything but easy, but Seonghwa had made his choice. He couldn't promise to bring you back to the life you once had, couldn't undo the scars left behind. But what he could do—what he would do—was protect you. No matter what it took, he vowed to keep you safe.

As the car disappeared into the night, leaving the hellhole behind, he leaned his head back against the seat. His fingers brushed yours, a silent reassurance. Whatever came next, you would face it together.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

"Huh, so he actually managed to threaten the Red Room and come out on top?" the figure mused, his lips curving into an impressed pout. "Looks like the rumours about him weren't exaggerated after all. The Gentleman really isn't someone to be underestimated."

With a smirk, he snapped the file shut and tossed it carelessly onto the pile beside the Captain's already-closed dossier. "Too bad he's gained a weakness in the process. Watching the Firestarter's reaction to this is going to be... entertaining."

His subordinate stepped forward, handing him another file. "Indeed, sir. But for now, the Enforcer appears to be making some interesting moves at the Prestige Asylum."

"Oh, is he now?" The figure's grin widened. "How charming."

So, uhh... if I said I wasn't at all feeling pressured while writing this after the amazing reviews Hongjoong's chapter received, I'd be lying. I'm worried it might be slightly disappointing since this contained a lot less of the 'romance' aspect compared to the Captain's story - but I wanted it to be realistic, and realistically speaking, I don't think the danger would leave them much space for romance.

Anyway, I still hope you enjoyed this! I'm super excited to hear what you all think about the concept and whether or not you've noticed the subtle details relating to the ATEEZ lore.

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01

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

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

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1

@pandabur666 @vampzity @tournesol155 @lilactangerine @oddracha

@haven-cove @idfkeddieishot @vic0921 @vnessalau @apriecotte

@bangtannie7 @vtyb23 @khjoongie98 @scuzmunkie @anxiousskylar

@bunny4yungi @zl-world @quailbagutte @astudyoftimeywimeystuff

By Order of the Black Pirates Tag list:

@bethelighthalazia @tsunchani @starboyyoongi @soulphoenix1618 @dimeb29

@naps-over-degree @uniq-tastic @baeksofty @hanoishere @star-my

@skteezcursed @soocore @mountiiny @londonbridges01 @lemon-sage17

@ffenjoyerdazme @frequentlykit @callmeagardengnome @side-angel @byeolttongbye0l

@cotton-candycloudz @foxinnie8 @atinyreads @iwishiwasrichasfuck @sansaurora9904

@megseungmin @frobin4ever @holytidalwavechees3cake @hyukssunflower @babigriin

@haipyeongie @hyuninslutbbgirl @nuggiesnuggetdog04 @skersey33 @h3arteyes4mingi

All Rights Reserved © edenesth // DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGIARISE OR REPURPOSE.

[e-vay]

CC’s Present

[A/N: A quick little Lovebytes-sized ficlet for the holidays! Please forgive grammatical errors, I wrote this while on my flight home. Merry Christmas!]

“What do you want for Christmas?”

CC replayed the audio clip again in hopes it would spark a solution, to no avail. Normally, she could answer any query her lab-partner-turned-life-partner presented to her, but for the first time, Tails had her completely stumped.

After all, apart from Tails’ affection there was only one thing she desired; something that couldn’t be purchased or crafted. So when “The Team” floated the idea of meeting up to check out the holiday marketplace as a group, she immediately cleared her and Tails’ calendar so they could attend. This would be the perfect opportunity to study the art of gift-giving and hopefully spark some inspiration.

CC found that this time of year brought out one of the traits she adored most in Mobians. There was something about the holidays that encouraged a sense of camaraderie unlike the rest of the year. No matter the number of board meetings, busy schedules or other duties that plagued daily life, everyone seemed to drop everything in order to spend time with each other during this particular season.

Upon entering the market, the group broke up and darted in various directions. Sonic and Knuckles linked arms with Tails and began chanting “Brats! Brats! Brats!” before carrying the tall, yellow fox towards one of the food trucks. Tails looked over his shoulder to CC. “Sorry, it’s our favorite. I’ll be right back!”

“Please, enjoy yourselves,” CC encouraged, chuckling at the “brothers” antics. She politely clasped her hands behind her back before meandering through the market to analyze the crowd. She smiled at the numerous small children whose pupils dilated at the sight of candies on display. Women laughed and clinked souvenir mugs brimming with spiked hot chocolate. Merchants cheered and greeted customers in numerous different languages.

The Robian decided to make her way to a booth that was currently occupied by two familiar hedgehogs.

“Gaia, look at this one! It’s so gorgeous—Sir, you are so talented!” Aurora had her hands clapped over her cheeks in excitement. Her green eyes were sparkling like gems as she ogled the handmade decorations that were hanging all over the merchant’s booth. “Oh wow, did you see this one Shadow?! Oh Gaia it’s the prettiest thing in the whole wide world!” She bounced on her heels trying to contain her enthusiasm. “But wait this one! This one looks just like you! Look at that grumpy little face- ahh!!!” The black and red hedgehog smirked while sipping his mulled wine and sent a pointed look and nod to the vendor who secretly began boxing up each of the items the woman had pointed to.

CC didn’t follow as Aurora ran off to another booth that had caught her attention. The Robian furrowed her brows. Sure this market had plenty of pieces of art that were pleasing to the eye, but nothing that stirred a desire in her. Nothing made her “want.” How was it these things came so easily to Organics? It was so… frustrating.

Her grimace was quickly replaced with a soft smile and a sigh. Every emotion, no matter how negative, was a blessing. Not every synthetic-being could experience these feelings, so she thanked her lucky stars for the brief ”annoyance” before moving on for more analaysis.

One of her ears rotated to catch the sound of some youthful hollering. Following the commotion, she spotted Rouge with her two sons. The bat was adorned head to toe in luxurious faux furs with fibers so ivory they rivaled the fresh winter snow. Her poise and glamor was in complete contrast to the young hyena boys who play-wrestled and tugged on each others scarves. But to everyone’s surprise, the refined woman suddenly scooped the boys up in her grasp and attacked them with tickles that sent them howling with laughter.

“Are you boys hungry?”

“Yeah I’m STARVIN’!” groaned Tumble. He patted his round, youthful belly. “I’m waistin’ away, Ma!”

“How do s’mores sound?”

Both boys jumped out of Rouge’s grasp and looked at her with eyes as wide as saucers.

“Seriously?!” asked Ruff, the oldest. “They’ve got s’mores here?!?”

“Only for kids who say ‘Please’,” the bat teased.

In unison, the two hyenas clasped their hands in a begging motion and wagged their tails side to side. “Please please please please please!”

CC giggled at how aggressively their tails wagged, to the point it made their entire bodies sway. How interesting it was that this extension of the vertebrae was used not only for balance and steering, but for conveying emotions. Hmm.

“Okay let’s go!” Rouge took her children’s hands and the three ran through the crowd, laughing and cheering.

“There you are, my darling husband!” Sang a familiar voice. CC looked over to spot Amy Rose waving at Sonic who was finishing up his third bratwurst. Though his mouth was stuffed, he smiled and beckoned with his hand to come meet him. He swallowed down the last large bite. “Heya, I was just about to look for-“

In a sudden mad dash, the pink hedgehog closed the gap between them and leapt forward, arms outstretched. Sonic managed to catch her but stumbled back a few steps from the sheer force of her hug. Amy crashed her lips into his and kissed him with such vigor one would think the lovers had been apart for years.

CC had to avert her eyes for a moment, her cheeks warming up from being an onlooker to such strong displays of affection. Still, Amy’s passion and the ease with which she showed her love was something CC truly admired. She hoped Tails and herself would be able to express themselves as freely one day.

“Wowza!” Sonic laughed breathlessly once he and Amy finally broke their kiss.

“You taste like mustard,” Amy teased, her nose scrunched up.

Sonic wiped his thumb along her bottom lip and smiled with a large, lopsided grin. “I coulda warned ya if you didn’t come at me all gung ho like that.”

“You know I can’t help myself,” the pink hedgehog took Sonic’s muzzle into her hands, combing the tan, shaggy fur that filled out his cheeks. “Especially when you’re extra fluffy like this!”

“Extra fluffy, extra irresistible,” Sonic chuckled before Amy kissed him again with an enthusiastic “MMM-HMM!”

CC turned her back to the couple to spare herself from more blushing. She reached up and placed her fingertips along her own cheek. Though the muzzle she built herself was outfitted with a soft, suede like texture, it didn’t have nearly the plush or fullness of Tails’ or even Sonic’s during the wintertime. She removed one of her signature charcoal gloves and studied the segments in her robotic fingers. Her eyes glazed over as she ruminated over the data she had collected and an idea began to grow.

She was startled when a gloved hand took hold of her own. Her electric blue eyes followed the arm to identify the owner and felt a growing warmth in her soul once she realized it was Tails.

“Hello there,” the fox smiled.

“Hello. I did not see you returning from the delicatessen.”

”Lost in thought?”

CC’s smile grew wide and she laced her fingers with her partner’s. “Yes. I have decided what I want for my Christmas present. However, I would like to ask that I receive it earlier than is customary. It is a ‘topical’ request, you see.”

Tails grinned. “Sure! Let’s hear it!”

His girlfriend leaned in close and whispered her idea into his ear. His eyes lit up and his twin tails swished with inspiration.

“That’s brilliant! Let’s do it!”

———

It had been almost two weeks since The Gang had heard from Tails once again. It wasn’t unusual for the fox to go “radio silent” for long periods of time as his work at Yellow Sky Industries kept him plenty busy. But when the group received an urgent request to come to Tails’ home out of the blue, it had them raising their eyebrows.

What made the situation all the more suspicious was that Tails had everyone waiting on the lawn standing before a curtained off display. The group of friends and family members huddled close and muttered curses under their breath for making them gather in the frigid winter air.

“Bud, why exactly do ya have us all gathered outside? It’s cold as Holoska out here!” Sonic groaned, rubbing his arms in an attempt to keep warm.

“It’s vital to the presentation,” Tails responded curtly.

Knuckles snapped his fingers. “Then hurry it up, already. My wife’s wings’re about to snap off!”

Rouge elbowed Knuckles. “My hero.”

“Very well,” Tails clapped his hands before suddenly jumping into a crouched position, his hands splayed wide to entice his audience. “Ladies and gentlemen!” He projected a voice far more confident and engaging than his friend group was used to. It was clear Tails had transitioned into ‘tech-presenter’ mode. “This holiday season we are thrilled to introduce to you-“ he pressed a button on his wrist-watch and a drumroll began to play from a series of hidden speakers. He stepped backwards towards the curtain, waving his hands to emphasize his words.

”The stunning-“

He gripped onto the curtain.

“The dazzling!-“

With a dramatic flourish, Tails drew back the curtain and the small crowd gave a collective gasp.

“CC: Winter Edition!”

Upon the makeshift stage, CC was a vision in white posed gracefully to best show off her recent upgrades.

“Marvel at CC as you’ve never seen her before,” Tails continued with his best salesman impersonation. He delicately took the Robian’s wrist into his hand and held her arm up, waving and gesturing along her limb. “-With brand new features perfectly suited for this frosty weather.”

Where CC’s external bodice was once gray with short fibers or smooth, hard casing, she was now fully covered in plush white fur except for her slate ears. Instead of traditional gloves, her hands were covered with just enough artificial pelt to hide her seams and give her fingers a more natural look. Her smile was accentuated with a muzzle that had tufts of fur on either side of her cheeks. Her short, silver hair was now a few inches longer, ivory, and considerably more voluminous.

Tails’ fingers trailed up CC’s shoulder where he delicately twirled one of her locks. “Now adorned with a luscious winter coat as pearlescent as the winter snow but as soft and warm as a summer’s day.” The fox paused for a moment as he locked eyes with his girlfriend and the two shared an unspoken blush. He cleared his throat before continuing with the show.

“And with the most highly anticipated feature yet-!”

CC grinned and twirled, fanning the group with a breeze as they were brushed with a large, soft object.

“THAT TAIL!!!” Everyone exclaimed at once.

Protruding from a seam in her miniskirt was an extra long, extra fluffy tail that rivaled her partner’s. It would still take a good amount of practice to determine when and how it would best be used, but for her friends’ enjoyment CC gave the appendage a few swishes and flicks which was met with oohs and ahhs.

“Oh!” the Robian turned to face the group once more, earning a whine from some of her friends who were enjoying the warmth and softness of her new tail. CC excitedly pointed in the air with one hand and used the other to clutch onto her stomach. “Additionally, I now have the ability to brew hot cocoa! I simply open this compartment-“

Tails quickly placed his hand atop hers to stop her. “Let’s skip that demo. It’s pretty unsettling but she insisted we add it.”

CC shrugged and recalled a phrase she had heard Sonic use on similar occasions. “Your loss.”

A small hand raised up from the group. Tails resumed his showman performance. “Yes, young man. You have a question?”

Tumble, the youngest of the crew, stepped forward. His teeth chattered as he fumbled with his scarf, “Ssssss-CC, d-d-do you ssstill have your toasssty mode?”

CC smiled and opened her arms wide. From the center of her chest, a subtle orange glow was visible even from under her light sweater. ”Come see for yourself,” she invited.

All at once, friends and family rushed forward and embraced CC in a giant group hug. There was a muddled collection of sighs and compliments as everyone soaked in the warmth.

“Yes, so warm!”

“Your fur is so soft, I could fall asleep!”

“You look beautiful,” Amy cheered, affectionately holding CC’s chin to get an even closer look, “but more importantly you look so happy!”

”I don’t know if I’d say that’s more important,” Rouge chimed in. She hugged CC’s arm to drape around her neck like a shawl. “Look at that shimmer in her fur! Like diamonds!”

The Robian laughed at all her friends’ remarks. She was so thrilled when she and Tails first assembled these seasonal accessories, but now she was even more delighted at everyone’s response. Cozying up with her found family, she now had just about everything she could ever want.

Her tail found its way towards one of her partner’s and she curled it around his. The touch made Tails look her way, and when their eyes met once again they found their blush return to their cheeks.

“Thank you,” CC mouthed so as not to speak over everyone else’s commentary.

“Merry Christmas,” Tails mouthed back with a wink.

[raginglesbian2006]

hello! i was wondering if you could write something about alastor with a vampire reader?

Oooh, that's a nice idea. Thank you for requesting it!

Vampire Blues

Alastor x vampire!reader

Warnings: Blood drinking, Cannibalistic tendencies

It'd been a while since you were in hell. Being the infamous "Vampire Killer " when you were in your prime, you were bound to carry on your legacy even in the afterlife.

You swirled your wine glass as you took a sip of your choice of drink, blood of course. Although you had dropped into hell as a literal vampire, you thought it uncouth to latch onto someone's jugular and feed off of them just like that. No, you were refined when you were alive and you will be refined even after your death. Besides, killing your poor victims off quickly before draining them of their blood seemed like the most humane way you could go about your business

You'd died around the 1800s, so you had enough time to make deals and turn yourself into a powerful overlord. The denizens of hell were so incredibly dull anyway. You did enjoy the company of Zestial from time to time. You two regularly had little get-togethers to talk about anything and everything.

You were used to the somewhat quaint existence you had carved out for yourself within the confines of hell. What you did not expect was the arrival of a certain...Radio Demon.

You were intrigued by this particular demon. He was overthrowing overlords left and right and gaining power and stability rapidly, all the while making his radio broadcasts the most popular in hell. He did not come for you, however, which you deemed to be a wise choice on his part. You do not take kindly to challengers.

The first time you'd met the famed radio demon was at the annual overlord gathering. You sat right next to him that day. You were impressed by the poise and elegance he carried himself with. Not to mention that ever-present smile that confused his enemies. You could tell that he was decisive, intelligent, and charming.

He introduced himself to you after the meeting was over. You introduced yourself too, making sure to thank him for taking care of those undignified overlords who didn't deserve the title at all. He seemed delighted by your appreciation.

The two of you quickly bonded over the next few months. You were quite happy to find out he engaged in cannibalism, prompting you to invite him to your residence to feast on the flesh of your victims, whilst you drank their blood. Oh what a wonderful day that was.

It wasn't long before you'd received a package mailed by Alastor. In it was the blood-drenched heart of a hell-born, who had wandered into the pride ring by chance, and with it, came a little note by him, asking for your permission to formally court you.

Needless to say, you said yes.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Vil Schoenheit - Platinum Jacket Vignette

"Happy 100th Anniversary"

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Vil: I had heard the rumors, but this museum truly does have masterpieces from every corner of the world on display here.

Vil: There is an abundance of stunningly beautiful works of art here. This is absolutely worth taking my time to breathe in.

Vil: Oh, this painting… It depicts the scene where the Fairest Queen is sending out her retainer on a mission of great importance.

Vil: I can feel her dignified aura. The way she carries herself so refined enhances her beauty.

???: I agree, this painting gives off this overwhelmingly graceful feeling.

Vil: Never thought I'd ever hear the word "graceful" come from you, Jack… That just goes to show the power of the Fairest Queen.

Jack: Heh, guess so. I can't really see what you meant 'bout how she carries herself all refined, though…

Vil: Oh, really? I myself was immediately drawn to her outstretched fingers…

Vil: Although, that may just be because I take particular care in noticing specific details like that.

Vil: Consider the way you walk, sit, or even how you cast your line of sight… There are many points to consider when looking to exude grace and poise.

Jack: I can get straightening your back when walking, or whatever, but can fingers really be shown beautifully like you say?

Vil: Of course. Perhaps it'll make more sense to you if I explain it using ballet as an example.

Vil: If you spread your fingers, or open your palm, it feels incohesive.

Vil: However, if I carefully angle my fingers like this…

Jack: …! Woah, seeing it in person makes a huge difference. Even your arm looks longer.

Vil: Right?

Vil: This doesn't only pertain to ballet, you know. Every form of movement can be carried in some way to make it look beautiful.

Vil: A model's walk is one. On top of that…

Vil: I also take care in my everyday movements, such as how I hold my drinks, or operate my phone.

Jack: Eh, all that, too!?

Vil: Naturally. I would never forego any chance at training my beautiful movements with proper posture at the same time.

Jack: Okay, I can get behind that reason.

Jack: It's like how if you want to be able to move using the proper form, you gotta work on your core muscles.

Vil: That's exactly it. Train your core muscles, watch videos on proper, elegant movements, and verify them in the mirror...

Vil: By purposefully ingraining it into your body, eventually you'll be able to carry yourself beautifully without even trying.

Jack: The way you put in all that effort into being beautiful is just like an athlete. You really got that stoic discipline, huh, Vil-senpai.

Vil: Heh, I'll take that as a compliment.

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Vil: This work of art is supposed to depict the scene where the love between the compassionate princess and the impoverished young man is finally acknowledged by the sultan…

Vil: But it feels like such a harmonious moment. I had fully expected there to be more tension in the air.

Jack: Yeah. The story goes that the princess rebelled against her father, the sultan, and slipped out of the royal palace, right?

Vil: Indeed. As the country's princess, I'm sure she was constantly surrounded by guards…

Vil: There may have been times she had grown weary of constantly being surrounded by other people.

Vil: As someone who has been surrounded by the press outside my home before, I can empathize with that feeling of wanting to be left alone.

Jack: Does that mean you've also sneaked from your home out of the prying eyes of the press before, Vil-senpai?

Vil: Not at all. I would leisurely spend my time at home.

Vil: Around the time I was 10, I even built a secret base I could play in.

Jack: A secret base? Inside your house?

Vil: Exactly. I couldn't possibly deny the fact that some senseless people could try to sneak their way onto my property, now, could I?

Vil: That's why I made a safe little room specifically for me inside my home.

Vil: I gave it no windows, built each wall with stone, and stacked it full of shelves… I also made sure there was proper lighting.

Jack: A secret base, huh… Guess even you were a child once.

Jack: But even if there's light, I feel like a room with no windows'd be pretty depressing…

Vil: Actually, it's quite the opposite. That was the best environment possible for me to rest my skin from the sun's rays.

Jack: Rest your skin?

Vil: You are aware that ultra-violet rays can damage your skin, yes? That's why sunscreen is a must even at home.

Vil: However, sunscreen itself can be taxing to your skin.

Vil: That's why I appreciated having the peace of mind that no UV rays could reach me.

Vil: I could also comfortably practice my yoga that I've been doing daily ever since I was a child actor.

Vil: I could even read my scripts and practice my roles as time flew by.

Vil: That room where I didn't have to worry about onlookers or harmful rays was the safest place that younger me could have ever had.

Jack: Yeah, I remember kids'd get all in your face when you were out walking, just 'cause you were "Vil Schoenheit."

Vil: …I will say this, however, a majority of the people coming up to me wanted handshakes and autographs.

Jack: Ah, yeah, right. But still, that's still a pretty heavy thing to go through.

Vil: Well, obviously. It would be a grand mistake to mistake me for just any of the spudlings you see rolling around.

Jack: Heh, that's true. Do you still spend time in that room you made whenever you go back home on break?

Vil: Not at all. We would move often due to my father's work, so we live somewhere completely different now.

Vil: But, hm… It may be a fine idea to create a room that I can relax in again.

Vil: It could also end up being a great workshop to craft potions and skincare products, as well.

[Land of Dawning – National Museum of Art]

Jack: This painting is depicting the Sea Witch providing consultation for a troubled mer.

Vil: What a wonderful smile. The lighting from below works to bring out her enchanting allure even more.

Vil: And from what it seems, there truly are people who would ask for counsel anywhere and everywhere. I'm sure the Sea Witch had had her fill.

Jack: From the sound of it, seems like you've had to give out counsel yourself, is that right, Vil-senpai?

Vil: I can't say I've intended to give out any counsel. There are just those who would ask me of their own volition.

Vil: I've gotten incessant requests for advice from numerous fans in the comments section of my Magicam account.

Jack: Can't believe people would just ask someone they don't know for help like that. There's a lot of pushy folk out there.

Jack: So then, what kind of things do they ask?

Vil: A majority of the questions tend to ask how they can become just as beautiful as I am…

Vil: But there are others who will ask how they can quickly become an influencer like me, or ask about other such useless life hacks.

Jack: They'd seriously ask those things…? Don't tell me you're actually givin' them the time of day and responding thoroughly, are you?

Vil: Of course not. My time is precious. I don't even have a second to spare for someone who doesn't know how to look things up on their own and would rather rely on someone else.

Jack: Yeah, that's the way to do it. Really no use for anyone to be asking this and that from someone they don't even know.

Vil: Seriously. There was a time where I received dozens of questions asking, "How can I get clear skin?"

Vil: Methods to improve skin health can depend on age, skin quality, diet… among other possible contributing factors.

Vil: For those people who don't even understand those concepts, do you think I would grant them my ear and provide them my knowledge from the fundamentals?

Vil: In order to achieve beautiful skin, I've endured my own research even to this day. There is no way for someone who shirks effort to achieve beauty.

Jack: I bet your studies into all that are super intense. I'm curious what kind of stuff you worked on.

Vil: When I first started, I would purchase different kinds of skincare products off-the-shelf, then test and document the quality of my skin after application.

Vil: I would also keep record of any changes in my skin based on the foods I ate, or the surrounding environment.

Vil: After that, I started to get a more in-detail look at each ingredient, while also researching different combinations of products that could be compatible with each other...

Vil: More recently, I've been attempting to apply my knowledge of potionology to concoct skincare products that would go perfectly with my skin.

Jack: Y'know, I've also tried a bunch of different proteins and training regimens, and even recorded how it affected my body…

Jack: But I didn't know you were basically doing the same kind of thing. Just proves you can't skimp out on that extra effort.

Vil: Indeed. And my diligent research will always continue on. That's because…

Vil: I can absolutely become even more beautiful than I am now.

Jack: I can just feel your ambition! I gotta make sure I keep working hard, just like you do.

Jack: …Oh, look at the time. I'm sorry I took up so much of your time. I'll be heading to the next exhibit, so excuse me.

Vil: Of course. See you later, Jack. Well, I suppose I should go off and look for more Fairest Queen paintings myself.

Vil: That painting… It depicts the pretty little princess of legend. I see she's picking flowers in the forest… How carefree can she be?

Vil: Even though someone of ill-intent could take note of the empty surroundings and make their approach…

Requested by @zexal-club.

[manias-wordcount]

Show 'Em How (Phoenix Wright x Reader x Miles Edgeworth)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗺, 𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗷𝗼𝗯 𝗱𝗮𝘆. 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗷𝗼𝗯 𝗪𝗛𝗔𝗛𝗔𝗛𝗔𝗛

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚!! 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝗲𝘅 (𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗲𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴), 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗷𝗼𝗯, 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

When you were younger, you had a crush on two boys.

The type of crush that left people with heat stuck in their cheeks and eyes casted down at the ground. The type of crush that left people like you stammering and stuttering and trying too awfully hard to look cool yet cute in every moment they’re in view. But they grew up. So did you. Though those feelings you had for the now-grown men didn’t completely disappear. You’re not even sure if they lessened enough for you to no longer feel embarrassed about it all.

  But for the longest time, you just didn’t get what you saw in both of them. After all, you thought that they couldn’t be any more different from each other aside from their shared strong will. So what made you like them still after all these years? What made you linger around like a ghost- hoping and hoping for the one who sees you. Despite knowing they would never see you as you’ve always seen them. Someone to love. Someone to adore. Someone to hold tight and want to protect for as long as they live. But that’s the thing.

  “You’re getting so good at this, aren’t you sweetheart?”

  You only thought you knew that. 

  “Mmm,” You make a quiet hum with the back of your throat as you look up at one of the men before you. “Mmm…”

   You always thought of Miles Edgeworth as a gentleman- even when you both just attending grade school. You thought of him as refined and forever poised- even in the trickiest of situations. And now, you’d admit that some of that holds true. He’s still oh-so gentle as he cards his fingers through your hair and keeps the loose strands out of the way. He’s still oh-so kind as he looks at you with eyes that hold emotions so far away from disgust and malice that you could easily forget if you wanted to. If you tried. But most of all? He’s still oh-so-sweet in the way he calls on you- insisting on sweetheart even as you wrap your lips around his dick and suck him off while free hand focuses on his rival.

  “I could have told you that,” A voice from your side grumbles. Some that have your heart thumping out of your chest and shivers running down your spine at the exact same time. It’s the same Phoenix Wright that you’ve always been smitten with. Though it’s admittedly more charming now that you’re able to hear him talking so casually. Without stress about investigations. Without drama from court cases. None of that stuff. Although… “And quit hogging! It was my turn to get sucked off ages ago!”

  You suppose nothing can be quite drama-free with those two. But you suppose it’s your fault, isn’t it? It started with you getting a little bold one night. A little brave. Then suddenly, you’re writing love letters. Love confession with the hearts and the secrets and the obvious embarrassment dripping from every single word. But this running off of a courageous high (or rather, a steep amount of liquid courage), and suddenly yourself with new emails in your outgoing mail folder. And two emails in your ingoing mail folder- each agreeing to the time and the place that drunken you had asked to meet.

  Truthfully, you don’t remember how exactly your confession went. Maybe you blocked it all from memory. Maybe you didn’t. But whatever happened must have been a good thing between all three of you. 

  Because why else would Phoenix be wrapping his hand around your neck and pulling you off of his rival’s cock all so he could lead you and your puckered lips toward his?

  “Pay attention to me too, okay?” He reminds you gently as he gives you a big smile. Instantly, you’re enamored again now that he’s the boy with your most direct attention (even though Miles’ huff is very clearly an attempt to get your eyes back off him). But Phoenix doesn’t pay him any mind- instead, he’s too busy pushing your head closer and closer to him as his free hand holds his fully erect cock out for your to slide into your throat. “I’m willing to share but you can’t forget about me, alright?”

  You’re barely registering his words. Just giving him a simple nod before your back up and sitting on your knees and wrapping your lips around the pretty dick in front of you. It stands tall and proud in front of you with quite a few noticeable veins decorating it in its entirety. A small bead of precum has been spilling from the top. But you don’t waste another second on dumb thoughts and inaction. Instead, you’re flattening your tongue and taking the thing into your mouth easily. Completely. Happily.

  The salty taste hits your goosebumps a second later, but Phoenix is quick to ease you into taking his entire length all at once. He coaches you into breathing the way he knows you should, and you focus on relaxing your mouth the same way you did for Miles so he slides right in with little resistance. But Phoenix is thicker than Miles. Not as long, but much much thicker. And so the instant you feel him start to fill up your mouth in a way that feels like too much at once, you cough. Just a little. 

  Even so, it’s still enough to get Miles to hurry out a call of “Be careful” to the other man, much to his displeasure. But it’s not your first. It’s far from it and everyone in the room knows that by now. So you’re quick to right things yourself. To adjust so that you mouth things about fitting Phoenix inside rather than Miles. And all too soon, you’re bobbing your head up and down and up and down and up and down. Letting it glide through your warm, wet throat as the man you’re sucking off balls his hands into tight fists and leans back into his chair.

  “Fuck, that’s good,” Phoenix all but groans as he closes his eyes and tosses his head back. His voice is much lower than what you’re used to. Softer. Quieted. More controlled even. Not that you really mind it though. As much as you love your Phoenix- the one who’s bright and loud and only just a little dumb at times- you like the way you’re making him come undone like this. Making him count his every breath. Making him rise out of his chair and curse under his breath. Making him feel good. All because of you. All because of you. “Keep going- keep sucking like that. And- and do that thing with your tongue again. Okay, baby?”

  Your heart melts at the nickname. Baby. You’re so soft for these two it’s ridiculous. But perhaps it’s more ridiculous how soft they are for you. How willing they are for you. Most men would hate sharing a lover. And yet, here comes Miles- reaching over and pulling back your hair again so you can continue focusing on running your tongue against every vein on Phoenix’s dick again and again and again.

  And sometime later, you’ll start stroking Miles’ cock again, not wanting him to lose the pretty hard-on he brought out just for you. Pumping your fist up and down and up and down- in time with the way you bod your head on the other man’s cock. But pretty soon all of Miles’ sweet little compliments will draw your attention away. Pretty soon, you’re pulling your mouth off of Phoenix’s dick and wrapping your lips around Miles’ once more- pulling out all the moves you know he likes. Playing a little with his balls. Sucking a little extra hard on the head. And looking up at him through your eyelashes all pretty like when he started mumbling all kinds of selfish yet adoring words towards you.

  And at some point, the other man in the room is going to feel content will sitting and watching anymore. At some point, he’s gonna want a hand or a mouth or that pretty little hole that’s been hiding between your legs all this time. At some point, he’s gonna want to make you do the squirming. Just like your other lover is gonna want to make you squeal and feel good. Feel oh-so ridiculously good. But he can wait. They both know how to wait at this point. And frankly, you do too.

  Because you waited so many years to confess. You waited so many years to know if they liked you back. And you waited so many years before realizing that the answer had to be both or absolutely nothing at all. But they’ve made their decision. And you’ve made yours. 

  You know they know how to wait their turn. You know they know how to play nice. How to share. And you know they know how to do that with each other. Because you were there when they learned those things. And if they refuse to do it now?

  Well, you’ll just have to show them how it’s done. 

[apostatizing]

It had just been one small, teenie, itsy bitsy mistake during the last mission. Maybe she rushed in before she was given the signal and caused a bit more bloodshed and destruction of property than what was required...but she really didn't see the issue! The bandits were quickly taken care of, and at the end of the day that was the purpose!

But the monastery didn't seem to agree, 'suggesting' that she seek counselling for her 'anger issues'. To call it a suggestion was laughable, really, but unless she wanted to be left behind on future missions at least one counselling session had to be attended. It wouldn't be difficult to sit there and pretend nothing was wrong for thirty minutes.

Until she saw the back of his head, stopping in her tracks and staring in silence. "...Actually, I am here to see the counsellor, if you would not mind moving out of the way." She sighs, stepping closer. "When did you get here, brother?"

TWELVE / FOURTEEN

@apostatizing | an office is a definite upgrade from the confession box. obvious reasons. there are windows, for one, so it doesn't feel nearly as stuffy while he was sitting in there and listening to people's concerns for hours. two, and pandreo thinks this while he stretches and sprawls across his chair until he feels the muscles in his calves threaten to conspire against him, there was plenty of leg room. more than he could say the confession box that they keep over at the cathedral and more, he expects, than the old girl could've offered him at his own church.

still, he didn't exactly—need one.

hearing someone out was almost exclusively situational. you couldn't make people just open up to you because you told them to. so, he doesn't see much of a point in having a space that probably wouldn't see much use anyway? ' hey, stop crying; let's talk about this back at my office halfway across the monastery, huh? ' but saying as much wasn't enough to get the church authorities to back down on it, and he wasn't going to be the one making things difficult over something that didn't really matter in the first place. so, office hours—he has those now.

and just like he thought, not a soul to be seen.

he'd have better luck sitting in the open market with a sign that said ' free hugs. '

—that's what he thinks until he hears approaching footsteps. with his back to the open doorway, pandreo chimes: "restroom is," a windmill of an arm before he points to his right, the stranger's left. "that-a-way; you can thank me later."

[lackadaisicallizard]

Looking

James has the attention span of a goldfish. 

Actually that’s probably being generous- a goldfish can focus for long enough to eat its food. James on the other hand once ordered and paid for takeaway but only realised late that night that he'd walked home without collecting it. 

It’s become a bit of a running joke in the group- the way that he can recall every second of a mundane day he spent with Sirius four years ago, but gets distracted while he’s cooking to the point where his food is either raw or burned to a crisp. 

The way that he knows every one of his friends’ birthdays, favourite foods, and things they talk about during late nights conversations poured over hot chocolate and marshmallows, but there’s not a chance  in hell he heard what Remus just said about… something. 

No, nothing can seem to hold his focus for more than a few seconds at a time. 

Well, until Regulus. 

Who he never really noticed past the knowledge that he was Sirius’ brother, until one day he did. 

Oh did he notice him. 

And he keeps noticing him. Every single time they’re in a room together he’s drawn to the poised, sharp, refined beauty of Regulus Black. To his piercing grey eyes that only soften when he’s talking to his friends. To his hands that stay still unless he’s particularly invested in a topic of conversation. To his lips that Regulus doesn’t let curl into a smile in front of strangers, but they do so of their own accord when Barty cracks a joke or Pandora gently touches his arm. 

And now when he doesn’t hear Remus’ comment or Peter’s question it isn’t because he isn’t paying attention. 

It’s because his attention is across the hall with the most captivating boy he's ever seen, and there's absolutely no chance of him getting it back.

He's not even going to try.

[moonselune]

Minthara finally figuring out why a romanced Tav walks through cities like there's not danger upon meeting their family. She ends up meeting an older drow who introduced themselves as Tav's former personal guard. It can also make other things click like certain fighting stances are like a drow fighting style.

I made it an elf!reader so the plot made a bit more sense hope you enjoy it!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara x Elf!Noble!reader | Now it makes sense

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara had always been puzzled by the way you walked through cities with an air of unshakable confidence. It was as if you believed yourself to be untouchable, moving through the bustling streets with a grace and poise that belied any hint of danger. It wasn't until she joined you for a formal dinner at your family estate that she began to understand the source of your serene assurance.

The estate was a grand affair, sprawling and opulent, reflecting the high status of your elven noble lineage. As you walked her through the halls adorned with intricate tapestries and golden accents, Minthara felt an odd mixture of admiration and curiosity. You introduced her to various family members, each one more elegant and refined than the last. Yet, there was a warmth in your interactions that made Minthara feel surprisingly welcome.

As dinner commenced in the grand dining hall, Minthara found herself seated next to you, the table laden with an array of exquisite dishes. The conversation flowed easily, and she couldn't help but notice how relaxed you seemed in this environment, contrasting sharply with the intense focus you exhibited in battle.

Halfway through the meal, an older drow woman entered the room. She moved with the silent grace of a predator, her eyes sharp and calculating. As she approached the table, you rose to greet her with a smile, which she returned with a nod of respect.

"Minthara," you said, gesturing to the woman, "I would like you to meet Sarya, my former personal guard and teacher."

Minthara's eyes widened slightly in recognition and understanding. Sarya was a figure of legend among the drow, known for her unmatched skill in combat and her unwavering loyalty. It now made perfect sense why you moved with such confidence and exhibited fighting stances that were distinctly drow in origin.

Sarya inclined her head toward Minthara, her eyes glinting with approval. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Minthara. I have heard much about you."

"The pleasure is mine," Minthara replied, her tone respectful. "Your training is evident in Y/N's skill."

Sarya smiled, a rare and genuine expression. "Y/N was an exceptional student, and it seems they have found an equally exceptional partner."

The conversation shifted seamlessly into Drow, the fluid and harsh syllables blending perfectly with the soft elven melodies that filled the hall. "Your elven family is more tolerable than most," Minthara remarked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Sarya chuckled softly. "Indeed. They have always treated me with respect, which is more than I can say for others of their kind."

"Agreed, I am fortunate to have found the exception" Minthara added, as she looked to try and find you, expecting you to be conversing with your siblings, only to be surprised when you appeared at her shoulder.

"Remember, Minthara, I know Drow too, thanks to Sarya's teachings."

Minthara turned to you, her eyes filled with pride and affection. "It all makes sense now, my beloved. Your confidence, your fighting style—everything. ."

"Oh, I get all that from being taught Drow ways? Not at all from my natural personality," You smiled, teasingly cocking a brow at her. Then when Minthara didn't answer instead taking a sip of her wine you looked to Sarya, who also chose to sip her wine. You scoffed and whacked both of them on the side, but before you could walk away Minthara wrapped an arm around your side and brought you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

The rest of the dinner passed with Sarya and your family regaling stories of your youth. One particular story ended in a heated debate on who had broken the carafe gifted by a noble family from Calimshan which ended in you and your siblings tussling and Sarya had to step in one final time.

By the end of the evening, as you walked Minthara back through the estate, you stopped in the gardens, Minthara pulled you close.

"You truly are remarkable," Minthara whispered before drawing you in for a kiss. You smiled and placed your index finger on her lips, pausing her advance

"And I am all yours," you replied with a mischievous smile, stealing the words out of her mouth. Minthara rolled her eyes and cupped your face, your lips melding together in passion. She then pulled away, unable to help herself.

"And you are all mine"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[smilingangel582]

Dancing Lessons

Warning: Arcane spoilers, which are after the war, caitvi/violyn moments, cute and tickles, implied with harsh but subtle Vi language 😄

Enjoyyyy

The large parlour in Caitlyn's family estate was pristine as always, with its polished wooden floors and heavy drapes framing tall windows. It was quiet—save for the occasional groan of frustration and a soft, muffled laugh.

"Alright, Vi. Again." Caitlyn stood poised and proper in the centre of the room, her hands on her hips and a look of gentle exasperation on her face.

Vi, on the other hand, looked far less refined. She stood a few feet away, slouched slightly with her hands shoved in her pockets, a scowl on her face as she glared at Caitlyn. "Again? Cupcake, I’ve already tripped over my own two feet like twelve times. Don’t you think I’ve suffered enough?"

Caitlyn suppressed a smile, her refined tone remaining firm. “You’re exaggerating. It was only four times. And no, I’m not letting you out of this. You need to know how to waltz for the upcoming Piltover party.”

Vi groaned loudly, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m not a waltzing kind of girl, Cait. Can’t I just… stand there and look intimidating?”

Cait teased wirh amusement, "That would be hard when you will be wearing a cute dress this time"

Vi inwardly groaned. She forgot about that detail... and she did say CUTE dress like that's the worst form of punishment for someone like Vi...

"I can't wear a suit either?" Vi hopefully asked. It was a very puppy-like look that Caitlyn wanted to say yes but managed to shoot down Vi's silly attempts.

“No, you can’t.” Caitlyn stepped closer, her smirk softening into something more amused. “Don’t you want to prove all those snobbish elites wrong? Show them you can handle anything they toss at you?”

"Can I skip the dress?" Vi muttered.

Caitlyn deadpanned, "No"

Vi’s lips twitched, and Caitlyn could tell she was considering it. “...Fine. But if I break your toes, it’s on you.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Caitlyn extended her hand expectantly. “Come here.”

Vi sighed but stepped forward, hesitantly placing her rougher hand into Caitlyn’s softer one. Caitlyn smiled approvingly, gently guiding Vi’s other hand to her shoulder while she rested her own hand lightly on Vi’s waist.

The moment Caitlyn’s fingers brushed Vi’s side, Vi twitched. Caitlyn was careful not to be too firm as she didn't want to startle Vi.

“Hold on...” Vi pulled back slightly, narrowing her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

Caitlyn blinked innocently. Not sure if she had offended Vi or not “...Holding your waist?” she added for more clarification, "It's the ladies part of the waltz, Violet as you will be dancing with a man during that night..."

Gosh, she wished she could wear a suit... getting touched is worse than getting gut punched by the wardens.

“Yeah, well -don’t grab it like that. Feels weird.” Vi shifted uncomfortably.

Caitlyn smirked faintly, something mischievous flickering in her eyes. “Oh, Vi… you’re not ticklish, are you?”

Vi stiffened immediately, her face betraying her. “What? No! Me? Ticklish? Pfft- Get real, Cupcake.”

No, Vi was madly ticklish there... it didn't take a genius to figure that out even when she was young as a teenager back in zaun. She wished prison was harder, so she could've outgrown it.

“Hmm…” Caitlyn tilted her head humming, unconvinced. “Interesting...”

Vi glared at her. “Cupcake whatever you're thinking... dont even try it.”

“Oh, I won’t.” Caitlyn smiled sweetly. “For now. But only if you focus.”

Vi sighed warily, falling back into the proper waltz stance. “Fine. Let’s just get this over with.”

Caitlyn started leading Vi into slow steps, guiding her gently. “One-two-three, one-two-three. See? It's not so bad.”

Vi’s brow furrowed in concentration, her movements stiff and robotic. “Yeah, right. I’m doing this all wrong-”

“Relax, Vi.” Caitlyn squeezed her waist lightly to adjust her posture -only to have Vi jolt with an uncontrollable giggle.

“HEY-” Vi instantly pulled back, pointing a warning finger at Caitlyn. “You did that on purpose!”

“I did not,” Caitlyn said, far too innocent for her own good. “It’s not my fault you’re so… sensitive.”

Vi scowled, cheeks a faint pink. “I’m not sensitive.”

“Oh really?” Caitlyn stepped closer again, her smirk turning downright wicked. “Then why did you flinch?”

“I didn’t flinch.”

“You DID!” Caitlyn emphasised by poking VI again

“I’ll punch you, Caitlyn, I swear—”

"Aww you wouldn't hit your cupcake now would you?" Cait has become awfully teasing this past few days and Vi just pouted at it as she liked it and hated it.

"I will..."

But Caitlyn was already advancing, closing the space between them as she suddenly wiggled her fingers playfully at Vi’s sides.

“DON’T - EEK -hahahaha! Cait—CAITLYN!” Vi burst into laughter immediately, her voice rising and lowering inconsistently, stumbling back and almost tripping over her own feet as Caitlyn’s hands skittered up her waist with precision.

“What was that, Vi? I didn’t quite hear you,” Caitlyn teased, grinning as she followed Vi, who was now doubled over and trying to escape.

“HAHA! S-Stohohop it! I’m serious!” Vi’s face turned red as she tried to swat Caitlyn’s hands away, but the Sheriff was relentless.

“Oh no, this is far too entertaining,” Caitlyn replied cheerfully, digging her fingers lightly into Vi’s ribs for just a second before darting back to her sides. “I never thought I’d see you so helpless, Vi.”

“I -I’m gonna get you back, gyack -hahahaha!” Vi gasped, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she squirmed away. “Juhuhust WAIT!”

Caitlyn finally relented, stepping back and crossing her arms with a victorious grin. Vi flopped onto the couch, panting and glaring daggers at her.

“You’re evil,” Vi muttered, trying to catch her breath.

Caitlyn shrugged, looking far too pleased with herself. “You’re lucky I stopped. I could’ve gone for your ribs next.”

She made a waiggling fingers in a gesture to rile Vi up.

Vi groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “I swear, Cait, you owe me for this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get your revenge,” Caitlyn said with a laugh, reaching out to pat Vi’s knee. “But for now… let’s try again, hmm?”

Vi peeked out from her hands, suspicious. “You’re not gonna do it again, right?”

Caitlyn smiled sweetly. “Of course not.”

Vi narrowed her eyes but stood up anyway, grumbling under her breath. “You’re insufferable, you know that?.”

Caitlyn’s smirk returned as she reached for Vi’s hand. “Oh, I know.”

As they resumed their stance, Caitlyn’s fingers -well almost - brushed Vi’s waist again. Vi immediately shot her a look.

“Don’t even THINK about it.”

Caitlyn simply smiled, but Vi wasn’t convinced -and for good reason.

[tanzdoesthings]

Birthdays

for the Ancient AU. Five Pebbles and Seven Red Suns celebrates a birthday.

a gift for @ardienothesieno !

“I thought you didn’t do birth-cycles?” Pebbles said as he tilted his head and looked to Suns. His cup clinked against the smooth table, drink sloshing a bit, letting the ice clink against the straw. The room was filled with the low hum of conversation, casual and yet refined. Suns fit in better than Pebbles ever did.

They sipped their drink, as poised as the cycle they met, embodying a silent holiness that Pebbles could never dream of achieving. “No, it is not my usual style,” they reply, “but it seemed valuable to celebrate.”

Void below. What is he supposed to say to… this? All of this! Seven Red Suns taking time out of their busy schedule just to take him out to lunch? He’s an artist and lab tech, for wyrm’s sake, and yet they continue to meet, discussing anything under the sun, and then lower as well. Religion, philosophy, paintings, life, their work on the lifeblood of their civilization. Turning Spires is activating soon, and they’re here. Celebrating his birthcycle.

“Pebbles?” they prompt, bringing him back to the moment. “Is everything alright?”

He nods, taking another sip of his drink. “Just thinking about all that’s happened.”

They raise their glass in agreement, tipping it towards him and then taking another sip. “It’s incredible, really. We always wonder if the cycle has us trapped, and here we are, celebrating it.”

“Tradition, I suppose,” he contemplates, holding the cup on the table.

Suns seems to have noticed the oddities, to his dismay. “We don’t have to celebrate here, you know. I thought it would be nice to take you up here, but you seem… uncomfortable.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, Suns,” he bites back, harder than he really meant to.

Smoothly, always elegantly, in a single motion, Suns sets their cup on the table, taking Pebbles by the arm and pulling. He almost falls, but manages to keep step with his friend. They travel down the elevator, out onto the street, moving between the flowing crowd.

It takes until they are standing in front of the rolling door to Pebble’s workshop that he realizes what Suns is doing. “Hey- I thought you said no work today!”

Suns unlocks the door. They’ve known the code for many cycles now. “Where do you keep your paints? And an apron, preferably.”

Little Pebbles, standing in the doorway where he was left, stares. “You want to paint?”

“It’s your birthday, yes? You enjoy doing this. I want you to show me.”

It takes another moment before Pebbles snaps back into action, collecting two aprons and moving to hang his mask on the hook- until he remembered Suns was also there. Should he take off his mask-? It would be more difficult to paint with it on- would it be weird?

Maybe it would, except Suns had moved behind him, taking an apron in one hand and holding their own mask in the other, hanging it. Oh. He tries to stop thinking, pulling off his own mask and hanging it side by side. They are smiling at him- have they always been? Their eyes are so vibrant- focus. Paint. Cans are pulled from the cabinet, nozzles fitted and set in front of a blank wall in the workshop.

“It will take some getting used to,” he says, picking up a red can and shaking. “Keep your hand moving, or else the paint will pool and drip.” A piece of paper is handed to Suns, and they reach down to pick up another can. Purple.

They shake it as well, trying a few sprays across the paper. The first two drip, but the third is relatively even. Pebbles watches, and void below is it different having Suns in this workshop. They’re tall, he’s always known this, but even without the mask Suns towers over him. He nods at the test sprays, pointing to the wall.

“We start with a sketch. This will get covered up later, but it’s good reference.” He takes a deep breath, stepping up to the wall. Scholar symbol. That will do. It’s bubbly and big, and Suns moves to add some pearls in around the character.

“Is this good?”

He’s always painted alone, this is so different. It’s good. “Yes, very. I like the way it frames the subject.”

Five Pebbles gets into the rhythm of painting. Shake-shake-shake, spray. Step back, see the big picture. Next color. Repeat. Suns works on the pearls, and they almost glow on the wall, colors weaving together. They’re picking this up well.

“You’re quick,” Suns observes, adding gold to one of the pearls.

“I’ve done this for a long time,” he replies.

More painting. Outlines are added, highlights giving emphasis to the shapes. Suns steps back at this point, letting their friend finish the work.

He steps back, dropping the near-empty canister on the ground. “Well. We did it.”

“Thank you Pebbles.”

“Oh-“ He really had needed to get something on this wall, this had just been a good excuse to-

Suns puts their hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

He nods. It was still so surreal to see Suns without their mask, but there they went, picking the cans up off his floor. He hastily followed, putting caps back on and throwing out the empty ones. It all cleaned up quickly, and they both returned to the cabinet to put away the cans and aprons.

“It’s a shame we must wear these bulky masks and not be able to properly appreciate all the artwork on the walls.” Suns states as they pick up their mask, inspecting it before putting it back on.

“Yeah.”

Suns glances to Pebbles. “Let’s get home. It’s been a long day. Oh- send Moon my regards! I’m still writing a response to her last message,” they laugh, standing and walking to the door.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure she knows.” He follows suit, closing the door behind the two and locking it.

Many cycles later, when he’s running for his life, he’s going to come in this workshop, looking for supplies. He’s going to see the mural, made with the one who set him up to fail. The burns on his hands, his face, all from the void fluid that Suns gave him. And he is going to swallow his despair, and run.

Run far away.

[ach-sss-no]

I feel weird giving out unprompted permission statements because I'm making a big assumption that anyone's going to want to use my work. That said I also know people do like to build on other people's art and can't always work up the nerve to ask, so: Anyone is free to use this design if they want to for any reason- I don't own this character anyway. (Although I am hopeful that you do not, you know, monetize it, because i cant do that and if you do that its not fair ;_; ) Feel free to remix, improve, use as basic inspiration, etc. I would appreciate a tag/mention if you use it so I can see what you did!

This design has evolved a little since I first started drawing it, and I will see people reblogging the original design notes and think 'oh no! those are out of date and I don't have new/accurate ones!'

Reblogging the old one is still an honor- and the first take on a design just sometimes has a different appeal because it's less refined and more chaotic (especially with a character that should be chaotic), so I suspect some people will just prefer the older drawings & they'll still get shared, which is great! But I felt as if the project was a little bit incomplete without an update, since I think I've reached the point where if you see that old post & then come to my blog and look at my current content, there's a noticeable difference.

Also I kind of like making design notes.

If anyone's wondering why things changed, the answer's really simple- 90% of it is just the result of him settling into having more consistent anatomy and facial structure so that I can keep him looking accurate across different angles and poses. If you look at the old drawings you may notice that Gollum has an inconsistently shaped squishy head. That's fine for a concept post but doesn't work as well for maintaining him across different comic panels or in an animatic, at least not the way I work.

In the same vein, while my art is still & will always be heavily stylized, I started giving him more structured semi-sorta-realistic anatomy so that he wouldn't look entirely out of place next to less bizarre-looking characters such as Aragorn. (I feel that's also helpful in nudging Gollum into the uncanny valley where he ought to be, rather than leaving him so abstractified that there's a risk you won't see anything wrong with him having noodle arms.) He also acquired the new-style 'garbage bag' outfit because I found a reference in LOTR to his arms and legs being bare/exposed (it's in one of my favorite passages, the 'an eagle would think Gollum was dead if it came by right now' passage in The Two Towers):

Not even an eagle poised against the sun would have marked the hobbits sitting there, under the weight of doom, silent, not moving, shrouded in their thin grey cloaks. For a moment he might have paused to consider Gollum, a tiny figure sprawling on the ground: there perhaps lay the famished skeleton of some child of Men, its ragged garment still clinging to it, its long arms and legs almost bone-white and bone-thin: no flesh worth a peck.

[apostatizing]

The art of stealth was not one that Panette can say she understood well. Even after she had turned herself into a 'reformed' lady worthy of fighting alongside the Crown Princess of Solm, the Berserker preferred to act quickly rather than wait. Who knew what could happen if they stood by idly for too long! But for now she would play along and put on a disguise or two until the moment was right to strike.

If only the disguises provided were not ridiculous.

As to not draw attention to the fact that she and Stahl were together on this mission Panette was dressed in drastically different attire. Her hair was tied back and the gown given to her was not only uncomfortable to move in...but also a strikingly bright shade of pink. "...Gross," she spoke under her breath, trying to focus instead on the task ahead. Hopefully if this went on long enough she would get to wear something much more suited to her tastes.

"...That does seem to be them." She narrows her eyes in the hopes of getting a better look at the glasses they held, trying to ensure that each had the exact same contents. "Do you have any idea how to separate them from the King? Look at them-- they're practically attached to him!"

masters of deception » panette & stahl

A number of you are sent straight to Fhirdiad to warn King Rufus, only to arrive too late. The guards say that he is with two young princesses, a “Celica” and a “Corrin”, and are naturally aghast when they find out the truth. That said, this must be dealt with carefully: the king’s, nay, all of House Blaiddyd’s reputation is on the line, and an embarrassment of this magnitude would shame the family for generations to come. There is only one option: to don a variety of disguises as you follow after the king’s date night through the market district and separate him from the ‘princesses’. [Grants Heavy Armor +1]

The situation was far from ideal. The King could be undergoing a shakedown at any moment now -- though, Stahl would be surprised if the thieves were foolish enough to rob a royal in a busy marketplace -- and there was little time to waste in separating him from his crooked companions.

Still, that wasn't going to stop him from going all out with his disguises.

As soon as the guards had been informed of the deception and a hasty plan formulated, they had ushered the two students into a dressing room holding a variety of styles to choose from. The most important thing was that the faux princesses didn't suspect that they were being followed, so multiple disguises might be required throughout the night. As such, he had donned a large hooded cloak and sunglasses, which could be easily discarded after some time to reveal a trendy oversized jacket and a slicked-back hairstyle. Finally, if a third option was required, the jacket could be removed and his hair mussed up to transform him into a unremarkable plain-clothed peasant.

Having now arrived at the market district, it look little time to locate their King; they just followed the whispers and pointed fingers of the townsfolk.

"Over there," he said under his breath, inclining his head towards an artisinal wine vendor, where the trio were sampling the wares.

@apostatizing

[justwinginglife]

Passing Time

25 Days of Simpmas: Day Eight December 8th: Mira, Rank 18 Anime: The Magical Girl and The Evil Lieutenant Used to Be Archenemies Event Masterlist

From Mira’s POV

You passed him a note. 

WAIT- YOU PASSED HIM A NOTE???!!!

He’d heard among regular folk that passing notes was a sign of affection used to encourage flirtatious conversation but was that your intention? What could you have possibly meant by giving him this note? And why him? Had you given anyone else a note? He quickly scanned the conference room. Everyone was hard at work, discussing battle plans, torture strategies, and generally all things evil and malicious, but no one, absolutely NONE of his coworkers, had appeared to receive a note from you. It seems you slid the note to him and only him.

ONLY HIM???!!!

His fingers shook as he gently cradled the precious piece of paper in his calloused hands, contemplating his next choice of action. Should he open it in front of everyone? Had you intended to have him read it later? But what if he read it later, and you were disappointed he hadn’t read it now? Was it time sensitive? It HAD to have been urgent, if you had dared to pass him a note amidst a very important work meeting. That did it- he was reading it now.

He slowly unfolded the slip of paper you’d so kindly bestowed upon him. 

So, will I see you tomorrow?

SO WILL I SEE YOU TOMORROW.

The words boomed in his head. You wanted to see him tomorrow. 

Suddenly his heart stopped beating. His lungs stopped contracting. His blood stopped flowing. He had ceased to exist as he knew it. This was it. He had died. He had died, and gone to heaven. He had died, and gone to heaven, and you were his angel. He had died, and gone to heaven, and you were his angel, and you’d been sent to greet him, to welcome him, to walk him through the gates of eternal paradise. It was decided. He was most decidedly and completely and utterly and totally and extremely dead as of this very minute. 

Then you nudged him with your elbow, expecting a response. 

WAIT- YOU WERE EXPECTING A RESPONSE???

He was alive again. He had to be. He needed to be alive to write. To tell you. To keep telling you. To keep telling you over and over and over, that YES, you WOULD indeed be seeing him tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. Wait, was that too presumptuous of him??? Did you want to see him the day after and the day after that? You’d only asked about tomorrow. Was he getting ahead of himself? What should he write back? What was he even doing tomorrow? No- it didn’t matter what he was doing tomorrow. He would most definitely be seeing you. That was his only plan. If he had other plans, now he didn’t; his only plan was seeing you.

His trembling fingers picked up his pen. What words could possibly convey the depths of his feelings for you? What words could he possibly use to describe the unconditional and unadulterated and unequivocal way in which he was so thoroughly and absolutely consumed by your very being to the point of ceasing to properly exist when you weren’t around to breathe life into him? 

Yes.

He slid his answer back down the table to you, his heart feeling not unlike a herd of elephants stampeding in his chest. 

You read his response and quickly jotted down your reply before sliding it back. 

Oh god, the moment of truth. How would you respond to his complex answer? How had his answer made you feel? How would your answer make him feel? He was sure it was good. He was sure it was great. He was sure it was elegant, it was sophisticated, it was refined. He was sure he’d read it and his life would be changed for the better. He was sure he’d read it and the historians would soon break down the doors and whisk the note away, encasing it behind glass so that all who came after may study the very picture of poise that you embodied, with your words so pleasantly printed on this precious piece of parchment paper.

Great, can’t wait! The party is always better when you’re there. 

YOU CALLED HIM GREAT. YOU SAID YOU COULDN’T WAIT. 

He must be dying again; he was having trouble breathing; the room was spinning. Wait. Hold on. You mentioned a party. What party? He picked up the piece of paper and reread your words over and over, as if his persistent staring would somehow will the answer into existence. Was there a party tomorrow that you were both going to? He couldn’t very well ask you what party you were talking about as he’d just told you he’d be there. How should he go about responding to this?

He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of his fellow lieutenants. “I believe it is in our best interests to discuss preparations for the party tomorrow. Is everything set up so that we may proceed at the intended time in the intended location?”

Bellatrix straightened in her seat as she prepared to speak. “Everything is going according to plan. The party will proceed as scheduled.”

He pretended to stroke his chin in satisfaction. “Good, good. And so everyone is aware, please feel free to remind them all of the party’s intended time and location.”

Taking the duty her beloved Mira had bestowed upon her with all seriousness, Bellatrix solemnly nodded and began explaining the details of the aforementioned party, just as she’d been instructed. What a fool. She’d fallen right into his trap. Now he knew that he was expected to show up to a party with all the members of his legion, tomorrow, at 7 o clock, in the castle’s ballroom to enjoy Winter’s Eve. Now he could begin to write back a reply. Wait. How was he to reply? You hadn’t asked him anything he could answer; you’d simply made a statement. 

Did you not want him to respond? NO! He couldn’t think that way. He must respond. He had to respond. It was only fair, after you’d been so kind to engage him in written conversation in the first place. He couldn’t let it end like this. Even if he had to change the topic, he would keep the conversation going, NO MATTER WHAT.

How is your day going?

There! He’d done it! Now, what was to be your next move?

I’m a little bored. Otherwise good. How’s your day? 

YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT HIS DAY??? 

What a goddess you were. How kind. How considerate. His fellow officers could learn a thing or two from your conduct. 

It’s going well. And yours?

You had laughed softly upon reading his words, stifling your reaction with the sleeve of your shirt. God, you looked so adorable when you wrote like that, giggling into your sleeve as you penned your response. He wondered what he’d done to make you laugh. Oh well, no matter. You��d be responding soon. He waited for your response with bated breath.

Still good. As good as it was the first time that you asked. 

He almost choked on his lungs. Shit. He’d asked you twice how your day had been going. How had he missed that? He wondered if you thought him uncivilized. He must atone for his mistakes.

My apologies, I only meant that the well being of your day was so important that it begged to be inquired of twice. 

He quickly erased his words. Ridiculous.

Fine weather we’ve been having lately. 

He passed the paper back. 

You laughed again.

He couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing. Had he somehow mistakenly asked you how your day was going again??

Very fine weather. I hope it stays for our party, but I heard it might storm tomorrow. 

He would enjoy a party with you, no matter the weather. He just wasn’t sure how to tell you that. 

If the weather is of such concern to you, we could always cancel the party.

What was he saying??? He didn’t want to cancel the party. He didn’t want to cancel his only excuse to see you tomorrow. He almost reached to take the note back, eager to scribble out his response, replace it with something new, but you’d already read his words. 

You smiled.

God, his heart soared when you smiled. God, his heart thundered when you smiled. God, his heart ignited when you smiled.

We can’t cancel because then I won’t have an excuse to ask you for a dance. 

WERE HIS HANDS SHAKING? WAS THE TABLE SHAKING? WAS THE ROOM SHAKING? WAS THE WORLD SHAKING?

YOU WANTED TO DANCE WITH HIM?????

He inhaled and exhaled calmly. 

You needn’t make excuses around me. If you’d like to dance, then I will save you a dance, simple as that. 

You scribbled your next words furiously and it was making him sweat. What could you possibly be writing that took so much concentrated focus?

And if one isn’t enough? Will you save all your dances for me?

HOW CUTE COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE???

HIS POOR, WRETCHED HEART COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!!

His brain was blaring alarms, threatening nuclear explosion. He was on the verge of a catastrophic meltdown. Or possibly extinction. How was he supposed to even exist after this encounter? How was he even supposed to respond? Was he even capable of responding? Did he even remember what words were? Could you tell that his organs were on the verge of fatal collapse? Could you tell how he felt? Could you possibly feel the same?

His quivering hand picked up the pencil once more, but it was as if the pencil had suddenly gained a hundred pounds, for he was now finding it difficult to write at all. Using all the strength he’d amassed in his time as a lieutenant, he finally forced his fingers to comply with his commands. He passed back his response. 

Yes. 

And then you smiled again. And even blushed. 

God, when you blushed, the clouds lifted. God, when you blushed, the waters parted.  God, when you blushed, the heavens sang. 

And when he saw you’d fallen into a frozen state of bliss upon reading that single simple word, his heart melted into molecules. You had to be feeling the way he was feeling. You had to be. He recognized the way your muscles stiffened in shock, the way your eyes lit with joy. It was the same thing he felt every time he looked at you, every time he sat by you, every time he breathed your air, every time he inhaled your scent. It was the same feeling he’d felt this whole conversation and he wondered how you’d make him feel next. He wondered how you’d respond. He waited for you to respond. 

He waited. 

And he waited. 

But you had been so stunned into silence that it appeared you also forgot how to write. The pen and paper lay by your fingers, untouched. 

How could he break the ice that’d frozen you solid? How could he bring you back down to earth, back down to his side? How could he capture the attention of your gleeful gaze once more?

He snatched up the pen and paper again, scribbling as furiously as you’d once done. 

You sensed the movement and your muscles relaxed slightly, allowing you to turn so you could peer over at him curiously. When he presented you with the paper again, you read his words only to burst into laughter. 

So. How’s your day going?

It’s good. Really, really, good.

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @ouiouimochi @inkytypewriter

[the-blossica-fan]

Personality Split!: Sotheby

The Naiive, the Potion Master, and the Lady.

SOTHEBY!!!! I love Sotheby and people should know that.

I love to think these are the closest Split Personality characters in this. All of them are still children and it's not like they're that different despite being different characteristics of Sotheby.

The Lady is the refined part of Sotheby, more calm, poised and elegant, just what she's expected to be. She would be a lovely young lady, having a relaxed personality but also responsible.

Naive Sotheby is such a cutie, she's more like herself, as in one of the main personality traits of Sotheby. A naive child lacking social awareness, she also really likes Lady Sotheby's personality! She considers her to be great and very professional. Oh, and she likes Potion Master Sotheby too, she's so creative and smart!

Potion Master Sotheby has to be under constant supervision, she's not hyperactive or anything, but she's a young not-socially-aware child that may cause explosions every once in a while. She does her experiments outside with help of the others.

Which then leaves the image of Naive Sotheby asking a lot of questions while Lady Sotheby distributes the ingredients and Potion Master Sotheby prepares the potion. Btw explosión incoming

They're surprisingly easy to deal with, Sotheby has never been a rule breaker or a very troublesome child, so only one single adult is enough to keep her in check, usually Ms. Moissan.