#((your shins and kneecaps are not safe))

[epitomees]

"I dare anyone to try even lifting me off the ground, let alone chucking me just because I'm short."

[void-my-warranty]

Come Quietly (18+)

Pairing: König/Fem Reader Content Warnings: Intense situation (fear of SA), nonconsensual frisking, hand over mouth gag, blood/wound dressing, forced proximity, brief thoughts of suicide, dubious consent (under duress), stranger sex, vaginal fingering, PIV sex, she/her reader Word Count: 8.7k

This shouldn't be happening.

You curl tighter in on yourself in the darkness, flinching with every muffled rat-tat-tat coming from somewhere outside. 

This isn't some goddamned war zone, this is a normal fucking city, with a functional police force and Apple Watches and Chipotle. Armed militants don't just drop out of the sky and fight each other, that’s not how this works. 

The boom of an explosion outside has you mashing your forehead into your kneecaps, hugging your legs so tight that the tendons in your arms ache. With any luck, no one will notice your little hidey hole. It’s more or less tucked into the rafters, above the lights of this warehouse, and the average person would have to do a lot of looking up and squinting to even know it exists. 

But maybe mercenaries are used to looking up, for like… snipers, or drones or something. Maybe this is the worst place you could have gone, maybe you should have hidden more in plain sight, found a locker in the staff shower area or something.  

There’s a heavy shift of metal-on-metal when the solid, industrial outer door gets wrenched open somewhere below you. You ration your breaths, making sure you’re absolutely motionless as several heavy footsteps wander through the place. Male laughter trickles up to your ears, and you hate it. The innate cruelty of someone enjoying what’s happening right now, terrorizing people in the middle of the night, makes your blood boil. You hope they all trip and fall in this dim, off-hours lighting, and impale themselves on something sharp.

You’re very aware of who you are, what you are, in the face of those quiet laughs and the click and shuffle of guns and gear moving. You’re nobody to them. You’ve got no phone, no shoes, not even a fucking bra, because this all happened so quickly that there wasn’t time to do anything but stumble out of bed and run. 

The pounding of your pulse almost makes it difficult to concentrate on those retreating footsteps. You hope they’re gone for good, leaving you with your sore arm - you scratched it on something sharp while climbing up here - your racing thoughts, and your mouth that’s fucking parched from your scramble to safety. It’s useless to swallow but you do it anyway, as if the motion will somehow manufacture more spit, and keep your throat from going all cracked and itchy. Coughing is not an option. Coughing will get you killed.

The footsteps are definitely gone, but a different noise begins to make itself known to you. It’s a slow, steady, huff, huff. You narrow your focus to that sound, subconsciously scouring your memories for a possible match. It’s not quite fabric shifting, not quite panting. It’s getting closer, though, almost like it’s floating in the air towards y—

A bulky black shadow moves, rising up over the edge of your hiding place, right past where your feet lay. It huffs quietly, halting for a few seconds to catch its breath, before heaving itself up over the edge of your one safe place.

Your ears are ringing with how terrified you are. Even though you’re lying down, blood somehow manages to rush from your face, and all you have the presence of mind to do is silently tuck your feet in as tight as they’ll go, holding your breath and just praying this monster will fall to his death, or somehow not notice you, or—

The shadow’s knee finds purchase on the surface where you’re lying, and his arm is so long that when he reaches out to haul himself the rest of the way up, his hand makes contact with the front of your shin. 

How anyone can move that fast, you have no idea. One moment you’re barely suppressing your whimper of terror, and the next he’s got hold of your ankle, using your body weight to assist him to vault the rest of the way onto the platform, directly on top of you. 

Suddenly you can’t breathe. There’s something scratchy and heavy and sticky covering your mouth and nose, effectively preventing the scream that rises in your throat while this thing crouches on his knees above you. You’re so unprepared for your oxygen to be cut off like this that you freeze in panic, not even registering for a few seconds that this brute’s other hand is on your body. 

Squeezing, feeling, groping, the lumbering shadow doesn’t hesitate to violate you. You choke on that faint smell of blood and gunpowder in his suffocating glove while he runs his hand over you, under your arms, over your breasts, tucking his fingers into the band of your leggings and rushing them across to the other side of your hip. It’s not until he starts squeezing your thighs and running his hand down to your ankles that you actually realize what he’s doing. With a small wave of relief, you register that he’s not trying to cop a feel, he’s frisking you for weapons. 

 The hand over your mouth finally shifts low enough that you can force in some air through your nose. You do so greedily, not even caring that much that he’s palming your ass and lower back in a final inspection for objects. Apparently satisfied at your helplessness, the shadow’s searching hand slows, comes around to splay out across your stomach and keep you in place while he stays there straddling your hips.

Huff, huff. 

He’s thinking. 

This is the most dangerous moment of all, as he catches his breath and decides what to do with you. He’s found a helpless rabbit curled up in his chosen hiding spot, and the only question now is if he sees you as something inconvenient and disposable, or as something for eating. 

He’s covered in gear, you felt that much when he was pressed on top of you for a bit. He’s probably got all kinds of body armor and maybe a bullet proof helmet, but if you could get your hand on a pistol… He probably has one strapped somewhere to his leg, as a backup if his rifle gets jammed. Maybe you could find a way to pull it free, and slide it into an exposed portion of his neck. Or if that’s not an option, you could always shoot yourself. End it that way, before something worse can happen. 

The hand on your stomach vanishes, and there’s a rustling sound of fabric. You feel the flinch in his fingers on your mouth when the rip of velcro disturbs the quiet air. You want his hand gone, but you don’t dare move, not yet. Let him have no information about your capabilities. Save up your physical exertion for when you might need it most. Throwing yourself off this fucking platform wouldn’t be too difficult, if you took him by surprise. Maybe you could even take him down with you. 

The monster’s knee shifts against the wood below him, and then he grabs for your wrist. Your muscles are so locked up in terror that he has to force your arm to extend, has to put a good deal of effort into dragging your hand towards the darkness where his crotch is. Your eyes squeeze closed tightly, sobbing dry air through your nose as your hand makes contact with something warm and wet.

Wait, that’s his thigh. He presses your hand to it, hard, like he’s trying to make you understand. Pressure, he wants you to put pressure on his leg. His wet, bloody leg. 

It’s difficult to do from the position you’re in, but you’re so relieved that this is just a medical task, you do what he’s asking. His giant hand vanishes from the top of yours, and you put as much force on his wound as you can. You swear the oppressive weight of his glove over your mouth even softens a fraction, while he reaches for something else on his belt.

A wad of fabric gets forced into your palm, and again he wordlessly shows you to apply pressure. It feels like it could be blood clotting gauze, so you search for his wound with your fingers, and then use your thumb to fucking pack that sucker in. There’s a soft grunt of pain above you, but he doesn’t do anything to show that your knowledge of the field dressing is unwelcome. 

A thought flashes through your head, that maybe he’ll spare you from something inhuman if you’re extra useful. But your life experience quickly smashes that hope, because you know it might actually be the opposite.

Fawn, it’s got to be a fawn response that has you holding the gauze perfectly in place for this horrible stranger. You can feel him wrapping something around his leg, trying to tie it one handed, which is ridiculous because it’s way too short. You can tell that much when you reach a hand over to assist. His thigh is fucking massive, and there’s no way to properly secure whatever it is you’ve got the end of. 

He’s going to make you lay here for an hour, putting pressure on that damn gauze if you can’t think of something else. He’s going to bleed unnecessarily if you can’t come up with a solution. 

Despising yourself, you do the worst thing you can possibly imagine doing. You move his hand in place for pressure, and then peel off your own leggings to get his injury taken care of. 

The hateful thing stays there on his knees, breathing heavily with one hand on his leg and the other wrapped around the bottom of your face. You work your own goddamn clothing off, stripping yourself down to underwear, and wrap those stretchy leggings twice around his thigh before tying them as tight as you can. You set your teeth and yank the knot roughly into place, and you hope it hurts like a bitch. 

There. You’re officially suicidal, you fucking idiot. And those were your second favorite leggings. 

You drop your arms back to the floor and wait for the consequences of your stupid actions. You’re not relaxed, not by a long shot. There’s adrenaline racing through your veins, and you’re braced to shoulder him off the edge like a linebacker. Maybe if you can get your feet past his hips, you could just kangaroo this motherfucker into thin air. 

That sickening weight on your mouth finally drops away. The soldier hesitates with his fingertips on your cheek, waiting to see if you’ll scream. 

No? Okay, then.

He draws his hand back and fiddles with something near his hip. There’s a faint sound of sliding aluminum, and then he grabs the back of your neck, tilting your head forward. You instinctively fight that push, until you feel something cold and metal press against your mouth. The rim of a canteen. 

Greedily you grab hold of his wrist and take a few swallows of lukewarm water, uncaring that it has that slight chemical taste, like a plastic water bottle that’s been sitting in the sun. You’re so dehydrated that you don’t even comprehend the significance of the peace offering, until he’s dragging it away to ration the rest of the water for himself. 

You could down an entire fishbowl right now, but you suppose two drinks of water isn’t the worst thing he could have given you. It shows that he sees you as human, at least. Your leggings, in exchange for a little water. Fair. 

The soldier’s hand slips under your lower back, and to your absolute horror, he turns you towards himself as he settles down to the floor.

Dammit. Of course you ended up here. There’s not room for both of you side-by-side on this ledge, but he really does need to lie down with that injury. So now you get to play Titanic and get draped across this murderer’s chest on this little platform which probably only exists to access the electrical system. Full body contact. Great.

Theoretically he must know that your legs are bare, but maybe he forgot. Maybe he’s so tunnel-visioned in on the battle and getting shot, that those little details haven’t really clicked into place in his head. Maybe he didn’t notice you weren’t wearing a bra, when he squished your tits earlier. Maybe he’s lost too much blood, and you’ll be able to slip away to safety once he passes out. Maybe that should have been the goal from the start, and you shouldn’t have dressed his wound quite so well. 

A gloved hand unexpectedly makes contact with your forehead, and you immediately flinch away from it. There’s a soft, understanding kind of rumble that vibrates through the man for a second, and then a sound of Velcro, and fabric shifting. 

You’re prepared enough this time that you don’t react when bare, human fingers find your temple. You merely squeeze your eyes shut and wait for it to stop, wanting nothing to do with some horrible soldier’s hand on your face. You don’t dare wrench your head away, but you lock your muscles tight and hope that’s enough for him to change his mind.

Nope. Fingers brush over your skin, smoothing your hair off your forehead. He hesitates, then you feel the purposeful press of a rough palm against your chin, curving his hand around your jaw. 

Thanks to that drink of water, you’re able to work your tongue and prepare a decent glob of spit to launch at him if he even tries to kiss you. But his hand shifts again, running upwards. 

He’s mapping out your face, you think. A little stroke of his thumb over the middle of your cheek, running down the side of your nose. He pushes your hair back again before feeling the pads of his fingers over your eyebrow, and then down the curve of your cheekbone, delicately disturbing your lashes. 

He’s being gentle at least, slowly taking stock of your features in the darkness. To what end, you’re not sure. Maybe he’s so much of a prick that he has to decide if you’re pretty enough to assault. Maybe he’s racist, and he’s trying to figure out from your bone structure if you’re white enough. Maybe he’s some twisted serial killer who gets off on lulling his victims into a false sense of security before he tortures them to death. 

The tip of your nose gets an exploratory press between his fingers, and then his thumb drops down and carefully finds your mouth. You’re completely unprepared for that warm flood of tingles, starting in your lower lip and then washing out across your neck. You make a surprised inhale against the pad of his thumb, almost a gasp, at how sensitive your skin is there. 

As if you startled him, that searching touch instantly disappears. 

His thumb is gone, but for some reason your lips hold onto the lingering ghost of the sensation. It just stays there, nearly vibrating inside your skin, as if he accidentally discovered a vulnerable piece of your nervous system and somehow managed to touch it just right. It gives you that bizarre feeling of something being missing inside you, something being a little bit out of place all of a sudden, even though you’re quite whole and uninjured.

He doesn’t come back to your mouth, but his hand does find your skin again. He shifts it down to your neck, curling around your nape and letting his fingers trace up into your hair. He cups the back of your skull like that for a moment, exploring the feel of your head in his hand, and you subtly shift your fingers to explore any possible weapons on his vest. 

You’re not sure what you’re feeling for. A grenade and a spare magazine would probably feel about the same to you in the blackness like this. You’re about as likely to get yourself accidentally killed as you are to find a handgun, but you do it anyway, brushing your fingers across his gear as if you’re being flirty. You’re too concentrated on survival to let yourself feel sick about it. 

There’s a noise from somewhere below, and the solder goes taut beneath you, quickly muzzling you with his palm. His other hand wraps around the back of your head to keep you completely immobilized while those hateful footsteps walk through the place again. There are sirens going faintly outside, but there’s a worrisome lack of urgency in the movements of the pack of men in the warehouse. They’re far too comfortable being here. 

It’s impossible to tell what they’re saying to each other, so instead you focus on how your head is currently being held in the jaws of a predator. It’s unnervingly close to the position you see over and over on TV, right before someone gets their neck snapped. 

He could do it, you think. Any time he wants, he could wrench your head around and end your life without a single noise. You wonder if he’s thinking that, too, from the way his fingers shift and tighten on the back of your skull. Twist, snap, done. Problem solved for big dumb gorilla man. 

Heart pounding, you do the only thing you can for survival, and reach for the hand that’s over your mouth, finding the back of it with your fingers. It’s bare now, so you can feel the soft bits of hair scattered from his wrist, the width of his knuckles and the engaged tendons connecting them. You trace your fingers lightly down the backs of his, in what you hope is a soothing motion. 

You’re harmless, see? You’re relaxed and unarmed, and also quite pantsless at the moment. You’re just a soft thing who can’t do shit to him, and you don’t want those guys shooting at your hiding spot any more than he does. Killing you would be more trouble than it’s worth, surely.

He waits a while to release you, way past the time when the last of the footsteps are gone. You just keep petting his hand with your fingertips, and eventually, reluctantly, he peels it off your face. Again you congratulate yourself for surviving.

He lets you put your head back down on his shoulder, and his arm moves again to wrap around your waist and keep you in place. You can feel his gloved fingers shifting there, settling into a comfortable position on your bare skin, right where your shirt has ridden halfway up your back. You’re thankful for that glove, because maybe he won’t notice your glaring lack of clothes.

His gloveless hand had settled on your shoulder, but now it brushes across to your neck. You half expect him to slide his fingers into your hair again, but he doesn’t. He lets his thumb drift down the front of your throat, and though the logical part of your brain sees it as the threat it is, the sensitive skin of your neck wakes up. Like your lips, those nerves respond to his touch, feeding you a skittering sort of warmth which you loathe. 

Damn you for letting yourself get this touch starved. You should have fucked that guy from the bar last Saturday. What was his name? J-something. Maybe if you’d been a little more careless with your pussy, your skin wouldn’t be this hungry for a stranger’s rough hand. It’s not arousal lighting up your nerves, but it’s definitely interest. It’s an internal purr of longing, of enjoying this male hand on your vulnerable skin, despite the circumstances. 

He’s so large that the sweeping motion of that thumb encompasses the entire length of your throat, all the way down to the join of your collarbones. The careful way he’s touching you is dangerous, because it makes you feel noticed. It’s strangely humanizing, having his fingers curl gently around the back of your neck, the side of his thumb lingering for a moment on the steady beat of your pulse. 

He sees you as something human, and soft, and interesting. An anomaly in the midst of gunfire and death. It’s almost worshipful, the way he traces his bare fingertips across that little bit of skin behind your ear. It makes you draw some conclusions about the person he is, which are almost definitely untrue, and most likely the effect of Stockholm syndrome. 

In the dark like this, in a moment of madness, you imagine that he’s just some guy. That the gear and the weaponry don’t define him, that he’s got a mother or a sister somewhere, and now he’s hurt and focusing on your soft skin instead of the throbbing pain in his leg. Try as you might, you can’t picture him as a monster anymore. He’s just as human as you are, finding the same hiding spot as if the self preservation instinct in both of your brains destined it to happen. 

You shudder against him when his fingers find their way to your ear. A cascade of pleasure follows that gentle touch, this time with a definite undertone of arousal. Your pussy likes the way he strokes the shell of your ear, runs your earlobe through his fingertips. It’s confusing in the way that it’s not an inherently sexual action. It’s just fingers and an ear, brushing a slow path up and down, but it sends lazy heat through your belly. 

You stay relaxed and let it happen, angling your chin up just a fraction so he doesn’t have to reach as far. It’s just fucking nice, the way his attention is narrowed on you. In your delusional state, you feel strangely safe in it. Those slow traces of his fingertips feel like a little bit of control in an otherwise lawless circumstance. 

Two fingers find your lips again, soft as a feather, and this time you let yourself like it. You accept that tingling flood of sensation, and close your eyes to focus on it. The stranger painstakingly studies the outer edge of your lips, pausing every time you swallow or move at all. And then he finds the inner part, caressing across your soft bottom lip in a way that sends blood rushing between your legs. 

Patient, this guy is so fucking patient. It makes your imagination go to embarrassing places, thinking about how his fingers might feel elsewhere. There’s just something inherently sexy about this slow perusal, and your pussy recognizes it. It knows instinctively how it would feel to receive this kind of unhurried attention. How nice it would be to have those long fingers lazily circling your clit, touching you for his sensory pleasure, just like this. 

This kind of curious touch could get you to do humiliating things, keep you wet and desperate and wipe your brain of anything but the need to please him. You’d chase his approval even to the point of not getting your own satisfaction, if he did anything like this to the rest of your body. 

Belatedly you realize how dangerous it is to follow this train of thought. Why the fuck are you fantasizing right now? Why are you allowing yourself to feel this way, while getting fondled by some dirty soldier in a warehouse? Who cares if he’s patient, he’s probably just extra dumb or something. 

The man subtly tilts his face, and his lungs fill with a quiet inhale against your hair. He likes the way you smell, you can tell by the curl of his fingers against your lower back. His chin nudges forward a little, almost like a kiss, and his hand returns to your ear.

Your belly dips so hard that your abs tighten automatically, and you shudder against him again. It’s like mind control, those neglected erogenous zones he’s finding. It’s turning you needy and willing, partly for the physical stimulation and partly just because you’re attracted to the kind of person who would even know to do this. Someone who would take the time to turn you on in this indirect way, allowing you to retain your dignity, but giving you a taste of how nice and gentle his fingers are. 

The next exhale that leaves you is almost verbal. Your voice faintly pokes through, with your self control crumbling the way it is. It makes him pause, pulling his hand away from you. Surely he doesn’t think he hurt you. The noise you made was all pleasure, the little slut on his chest unable to keep herself quiet for this intimate touching session. 

The man’s shoulder twitches, like an aborted movement that he thought better of. And then his hand comes back to your face, squishing both of your cheeks together while he forces your head up and down in a nodding motion. Then without pausing, he moves it a few times in a back and forth shake. 

The meaning is obvious to you — yes or no, do you want this?

Dammit. 

You know exactly what “this” is. You were kind of hoping you wouldn’t have to ask for it directly, that he’d just decide you were compliant enough to be consenting. But now apparently you’re going to have to beg.

His hand is still on your face, so he feels you move your head in a nod. Yes, you’re a slut. Yes, this stranger can fuck you. You’re on the pill, so yes, you’ll go ahead and have unprotected sex on the dirty floor, because apparently your self worth is low enough for that. 

He wraps his hands around your hips to turn you, rolling you onto your back with your head resting on the upper part of his chest. You keep your knees elevated because with the change of perspective, you can’t remember which of his legs is injured, and you don’t want to put your foot down on it. Right leg before, which means… No, left leg before, so—

Fuck, whatever. You can’t spare the brainpower to figure it out, so you choose the slutty option instead, spreading your legs and letting your feet drop to the floor on either side of his thighs. It’s not like you’re fooling anyone at this point. Your heart is pounding and your pussy feels a little wet, so you might as well just keep your knees open for whatever he decides to do. 

One of his hands collects the bottom hem of your shirt, but he pauses halfway through dragging it up your stomach. He wraps his gloved hand around your face again, waiting.

You close your eyes and nod pathetically, unable to bear the time it takes before he gets his hands on you again. 

It doesn’t take long. Your shirt gets tucked up around your chin, and then that large hand cups your exposed breast, and the slight brush on your nipple makes you nearly moan. 

He doesn’t like that. His gloved hand tightens on your face, reaching from ear to ear to muffle you with his palm. 

There. Now you’re ready to be touched properly. 

Your eyes roll back a little with that first, soft fingering of your nipple, finding it impossibly sensitive and hungry for him. You must have some kind of bondage kink, because hearing your own pitiful breathing huffed against the tactical leather of his glove turns you on. You like that you’re already so aroused, he has to keep you quiet. You like that he’s so willing to put his hands on you, making sure you’re being good while he exploits your responsive body. 

How you could have possibly thought he was dumb earlier, you can’t fathom. The way he’s touching you right now screams experience. It’s methodical and possessive, inhaling the scent of your shampoo again while he brushes his fingertips in a teasing circle over the point of your breast. 

Your pussy gets jealous so quickly, it’s humiliating. You can only be grateful that he’s ignoring those little lifts of your hips, taking his time thumbing your nipples and sampling the feel of your breasts in his hand. Suddenly the gag of his glove is quite necessary, with all the moans and whimpers that want to escape. You’re addicted to the way they sound, coming out in stuttered breaths through your nose. Soft, pathetic begging noises which you’re really not trying too hard to suppress. 

Bad. He cranks your chin up a little to get your attention, then brings his mouth to your ear and breathes a firm, “Shh.”

The way that one word simultaneously shuts you up and makes your clit throb tells you a lot about why you’re in this position in the first place. 

You’ll be good for him now. You’ll try really hard not to make noises, just keep yourself relaxed like this with your knees open, and let him touch your pussy when he’s ready. Shame on you, really, for trying to speed up the process. He knows what’s good for you. If he decides that what you need is to get riled up like this without ever finding out what his fingers feel like on your clit, then maybe that’s all you deserve. 

You close your eyes and turn your cheek into his vest, focusing on being quiet like he asked. Your thighs are still flexing and your pussy is still clenching, but he hasn’t asked you to stop being aroused. He can hardly expect that of you, when he’s being like this. 

Finally his hand wanders down your stomach, finding the edge of your underwear. Apparently convinced of your desperation, he pushes it down without even asking. You bring your legs together, lift your feet into the air so he can drag your panties all the way off, because you need to earn his approval again.

Good girl, his thumb says, stroking down the side of your cheek. What a helpful little thing you are, spreading your knees again so he doesn’t have anything in the way as he brings his fingers down the inside of your thigh to touch you. 

Oh, you’re screwed. The first contact of his finger on your clit tells you everything you need to know about how hard he’s going to make you cum. That teasing brush has your pussy spasming a few times around nothing, even as you keep your legs spread open and your noises carefully locked down.

That’s your job, to be quiet and still while he touches you. Maybe you should be thinking more about survival, or concentrating on what’s happening outside the warehouse, but you don’t. All you care about is the path of that finger gathering up your wetness and softly spreading it around your clit, because you’re a good girl. He’s getting you acclimated to how his fingers feel on your most sensitive part, because he’s decided that you’ve earned it. 

There’s nothing better than this. The stranger presses what you think might be a kiss to your temple, but you don’t feel lips against your skin, you feel fabric. His thumb moves in another caress against your cheek, and he painstakingly strokes your clit for you, making sure it’s wet and soft and torturously delicious. 

Hazy with arousal, you lift your hand to his face behind you, your fingers indeed meeting cloth. There’s something draped over his face, but you can still feel the firm line of his jaw through it. When your fingertips wander over the center where his mouth should be, you swear his chin tips up to press a kiss to them through the material. 

Oh, he’s a sweet one. You smile against his glove, which turns into a shudder when he finds a motion that’s really, really good. A little rumble happens in his chest when you melt back against him, relaxing your knees wide and cuddling your cheek against his vest. 

Your pussy is doing these intermittent pulses, trying to catch up to how quickly you’re getting turned on, and practicing the orgasm he’s going to give you. He’s coaxing it out of you instead of forcing it, keeping his touches on the edge of teasing, and paced just fast enough to have you getting wetter and wetter. 

He’s making your pussy open up and offer itself to his hand, and you’re in the perfect mental state to appreciate the withholding. You accept it as a natural part of this encounter, because it’s not your job to decide what kind of orgasm you get. You just get to take what he’s giving you, and cum in whatever way he thinks is best. 

You’re just settling into that blissful realization when his fingers stop moving. They slide downwards a fraction, tracing the slick outline of your entrance and hesitating there. 

Maybe you should give him a nod, but something compels you to bring your hand down to show him what you want, instead. You settle your fingers over the tops of his, appreciating those warm, hard knuckles, and help press his two middle fingers into your pussy. It’s not difficult. He makes no move to fight your direction, sinking them in deep, and curling them against your g-spot even after you release him. 

Oh, he’s so nice. His fingers are strong and able to get wonderfully far inside you, sliding against all those sensitive nerves with deliberate rolls of his wrist. He’s done teasing you, apparently. His hand tightens on your face, and he fucks you on his fingers, hard and generous. Your thighs automatically twitch while you take it, flexing your head back a little and beginning to pant through your nose. This is what you fucking needed. He knew it, even if you didn’t. 

Those invisible waves of heat begin to drift through your thighs, all the way down to your toes. It’s your body promising something you shouldn’t want right now, but you do. You do want to cum on your stranger’s fingers. You do want him to feel those pulses, and know for sure how much you’ve enjoyed your time with him. You want him to experience the way you can’t help but orgasm when he touches you. 

When it happens, you’re ready. You’re impossibly wet for how dehydrated you are, and every nerve in your body is alert with arousal. You lock your jaw shut and groan into his hand while you cum, your hips flexing up in an unconscious effort to keep that lightning coursing through your veins. 

A few words get muttered against your ear while you tremble through it, a soft, encouraging, "Sehr brav," that your mind registers as praise. Your stranger presses his palm to your clit while he rocks his fingers into you, making white flash through your vision with a fresh wave of pleasure. 

He’s pleased, you can tell. He’s breathing hard, letting you control the last dregs of it with lifts of your hips. He likes what you just did. He likes you.

Almost regretfully, you relax your legs again and let him slide his fingers out of your pussy. You don’t want it to be over. He may have got his fill of you, but you still don’t know shit about him. You want to map out his face, want to feel his hidden anatomy finding completion in your hands. 

Surely he’s going to fuck you. Surely he wants to. 

That gloved hand leaves your face, now damp with your own humid breathing. He helps you turn back onto your belly, and wraps his arm once again around your waist to keep you secure. 

Maybe he lost too much blood, and he can’t get an erection. Maybe he’s afraid of getting you pregnant, or thinks he’s too sweaty and gross for a blowjob. You have to know, so you subtly shift your knee over his crotch. 

Oh, he’s hard. He’s bricked as fuck in his pants, and you’re going to do something about it. 

He flinches slightly when you reach up to cup his masked cheek. Not gonna hurt you, your thumb tells him, stroking softly while your other hand drops to palm his erection. 

He goes stiff beneath you, hardly even breathing for a moment. When he doesn’t seem to understand what you want, you grab his chin and do a quick nod motion and then a shake. 

You smile to yourself when his face does a frantic nod under your hand. That’s a ‘hell yes’ if you ever felt one. He doesn’t even wait for you to figure out his belt, just shoves your hand out of the way and does it himself, pushing his pants down just enough to expose everything.

The clink of metal and rustle of fabric sounds louder than it is, now that most of the explosions outside have stopped. Surely he’ll have someone looking for him, some kind of extraction he needs to get to. You should probably speed this up, just to be sure. 

You have a conveniently bare and drippy pussy, which he assists you to line up to where he needs it, by way of two big hands on your hips. His cock is hot against your inner thigh, and hopefully not quite as big as it feels like he is. 

Nope, he’s definitely a giant. You wince a little when you lower yourself past the first few inches, putting your hands on his chest for support. Oh god, this is dire. This is bigger than anything you’ve ever had, and even though you’re a pretty stubborn person, you’re still pausing halfway down, trying to find the will to continue breaking yourself on it. 

One of his hands finds the top of yours, and all of a sudden you remember who he is. He’s someone gentle and considerate, running his fingertips over the back of your hand in a soothing motion. 

You suck in a steadying breath and drag your pussy back up him, trying not to cherish too much the relief of getting away from his cock. Down again, and you’re only able to get about as far as last time before an overwhelmed whimper leaves your throat. You want to do this, but you can’t. You can’t do this, it’s too much. 

His hand leaves yours, and there’s a recognizable sound of hollow aluminum again. He cups your chin, makes you stop moving to bring his canteen up to your mouth. You sit halfway down that soldier’s cock and obediently keep your head tipped back, swallowing down the last of his water. It’s your treat for being a good girl, you suppose. A little bit of hydration so your pussy can be wet and comfortable while you fuck him. 

The rim of metal disappears, and once you’ve finished swallowing, something else gets pressed to your lips. It’s fabric, and it doesn’t smell too bad, but you’re still confused for a second until he pries your jaw open and shoves it past your teeth. 

You let out a complainy breath around the gag, sacrificing a hand that you have braced on his chest to feel it with your fingers for a second, and then you realize what it is. It’s your own fucking panties that he just utilized to shut you up. 

God, you’re gonna fall in love at this rate. 

At least you know where all your remaining clothes are. One is rucked up above your bare breasts, one wrapped around this guy’s leg, and one muffling your little gasps while you work to take the rest of him into your body. 

It takes some time, but you manage to do it. A tremble runs down your legs while you kneel there with your ass flush to his hips, trying to adjust to the foreign sensation that you have a cock shoved up in your lungs. Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but it feels like that, and you’re not used to it.

His hands settle on you, one on your hip, and the gloveless one cupping your breast. A little connection, a little reassurance. Everything is fine, you’re not in pain, and you’re doing a good job. Now it’s time to be a good girl and give him his treat.

The soldier’s next breath is almost a groan, when you start to drag your pussy up and down him. You adore the way he drops his hand to your thigh, like he’s having to hold on for dear life. That’s exactly the way you want him right now, and it wakes up the impish part of your brain that wants to make him suffer through the same arousal that you did. 

You can be patient, see? You can bounce nice and slow on his cock, letting him feel every inch of drag, every sticky drop of your hips. Isn’t this nice, sir? Do you like the way this feels? Does it help you not think about your leg quite so much?

If you’re being honest, you like it, too. Now that you’re comfortably stretched, you can appreciate the way he effortlessly presses against all your internal sweet spots. Every movement is good in some way, and even the fingers tightening on your thigh feel like pleasure. They feel delicious and strong, reminding you that he’s allowing this to happen. You’re on top, but he could change that if he wanted. He wants you where you are right now, his little hidey hole girl giving him what you know he needs. 

His hands suddenly clamp onto your hips, keeping you down and unable to move. You almost make a confused sound around your gag, until you hear the footsteps again, the male voices. Fuck off, you miserable bastards. 

Wait. Are they actively looking for him? 

You breathe as quietly as you can through your nose, considering for the first time that this might not be some random foot soldier you’re in the middle of fucking. Oh, shit. You fucked up, didn’t you?

Your man’s hands move, one caressing your stomach, encouraging you to stay quiet and still, and the other one reaches down to your pussy to find your clit. 

Your next breath is stuttered, taking that spike of arousal because there’s no other option for you. You have to stay here motionless, full of cock, and let him play with your clit while you wait out the mercenaries below. And the pathetic thing is, you love it.

It’s fucking hot that this guy enjoys your body this much, that he keeps finding ways to ground you and keep you mentally connected with him. He circles his thumb over your slick clit, and you close your eyes and shudder through it, working your tongue around the dry fabric in your mouth. 

Good girl, he gloved hand says, smoothing up and down your waist. Just like that, stay quiet and let yourself feel good.

Yeah, okay. At least you know he trusts you a little bit, because he’s letting you make the choice to keep the gag in your mouth, even with soldiers so close by. Maybe you’ve earned his trust a little, somehow. The rubs on your clit feel nice, and assurance does, too. 

Those idiots linger so long, you’re afraid you’re going to cum. You actually have to reach down and pull his hand away from your pussy just to make sure you don’t. He keeps your hand in his, intwines your fingers and squeezes comfortingly. Surely he can feel the way your pussy keeps clamping down on him, desperate for what you’ve just denied yourself. It fucking sucks. 

He lets you know when you can move again, once the coast is clear. He puts both hands on your waist and effortlessly lifts you up a few inches, seeming just as desperate as you are to keep going. 

With a thoughtless whimper, you drag his hand back around to show him that you want to cum now. You’re a little afraid that he’ll get offended at the pushiness, but he doesn’t. He rubs your clit for you while you ride him, and it takes no time at all before you’re cumming again. 

Deep, wet spasms wrap around him, and despite your best efforts, you gasp around your panties. The sweetest orgasm you’ve ever had crashes over you, stealing your breath with wave after wave of gooey pleasure. It cascades across your scalp, down your spine. It diffuses through your limbs and has you desperately grinding your hips against him, because you can’t keep up the motion of fucking any longer. 

You’re vaguely aware of that warning flex inside you, and then all of a sudden his fingers tighten on your waist, and he drags you completely off his cock. Shocked, still stuck in the tail end of your pleasure, you don’t really comprehend the reason for his boot shifting against the floor, the muffled, restrained grunt from his throat while he jerks himself off the rest of the way. 

You hover there, catching your breath while the wet sound of his hand begins to slow below your hips. His breathing turns long and heavy, his body slowly relaxing and coming down from the orgasm. 

He pulled out for you, you think. He could have just cum inside you, but he didn’t. 

You like him. Officially, you have a hard crush. 

His gloved hand gives your thigh an affectionate pat, and then he works to pull his pants back into place and close his belt up. 

There are more sirens outside now, and you can hear the low buzz of a few radios as well. No gunshots is a good thing, right? You survived, you both did. 

You don’t even have time to pull your underwear out of your mouth before the metal door opens again, and quick, deliberate footsteps shuffle through. 

That gets your man’s attention. He sits up instantly, shifting you to the corner of the hiding place so he can kneel at the edge and peer over. 

He shouts something down at them that you think might be German, and then there’s a cheerful roar of several male voices answering back. Apparently they’re his people, happy to see him alive. You pull your panties out of your mouth and wonder if you should try to go with him.

Your soldier hesitates for just a second, reaches back to squeeze your arm. He says something to you that sounds like just one word, and you have no fucking clue what it is, but the intention is clear: you need to stay here. 

You hold your damp underwear in your fingers and watch him leave the way he came, gingerly climbing down the scaffolding to meet his party. There’s a strange sense of sadness in your chest, which you try not to think about. He doesn’t owe you anything. It was your own stupid fantasies that imagined he was anything but cordial. It’s your own fault that you’re clinging to the idea of an anonymous hookup, you fucking idiot. 

It takes a long time later, before you feel safe enough to come down from your hiding place. A policeman finds you, and gets you some water. You refuse to go to the hospital, because you aren’t hurt. You’re just sad. 

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

His name is Konig. 

You know this, because there’s only one massive dude in the hospital with a wounded thigh. 

You also know this, because in your initial investigations, you happened to see a recognizable piece of black clothing, folded neatly and resting on his side table.

Yeah. He kept your second favorite pair of leggings like some fucking sex souvenir, and it pisses you off. 

Days after the fact, you’re here for a far more embarrassing reason than a gun wound. That arm you scratched while climbing to safety? Yeah, that got infected. You kept waiting for it to get better on its own, but by the time your boss made you get it checked out, you had to be hospitalized and get a fun little IV. 

For the third time today, you take your two second window of walking by Konig’s bed in order to observe your anonymous hookup in your peripheral vision. 

You wouldn’t exactly call him cute. He’s somewhat plain, somewhat rough around the edges. It’s really those eyes that do it for you. The first time you passed him in the hall, while he was limping by on crutches, you made eye contact. It was just for a split second before his gaze flicked away, but you felt a little breathless by how sharply those blue eyes pierced yours. 

Your only comfort is that he’s even taller than you expected, and your errant stares and shifty eyes aren’t all that uncommon around him. It must be hell to be perceived so continuously like that. To have everyone’s gaze automatically latch onto you, before they remember pleasantries enough to quickly look away. Your hyper awareness of everything he does is easily hidden among the others, so you begin to make a plan. 

You have roughly three hours left before you get discharged. It’s almost dinner time, and he’s been somewhat active, so surely he’ll go to the cafeteria for food at some point. The trick is to be at the right location at the right time, and catch him when he’s gone, without making yourself suspicious with surveillance. 

You wait until a typical dinner time, and then do a casual walk-by. To your delight, your leggings are sitting there completely unguarded. Unfortunately there’s a few hospital staff lingering in the area, and you have to kill five precious minutes waiting for your opportunity.

You take it when it comes. Quickly you push aside the curtain and scoop up your leggings, holding them to your chest as you get out as fast as you can manage, without being suspicious. There, now everything is right in the world again. He got some wartime pussy, and you got all of your clothes back. Fair.

Except when you turn the next corner, a familiar shape with dark hair and crutches becomes visible, heading in your direction from the other end of the hallway. 

Be cool, be cool. He doesn’t know who you are. He hasn’t been looking at you the same way you’ve been studying him, so he’s uninterested and suspects nothing. All you have to do is hide your leggings discreetly behind your back, and casually make your way back to the safety of your room. Easy. 

It’s not until you’re within sight of your door that you let out a relieved breath, glancing down at the prize in your hands. Take that, super soldier. Outsmarted by an idiot girl, how do you like them apples? You’re smiling to yourself as you grab the handle of your door and begin to turn it, pulling it open.

Except a massive hand suddenly plants itself on the door right in front of your face, shoving it closed again and wrenching the handle out of your grasp. 

You squeak in fright, whipping your head around to meet those dark blue eyes being leveled down at you. 

Both of your gazes drop to the object clutched in your fingers, and then he looks back up at your face. Fuck. That wasn’t a sex souvenir, that was bait.

“I knew it was you,” he says with a thick accent.

You scowl up at him. “No, you didn't.”

A warm smile crawls across his face. “You are right, I did not.” He inclines his head towards your bandaged arm. “I did this to you?”

“What?” You lift your arm, staring at it stupidly. “Oh, no. It was a nail or something.”

He nods, looking you over speculatively. He shifts on his crutch, leaning on it to offer out his hand. “I’m Konig.”

You slide your palm into that fucking paw of a hand, and give him a smile while you squeeze it. “I know.” 

Part 2 Drabble

Dividers by @themaskedgifer

[pursued-by-the-squid]

vi. wait for the green light

pairing: gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 9.3k

content warning: the games are finally beginning and i'm not shying away from the violence, so just be aware.

[ also, happy birthday in-ho!!! ]

ao3 | masterlist

Everything is painfully bright. You can see the lights through your eyelids even before you wake, but they’re still brilliant enough to hurt your eyes when you open them. For a moment, there isn’t much of anything beyond the sterile tint of fluorescent lights. And then, suddenly, there is everything.

The figure in your apartment, Gi-hun’s departure, the kiss – it all comes rushing back. You frantically push yourself up so you’re sitting and very narrowly miss hitting your head on a metal beam. “Oh, shit!”

Your hands fly up to shield your face while you simultaneously twist to the side, but the sudden shift in weight throws your balance off and you topple over onto the floor. Your shin rams into something hard and your tailbone aches when you land, but you’re otherwise unharmed.

“What the–?”

There’s a massive metal bunkbed looming above you, stacked five beds high and devoid of any personality apart from utilitarian despair. You see another one when you tilt your head back, then another and another, until your head is swimming. What kind of kidnapper has rows and rows of empty bunkbeds, and for what purpose?

You’re just about to spiral into a full panic attack when you spot a flash of teal green, then a splash of white, and suddenly there’s a woman kneeling in front of you. She has pretty eyes and the kindest smile you’ve ever seen, and stitched onto the breast of her jacket is a patch with the number ‘120’. She offers you a hand. “Are you alright?”

What the hell is she wearing? You glance down and practically crawl out of your skin, because what in the hell are you wearing? It’s the same outfit as hers – green zip-up jacket, green tracksuit slacks, white shoes, and white stripes running down your shoulders and legs – only your number is different. 457. Is that supposed to mean something?

“Hey.” Her voice is soft, Miss 120, and her touch is even softer, little more than a brush of her fingertips on your kneecap. And even though you’ve never met this woman before in your life, the contact is enough to soothe you temporarily. “It’s alright. Here.” Her palm is offered with a little quirk of a smile. “Take my hand.”

She pulls you up with a remarkable display of strength, damn near hoisting you off your feet instead of to them, but her other hand quickly comes to your shoulder to help you settle and find your balance. It’s only once you’re standing that you’re afforded a better look around, though there still isn’t much to see that you haven’t already taken note of. Rows and rows of bunkbeds, a swarm of green jackets, and too-bright lights that make your eyes hurt.

“What’s your name?”

“Huh?” You’re so disoriented that you’re finding it difficult to focus on any one thing, let alone whatever it is she’s saying. “I-I’m sorry, I’m…Where are we?”

Miss 120 shakes her head as her mouth tips into a slight frown. “I don’t know. I don’t think any of us know.” She casts her eyes about for a moment, cataloging the high rise of the ceiling and the glimpses of strange murals peeking out from behind the beds, before turning her attention back to you. “Did you play ddakji too?”

All your life, you’ve never thought it possible for the world to come to screeching halt. It hadn’t even done that when Gi-hun kissed you – oh God, Gi-hun. Where is he? Is he safe? Is he dead? No, no, wait, you can’t… you can’t think about that right now. Your mind is scrambling to make sense of what little information you have readily available and it feels like twelve separate traffic accidents are all colliding on the same city block inside your head.

Ddakji. She asked if you had played ddakji. That can’t be a coincidence, can it? Looking down at your jacket, you run your fingers over the stitched on ‘457’. The number is remarkably close to the one Gi-hun had given you once, the number that’s been taking turns with the dead recruiter haunting your dreams each night. This… can’t be right. The recruiter’s dead. While that hadn’t been Gi-hun’s end goal, surely that would be enough to get either himself killed or to put an end to the entire witch hunt, right? What more is there for Gi-hun or the higher-ups to do either than to kill each other?

But then, what else could this place possibly be?

“The recruiter,” you start, whirling around to look at Miss 120 once more. “The person you played ddakji with. Was it a man in a suit?”

Her frown deepens considerably as she nods. “Yes. Why?”

You press further. You have to know for sure. “The card. Did he give you a card? With the shapes on it?”

“Yes,” she replies, baffled, “didn’t you get the same?”

The room starts to spin around you, the ceiling tilting one way and the floor tipping the other until you’re stumbling backward into the metal frame of your bed. The games are real, then. You’d always assumed they were, assumed that Gi-hun was tortured enough not to lie to you about something so awful, but it was a distant fear that never came any closer than the printing of shapes upon a business card and a dead man in a suit. Now his words ring clearer than ever before – I was worried they’d hurt you because of me.

You run. It’s the only thing that makes sense. You have to get out of here before the games start. You are not killing anyone, no matter how much money they give you. You don’t need it and you don’t want it. You just want to go back home. You want Gi-hun back, you want–

The doors on the far end of the room open to show a line of men in zip-up hoodie suits, tall and ominous like the one who drugged you, only their hoodies are a vibrant pink rather than black. And just like that, your feet are rooted to the floor. Maybe they aren’t horrifically menacing to anyone else, but one of them wears the same mask as your attacker – all black with a white square. Is that him? The same one?

Where you had wanted to run only moments before, now all you want to do is hide. You push your way through the small section of people you’d already cut through to get back to your bed, back to Miss 120, anywhere so long as it’s as far away from those masked creeps as you can get. What if they drug you again? What if they drugged everyone else here? Your back hits the wall; it’s cool to the touch, almost uncomfortably so against the blazing heat of your neck and palms.

The man in the square mask takes a step forward. “I would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you.” His voice is as modulated as the voice in your apartment, but you can’t tell if it’s the same person or not. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but it’s unsettling either way. “Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize.”

The sign hanging above his head – a digital display of Hangul and numerals – feels as ominous as the square emblazoned on his face. 457. The same number on your chest. 457 people, all gathered together so they might kill each other for money. What kind of sick fuck would design something like that?

It seems you’re not the only one wondering, even if no one else in the room has any idea what it is they’ve stumbled into. Miss 120 speaks up first, then another person, and another, and another until the entire room is buzzing with whispered musings and mild accusations thrown in the direction of the masked figures. Everyone is wondering what the hell is going on and how these strange, masked men have any authority over their lives.

And then everyone suddenly stops worrying about it so much because, rather than offer a genuine answer, Square Mask offers footage – men and women alike, ddakji colors flashing in their hands, their cheeks bright red from slap after shameful slap, and a massive debt attached to each name. One of them is Miss 120 – Cho Hyun-ju, apparently, at nearly two billion won. There’s another poor soul with ten billion won in debt. Gi-hun was right, they really do prey on the most vulnerable people they can find.

How is this even legal? Is there footage of you too? Did the woman who approached you so long ago have a camera in her pocket so she could secretly record you? And why? Why would anyone want to watch footage of desperate strangers getting publicly abused? What pleasure could possibly be found in something like that?

“All of you in this room have crippling debts and are now on a cliff-edge,” Square Mask asserts. “When we first came to you, you did not trust us either. But as you know, we played a game and gave you money as promised. And so you trusted us and volunteered to participate according to your own free will. You have one last chance to decide. Do you want to live like a piece of trash, running from creditors? Or will you seize the last opportunity we are offering?”

The room devolves into further whisperings and murmurs as people start leaning in to one another. You, personally, can hardly believe a word you’re hearing. The manipulation feels so blatant – he’s literally calling everyone in the room garbage, goading them into participating so they can rise above the name calling and the weight of financial stress, and they have no idea. They don’t know they’re walking into a death trap.

Someone should do something, or say something. But who, exactly? You? Who else is there?

Before you can wrestle with yourself further, the lights flash and flicker into a dim yellow glow, casting the edges of the room into shadow. A large, glowing orb descends from the ceiling – only it’s not an orb, but a pig. Plastic, maybe, or glass, you’re not really sure, and at first, you’re lost as to why they would choose such a strange design. It’s wildly out of place. Then you hear the sound of a clicking lottery machine projected over the speakers and you realize it isn’t out of place at all.

It's a joke. It’s a perverted, twisted, fucked up attempt at a joke and it’s enough to make you sick.

45.7 billion won. The number is so mindbogglingly high that you can hardly comprehend it. You’re not even sure how much that would be in your home country, just that it’s a lot. Enough to pay off that one gentleman’s debts 4 and a half times with close to another billion to spare. That’s lifechanging amounts of money. And they’re just giving it away freely?

Not freely, you have to remind yourself. There’s a price to pay and it’s steeped in blood. Even if no one else in this room knows it, you do.

Someone should really say something, you just wish that it could be anyone other than you. There are 456 other bodies in this room, 456 people who could be saved if you just had the courage to speak up, but something holds you back. You’re terrified. You’re frozen in place by the icy chill of fear and uncertainty that clings to your bones. 456 people could easily rise up and overwhelm five measly guards, so why can’t you just say it?

You’re so intent on beating yourself up for your cowardice that you almost miss it. That voice. You don’t actually comprehend the words, you’re too dissociated to understand much of anything apart from the rush of adrenaline in your veins, but you don’t have to understand him to recognize him. Because you’d know that voice anywhere.

Gi-hun’s always had such a distinctive timbre. You could pick him from a crowd of lookalikes simply by asking him to speak, so picking him from a crowd of 456 is light work. You trail blindly in the direction it had come from, somewhere at the back of the room, lost among the rows of bunkbeds and metal platforms, looking at every face, every shock of short, dark hair, every gently sloping pair of shoulders until you find him. Because you have to find him. Because he’s here, he has to be.

Your hand lands on someone’s shoulder, someone who has that same tall and lanky stature, and his name is already on your tongue by the time they turn to reveal that they are not, in fact, Seong Gi-hun. You weren’t imagining things, were you? That was definitely his voice, you’re sure of it.

And then you see him. Cloistered among the metal bedframes with his face tilted toward the back wall. You don’t know what he’s looking at, you don’t care, because all that matters is that he’s alive. He’s here. You’re not alone, you don’t have to face this hellscape by yourself.

“Gi-hun!”

His head snaps toward you, his eyes wide and body stiff, and for a moment you’re left with only the ability to stare and to study. The face swimming before you is familiar and foreign all at once. The angles of his cheekbones are more pronounced in this lighting and his scowl more severe, but it’s really him. Your Gi-hun. And then you’re sprinting, throwing yourself into his arms and choking on his name as you cling to him, the only solid lifeline you have left.

“You’re alive,” you weep. Your hands won’t stop shaking as they grasp at any bit of skin or clothing they can find, desperate to keep him close in case you wake up and find yourself living in a world without him in it. “Oh my god, you’re alive.”

“What are you doing here?” he mutters, all gravel and breathy disbelief.

You’re trying to find the words to tell him everything, but they come out as incoherent babblings. “I don’t know,” you cry. “There was this man, and he grabbed me, a-and then I woke up and I–”

Something iron strong wraps around your bicep and yanks on you until you’re tripping over your own feet. A long, hard rod of metal slams into your spine as Gi-hun wrenches the two of you apart, his neck arched and his face contorted as he transforms into some wild and snarling beast. “What are you doing here?” he demands. He’s shaking you, his fingernails digging into your skin even through the jacket, and he’s everywhere, too close and too angry. “I told you not to come here! You promised me, [___]. You promised! What were you thinking?”

You shake your head, you try to protest, but he won’t let you. “Gi-hun–”

“I told you!” he growls, and no amount of flinching away is enough to give him pause. “Don’t leave the apartment, I said. Don’t go outside. Why?”

You’re clawing at him now, trying desperately to push him back and away, but he’s stronger than you ever gave him credit for. You’d always thought he was just some tall, lanky thing, all bark but no real bite. Now you finally realize how much you’d underestimated him.

“Did you keep the card? You thought you’d call the number and play when my back was turned?”

“I didn’t call,” you explain tearfully, struggling against his grip yet still failing to free yourself from his wrath. “I-I didn’t do anything. Gi-hun, please, you’re hurting me!”

His hand smacks into your chest, and he hits you so hard that the ache he left in your bicep disappears entirely. Your player number is caught in his fist. “What is this, huh? You think this is a Game you can win? You think this is fun?”

“Gi-hun!” you screech, and this time you summon enough strength to tear yourself free. Your palms slam into his chest and shove him backward several steps before your legs finally give out, collapsing you upon the very bed he’d pinned you to, and by then you’re both breathless and wide-eyed, gazing wordlessly at one another as if the other person has just grown a second head. “I didn’t keep the fucking card.”

“Then how?” he asks, his nostrils flaring when his chin tilts in your direction.

“I…” You close your eyes for a moment, thinking that maybe if you squeeze them tightly enough, you’ll wake up back in your own bed, far away from all the death you know is yet to come. It’s a pretty thought, but you know better. You wish you didn’t.

Because you can remember it all so clearly. You can still feel the hands on your skin, the rough gloves and the blinding, gut-wrenching panic that had settled in your bones. Here and now in the arena Gi-hun’s been trying to keep you from for the last two years, your body finally curls in on itself as it threatens to collapse.

“Someone broke into my apartment. They drugged me.”

You’re shaking your head, trying to fight back the memory, the horror, trying and failing to keep your head above the waves of despair lapping at your throat, but instead you feel like you’re drowning.

Gi-hun is there, his hands hovering over you but never touching. You think maybe he sees the way you flinch when he comes close, but you don’t have the strength to either forgive him or indulge him. “Did they hurt you?” he asks softly.

“I fought him, Gi-hun. I really tried, but he grabbed me and I couldn’t…” You think you’re going to be sick.

“Listen to me.” Gone is the spitfire and rage. Now there’s just Gi-hun, a bit softer around the edges than you’ve seen from him in weeks. It’s in the eyes, you think, or the way his brows purse when he dips his head down to catch your gaze. “I’m going to get you out of here. Okay?”

Glancing up through tear dropped lashes, you shake your head. “How? You said they made you kill people.”

“It won’t come to that,” he promises. “I have a plan.”

It takes every ounce of restraint you have not to laugh in his face. A plan? Really, that’s what he’s got? “You almost got yourself killed twice this year,” you snap. “Was that all part of your plan too?” Was showing up at your front door with three hours left ‘til midnight and kissing you part of the plan? Or was that just the act of a desperate man determined to die?

You hate that that’s where your mind goes. You hate that your life and the lives of 455 other people are on the line and all you can think about is whether or not Gi-hun really meant it when he kissed you. You hate that when he looks away, either out of shame or embarrassment, your gaze dips to the bow of his lips and you’re suddenly standing in the open doorway of your apartment, yearning for him to kiss you again.

“This is all part of his game.” He looks back at you and you tear your eyes away as fast as you can, your pulse leaping inside your chest. You really hope he didn’t notice that. “He knows I’m here to burn everything down from the inside and he’s trying to stop me.”

It takes you a moment to comprehend what he’s saying. “‘He’?”

Gi-hun nods as he starts surveying the other players. “The man running these Games, the Captain.” He falls silent for a moment, and the bed squeaks a bit when he leans his weight into it, one of his arms extended to press against the frame by your knee. “Things are different this time. The money – last time it was 45.6 billion won, and now it’s 45.7. Like your number.”

The patch sewn into your jacket suddenly seems to weigh more than the entirety of the planet. “Maybe he got more money this year?” It seems like a far better option than considering that you might be a part of this Captain’s plans.

“No. This is intentional. Now that you’re here, both the money and player count are higher. Even the rules are different.”

“So, what, he’s playing mind games with you?”

Gi-hun nods again, his expression deadly serious. “With both of us. He’s trying to get inside my head. He’s trying to scare me.”

You have half a mind to admit that it’s working because you think you might actually have a panic attack if you have to sit through a single one of these games, but you lose the chance before you can even grasp it. There’s a man pushing through the nearby gathering of players. He looks like any other man you’d meet on the street – kind eyes, a smattering of facial hair, a big smile – but the way that Gi-hun reacts when he sees him is comparable to what you imagine it might be to meet a ghost.

“Gi-hun-a!” the man exclaims as he scrambles up to greet him.

“Jung-bae-ya?” You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this shocked in his life. Well, apart from just a moment ago.

They collide just as Gi-hun rises to his feet. The other man slaps a hand on his shoulder as he draws him into a hug, laughing in total disbelief. They’re talking so fast – or at least, Jung-bae is – that you can hardly keep up with him.

“I thought that was you. I’d know your voice anywhere, you old–”

“What are you doing here?”

Jung-bae’s head tilts to the side. “What am I doing here? What are you doing here? I thought you were dead!”

Dead? Your attention snaps to Gi-hun, who has enough decency to look mildly embarrassed, though he doesn’t say anything to defend himself. You made peace with his quirks a long time ago, but the fact that someone he once knew also thought him dead is concerning. It’s not just you.

“No one's heard from you for three years,” Jung-bae continues, and God, he’s chatty. You’re trying to keep up with him while also processing everything he’s saying. “I heard your mom passed away. I had to hear about it from my wife! What kind of friend are you?” And then he’s spinning to point at you, his eyes wide. “We haven’t been here a whole day yet and you’re already trying to replace me? Is this just because I didn't lend you money? You had to cut me out?”

There’s a beat of silence while Gi-hun struggles to explain himself, but whatever he comes up with seems to fall short in his mind. In the end, he settles for a dejected sigh and a bashful shrug. “Ah, it’s not like that. It’s a long story.”

“Right. I can imagine, seeing as you're here.” Jung-bae scowls a bit, his eyes flickering all over Gi-hun’s face, searching for what, though, you couldn’t say. Likely whatever’s left of the friend he knew three years ago. “Still, you should've told me about your mom. You know how much she liked me.”

Another tense few moments pass as Gi-hun processes this. While you’re not entirely sure what specifically he’s thinking about, his mother or his mistakes, it’s very clear that he’s upset about this turn of events.

“Why are you here?” he finally asks. “What about your wife?”

Jung-bae flounders for a bit as his shoulders crowd inward. “We got divorced. But let's not talk about it here, yeah?” His focus slides to you momentarily. “When we get out, let's go for a drink and talk.”

At the mention of a drink, of actually getting out of here, Gi-hun’s eyes flash dangerously. His face, softened a bit with the weight of his affection for his friend, suddenly hardens and he grabs his friend by the collar, pulling him in so the three of you are crowded together.

“Jung-bae-ya, [___], whatever happens from now on, stay close to me. Both of you.”

You nod immediately. That’s all the convincing you need. Jung-bae, on the other hand, doesn’t realize how serious this is. After all, how could he?

“‘Stay close’?” he laughs. “That’s a bit melodramatic.” He looks to you for confirmation, as if expecting you to chuckle and nod along, only to receive a deeply concerned stare in return.

Gi-hun’s face warps once more. “Just do as I say!” he grits out. “I’m trying to keep you both alive.”

Your little nook is quiet for a long moment as the weight of Gi-hun’s words begin to settle. You know bits and pieces of what these Games entail – fucked up scenarios that twist your mind into something unrecognizable, friend pitted against friend, a detached sort of heartlessness that seeps into your bones – but Gi-hun has always been vague about the details. All this time you’d thought it was to keep himself safe from the trauma of reliving and recounting everything that happened, but now you’re starting to wonder if he wasn’t also trying to protect you. The look on his face seems to say as much.

Jung-bae is swiftly guided to sit beside you on the bed. He glances at you again, tries to smile at you, but you can see that he’s rattled, or at least confused. But by the time he attempts to ask anything more, Gi-hun is already crouching before you, his elbows braced against his knees.

“We don’t have much time, so listen carefully. Whatever happens out there, do exactly as I say. Understand?”

“But Gi-hun-a, out where? What is all this, huh?”

He swallows heavily, his jaw clenching, and then suddenly, he’s lowering himself so he’s kneeling, pressing his fingers inside his own mouth. You and Jung-bae both immediately recoil.

“What are you doing?” you ask, mildly horrified at the sight of Gi-hun gagging with his hands in his mouth. It’s… well, it’s…

“Fuck,” he spits a moment later, holding a –

“Is that your fucking tooth?” you exclaim, and it comes out much louder than you had intended.

He waves his hand absently in your direction, too focused on turning the tooth over in his trembling hands. You catch a glimpse of metal prongs and what looks like a hollow space carved out of the tooth, but it’s gone before you can make proper sense of it, caught in Gi-hun’s fist as he slowly slumps in defeat.

What the fuck is going on?

You’re leaning down to reach for him – his hand, his arm, his face, anything that will bring him back to you so he can explain, so he can help you understand – when his head snaps up and his eyes bore directly into your skull. “Talk to me,” you implore. “What is it?”

His eyes, dark and glittering, squeeze shut for the briefest of moments before he suddenly draws himself to his full height. With the way you’re sitting on the bed, it makes him appear mountainous and detached, soaring high into the stratosphere while you’re left at ground level, alone and confused and so painfully far away. “I’ll explain everything later–”

“But we might not get a later!” And that, at last, is enough to give him pause. He watches you pull yourself up and shuffle close. “You told me these games were deadly. What if something happens out there and–”

Gi-hun rests a hand on your arm, as gentle and soothing as he can manage under the circumstances. “Nothing is going to happen. Trust me.”

“I do. But you’re not making it very easy.” Your chin drops against your chest. “I’m scared. I don’t want to die.”

He shakes his head. “You won’t. I won’t let you. Stick with Jung-bae-ya and me, alright? We’ll keep you safe.”

Whether he’ll be able to or not remains to be seen, but you know Gi-hun well enough to know he means it. He’ll do anything he can to keep you safe. You just hope that fate agrees with him.

Player consent forms. As much as you despise the people running these games – the Captain, Gi-hun had called him – you have to admit that it’s smart. Many of these people will have already signed their bodily autonomy away in return for unpaid debts, so a blanket consent form with no real context isn’t going to matter to much of anyone. It’s nothing they haven’t seen before.

Your palms are clammy, sweat already slickening your skin as the player ahead of you departs. You don’t have any qualms about choosing not to sign – you have no desire to be here any longer, not even for a chance at 45.7 billion won. Besides, you already have all the money you could ever need.

“Player 457. Your signature has already been taken.”

Your head snaps up forcefully enough that you hear the joint pop. “What?”

The man behind the table inclines his mask to you – all black with a white circle – as if he were merely a polite, mild-mannered secretary breaking some unfortunate news. “Your consent form has already been signed.”

Maybe you’re not translating him correctly. Your Korean has improved a lot over the past few years, but there are still some gaps in your fluency. You take a step forward. “I haven’t signed anything. I didn’t even ask to be here. Gi-hun,” you start, turning to look at him over your shoulder, “I’m not hearing that wrong, am I?”

He shakes his head. The lump in his throat bobs just slightly, but Gi-hun’s focus isn’t on you. He’s glaring a hole into the head of the masked figure before you, his jaw clenched tightly enough that you hear his teeth scrape against each other.

The guard, however, doesn’t even seem bothered by either of your responses. “Rest assured, Player 457, that your consent form has already been signed and filed. Please step aside to allow the other players to sign.”

“No.” Your hand smacks on the table between you, hard enough that the discarded pen used by the previous player rattles and lolls to one side. “I don’t want to be here. I haven’t signed anything, so if you have something with my name on it, it’s a forgery.”

A quiet, creeping feeling has begun to swell deep within your gut. Gi-hun going AWOL last night was one thing, getting kidnapped and taken to the very games he’d told you about was another, but now being forced to participate against your will? It’s all horribly wrong.

“If you do not allow the other players to sign their consent forms, then we will be forced to disqualify you,” says the guard. “Please step aside.”

“Good! I don’t want to be here, and I’m not letting you sign me up for this shitshow without my actual consent!”

Already, the players lined up closest to you are starting to murmur amongst themselves. Some of them are staring at you, whispering behind their hands, and even a few of the guards have turned their helmets to watch you. That quiet, creeping in your stomach quickly turns to dread, hot and heavy and nauseating.

“[___].” Gi-hun rests a hand on your shoulder, his voice low and soothing, but you don’t know how he can manage that. How can he be so calm when your consent has just been ripped from your hands?

“Player 457.”

Your chest is suddenly tight. It… hurts. It hurts to breathe, actually. You press your palm flat against your sternum for a moment, your eyes fluttering wildly as you attempt to find your breath, to focus, to think, but it’s overwhelmingly difficult. The tracksuit itches at your wrists and neck, and the shoes are uncomfortable around the back of your heel. Your palms are getting sweaty again. And your pulse is skyrocketing faster than you can catch your breath.

Your name is called again, louder this time, and you know it’s Gi-hun, you know he’s trying to help you, but you can’t find it in you to hear him. You feel like a tiny sailboat adrift in a great sea of teal jackets and numbered patches. Everyone is watching, but not a single face looks familiar. Not a single face holds an ounce of pity for you.

“Player 457.” Your head snaps to the right, toward the voice, and you’re met with a massive wall of pink. It’s a different guard, you think. Taller. “Please step aside or we will be forced to remove you.”

“No,” you mumble softly, one foot already dipping behind you. The room tilts, and for a moment you’re back in your apartment, the room dark and shadowed, and you’re crying out for help because you’re about to be assaulted or worse. You can still smell the chemicals they drugged you with.

Something grabs you by the arm – to steady or to harm you, you don’t know – but you spin around in a blind panic, teeth bared, terrified and ready to fight when–

“[___].” It’s Gi-hun. Your Gi-hun, but he’s all wrong in this light. You don’t like the tracksuit on him, how the color clashes with his eyes and marks him as the same helpless, frightened animal that you’ve become.

“I didn’t sign it,” you gasp as you uncoil in his hands. “I wouldn’t, I swear!”

You half expect him to explode. It might almost be worth it to see him lose his temper, to give the bastards running this place a piece of his mind, but he simply doesn’t. If anything, he seems to freeze. You can see his hands trembling at his sides as they drop and curl into fists. He turns toward the Circle Mask, the back of his neck stiff above the collar and his shoulders tense. “Are you certain? You have the right player?”

The guard inclines his head. “Player 457’s consent form has already been signed and filed. We apologize for any confusion on the terms of your participation, but once consent is given it cannot be rescinded.”

Consent cannot be rescinded.

You cast your eyes about the room in daze. Most of the other players have taken to ignoring you now that you’re not making a scene, though you do receive several wary glances. You catch Hyun-ju’s eye for a moment – the only other person in this place you recognize, the only person out of 455 strangers to have offered you a bit of kindness – and she smiles briefly at you. You’re too upset to even attempt smiling back.

Consent cannot be rescinded.

You’re stuck here. You’re going to have to play. Everything Gi-hun has already told you about, every waking nightmare he’s been living with in the three years since his first bout of bloody games, is now going to become a part of your reality. The blood. The death. The bodies. You think of the corpse in the suit, his brain splattered on the wall, and you choke on your own saliva. Oh God, the bodies.

“Come on.”

His hand wraps again around your bicep, urging you to move even when your feet refuse to answer, although he’s mercifully gentler this time. You stumble blindly alongside him, not protesting, not crying, not able to summon a single thought apart from the realization of your impending doom. He guides you to one of the beds and forces you to sit.

“It’s going to be alright,” he promises, but the words are empty. They ring in your ears like a bell that’s gone sour with time and disuse. “[___], listen to me, you’re going to live. Do you understand me?”

You understand that you’re going to die. You understand that whatever comes next might be your last moments on Earth. What if they force Gi-hun to kill you? Or force you to kill him? What about his friend, Jung-bae?

“Whatever happens,” you can hear him say, “you stay behind me. If I tell you to freeze, you do it.”

When you don’t respond – too horrified by the notion of your own execution to do anything more than sit and wheeze – you notice Jung-bae lingering nearby. They’re talking about you, you think, but even if they are, you don’t have it in you to care. You know you’re going to die today and you’re trying desperately to find some peace of mind in the certainty of it, but all you can feel is the yawning, gaping pit of terror that’s opened up in your stomach.

The whiskey burns pleasantly at the back of his throat when he swallows. Normally he would be indulging merely for the sake of the drink, but he’s restless today, almost abnormally on edge. He could pretend not to know the reason why, but In-ho has never been inclined to lie to himself. The reasons for his uncertainty are displayed on the television with striking clarity. There’s no hiding from it now.

The first game isn’t yet in motion, so he takes the opportunity to study you. A review, of sorts, before the real test begins. He studies the footage of your capture the previous night with a hint of pride. Your strength is no match for his finest Manager, of course, but you’d put up quite the fight. After the bouts of vulnerability he has seen from you in the past, he wasn’t entirely sure you would have the mental fortitude to defend yourself; he’s pleased to note that the opposite is, in fact, true. And while he’s loathe to admit it, seeing you so quickly subdued after 456’s startling display of emotion only minutes prior is something of a balm for the grating ache in his chest.

Now that he hadn’t liked. Something dangerously sharp had stabbed through his lungs when he first saw it, akin to disgust but not entirely separate from anger either. Why should Seong Gi-hun be granted the pleasure of your kiss when, after everything he had killed and bled for, In-ho was left widowed and childless? Why should a man who had abandoned his own daughter to America and betrayed your trust countless times be allowed to have even the slightest glimmer of hope when In-ho has been the one to lose everything?

The Game is an equalizer. It is meant to offer no advantages or disadvantages, only opportunity, and yet Player 456 has somehow managed to survive an entire six rounds of gameplay, a bout of roulette with the most deranged recruiter under his employ, and has found both purpose and pleasure in simultaneously courting you and tearing In-ho’s empire to the ground.

And so, an idea had taken shape. It had started with your capture and blossomed into something more the moment 456 had stepped into his limousine and demanded to return. Rather than taunting Gi-hun with anonymous images of your gameplay, or even of your death, why not allow him to witness your destruction firsthand? Why not twist the Games in In-ho’s favor, just this once, to prove that there is nothing a deadbeat gambler like Seong Gi-hun can do in the face of human greed and bloodlust?

He'd watched you throughout the night, mulling over the possibilities as he nursed a bottle of whiskey. He’d watched you through the camera installed in your bedframe, watched your brows wrinkle as you slept, how your chest rose and fell beneath your jacket, and found himself inexplicably entranced. In the years he has watched you from your apartment, In-ho had never breached the privacy of your bedroom. That was a line he was uninterested in crossing, yet even now he finds himself wondering what details of your life he’s missed because of that decision.

How many hours have you spent pouring over Magritte’s book? How many hours have you dedicated to late night phone calls or messages exchanged with Gi-hun that he was unaware of? And that kiss… What else have you two been doing outside of his reach? What opportunities for manipulation has he missed out on by attempting to be gentlemanly, knowing full well the monster he’s already become?

He shakes his head and pours himself another glass. It’s better not to dwell on such things. The board is set, the pieces are eager to move, and the Front Man has a job to do.

Settling back into his chair, one leg crossed over the other, In-ho watches your player photo flash across the screen. Your eyes are devoid of emotion, the lines of your smile distorted into a flat expression that is so unlike you it makes him physically uncomfortable. It’s a remnant of your shock and horror, he knows, but the difference in your face is startling all the same.

He tries not to think on that either. Instead, he tries to recapture the contentment he has come to know during the Games. There is always death, there is always fear and greed; a cycle that never changes and never ends, and there is comfort in that certainty. He grasps it firmly with both hands and doesn’t let go.

Gi-hun’s reaction to the arena is expected, but enjoyable all the same. It’s an exaggerated rendition of the horror he’d displayed upon realizing his dental tracker was missing. In-ho almost wishes he had been the one to remove it, that his hands were suited for such a task, if only to revel in the knowledge of besting 456 yet again. But he finds that the satisfaction he craves comes in another, more surprising form.

He's never been sure of how much you were told. Likely vague ideas of heartless and bloody murder that have no doubt been tainted by Gi-hun’s irritating inclination for self-righteousness and self-pity, left to fester in your imagination. He’d seen glimpses of it earlier – the bobbing of your throat, the fear in your eyes, the wash of panic as you began to realize that you were trapped in his game, all the result of Gi-hun’s carelessness, not that either of you would ever see it as such. But the trepidation in your face as you stumble into the arena tells him that you know more than he first suspected.

This should be interesting.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Gi-hun to start interfering so soon. Perhaps he should have anticipated as much, but In-ho finds him to be something of a mystery. Every time he thinks he’s figured 456 out, the man turns around and does something unexpected like dyeing his hair, or abandoning his daughter, or taking in a stray. This time it’s taking command of the arena. A desperate attempt to save lives that aren’t even worth the effort.

“Don’t move! Everyone freeze!”

There’s a muscle in the corner of In-ho’s jaw that begins to tick. The whiskey suddenly tastes like gasoline, all traces of its usual bittersweetness erased in the wake of 456’s mounting victory. He’s not concerned – it’s been years since he’s felt anything, fear or otherwise, beyond the yawning void his soul has become – but neither is he foolish. Gi-hun may be a lucky scrap dug out from the garbage heap, but he is also a gambler and gamblers are dangerous. They take too many risks. They’ll crawl in the dirt like animals rolling in their own filth if it equates to survival.

A problem, he muses. A problem he may just be inclined to solve himself. After all, his hands are itching to wrap around something fragile and squeeze, and the urge is strong enough to make his breath catch.

The table clatters softly when he snags the remote from the center tray. The little display across the room lights up in shades of red and pale yellow, and In-ho swirls his tongue over his teeth as the music begins. He turns his gaze to you, to the small corner of the screen set aside for your live cam feed, and he finds himself wondering.

Your mouth is pressed into a thin, trembling line as you cower behind another player’s back, an old friend of 456 if he’s remembering the number correctly. A thin streak of blood is splattered across your ankle, but he can see no other signs of injury or contamination. Ironic, really. You would already be dead if he hadn’t given the order to spare your life.

In-ho swirls his glass in a slow, circular motion, studying the watery sheen of your eyes when a player falls dead on your right before finally downing the rest. He catches glimpses of you as he begins pacing around the room, can hear you screaming when Gi-hun does something particularly foolish and self-righteous, but it quickly becomes little more than background radiation. Another layer of music that curtains his thoughts as he strips himself of his Front Man attire.

The last thing he sees before rushing out of the observation room is your grief-stricken face and the gangling, flailing limbs of 456 as he stumbles over the finish line. In-ho catches himself smiling.

It’s quite a remarkable sight.

The chaos is overwhelmingly loud. Everywhere you look, there are people chattering, grasping at their friends or loved ones, weeping, conspiring in the shadowed corners. Everywhere are eyes too sharp and smiles too vicious, all pointed teeth and bloodlust. And oh God, the blood. You see it splattered on one player’s face, on another player’s shoes. When you walk, the soles of your feet are slick with half-dried blood caked in dirt. It’s awful. It’s so, so awful.

All this time, this is what Gi-hun had feared. This was the hellscape he’d escaped from, the very thing he’d warned you against. You’d known it was terrible, but now that you’ve seen it firsthand? Everything you’ve come to learn about him clicks into place.

He doesn’t protest when you curl yourself into his side, your eyes unseeing and your breath coming to you in stuttering phrases. It’s a small mercy. You think that if he had turned you away when you wordlessly reached for him, you would have burst into tears. Or even a mild panic attack. As it is, you’re already struggling to stay composed. But his presence is stabilizing and that’s good enough for now.

You don’t pay much attention to the masked figures when they enter the room, their garish pink suits at odds with the gruesome horror of this place. You simply burrow further into Gi-hun’s chest, nuzzling against his ribcage until he shifts uncomfortably and is forced to bend his frame around yours to accommodate you. The weight of his arm around your back is grounding enough to bring you back down to reality, to remind you that you’re alive.

People are crying, you soon realize. Not the same crying as before. It’s different now, they’re begging, pleading for mercy as they get down on their knees to grovel. But don’t they realize what they’ve done? They’ve signed their rights away, there’s nothing they can do now but accept the fact that they’re as trapped here as you are.

“[___].”

You’re blinking, staring at nothing in particular, when you suddenly realize Gi-hun’s speaking to you. Your head tips back slightly, your eyes bleary as you struggle to focus on his face. “Hm?”

His hands are curling around your shoulders, gently this time, as he prompts you to sit up and move off of him, only you don’t want to move. You want him to stay, to keep holding you. It’s not as scary when he holds you.

“Here. Jung-bae-ya’s got you,” he murmurs.

He passes you off like you’re a piece of bread or a bag of groceries, like you’re some inconsequential thing that he has to be rid of as quickly as possible, and you don’t understand why until he’s suddenly standing, staring down the masked men who have turned your life upside down. Some of the other players turn to look at him. Jung-bae rests an awkward hand on your arm and you try not to be rude and shrug it off; he’s only being polite, it’s just not what you want right now. It’s not Gi-hun.

“Clause three of the consent form,” Gi-hun announces suddenly, “‘the games may be terminated upon a majority vote.’ Correct?”

“That is correct,” says the Square Mask. He doesn’t nod.

“Then let us take a vote right now.”

There’s a bit of confusion between the decision to vote and the actual occurrence. As the shock and dissociation from the day’s events begin to wear off, you slowly become more and more cognizant of your surroundings. You note the decreased number of players and the newly accumulated prize money – 365 survivors out of the original 457 and a whopping 9.1 billion won.

A voting booth is displayed near the front of the room, designed to resemble a gift box with two buttons on display – a red X and a blue O to match the markings on the floor. Rules are announced, what each button means and how much money each player will receive should you all vote to leave now. (It’s ₩24,931,506 per person. You’ve never felt so thoroughly sickened by the thought of money before in your life.)

“If you wish to continue the Games, press the O button. If you wish to end them, press the X button. The vote will be held in reverse order of your player numbers.” The guard suddenly raises his hand and points to the back of the room. “Player 457.”

It takes you a moment to remember who Player 457 is. Gi-hun has to nudge you after several seconds tick by and you don’t budge. “Go,” he whispers, pressing his hand to the curve of your spine to urge you forward.

Everyone is watching, which only makes it worse. It’s not that you care what these people think of you because you know your own conscience, you’re not worried about your choice, but the memory of the game still lingers in the back of your head. With so many eyes on you, it’s almost like you’re back in the arena. One move and you’re dead.

“Aish, [___],” says Gi-hun, giving you another gentle push, “go. I’ll be right behind you.”

Maybe that’s what you were waiting for, this subconscious need for his permission. Whether you’re right or not, though, you don’t even want to guess. You just want this over with. You want to go home. The thought of crawling into bed in your own apartment is less appealing than it should be after being drugged in your own home, but at least it would be better than this.

That’s what finally gets your feet going. Home. Home with Gi-hun. A warm bowl of ramyeon, a movie, and his arm around your shoulder. You’re not sure that’s something he would ever want, but you allow the fantasy to persist anyway, if only because you can still remember the press of his lips over yours. It’s something to hope for, a light at the end of the tunnel.

“This one ends the Game, right?” You point to the red X button on your left. Now that it comes down to it, you’re illogically terrified of accidentally mistranslating every word spoken around you and pressing the wrong button, dooming yourself, Gi-hun, and every other soul in this room to another round of torment. “X means no.”

The guard nods. “Correct.”

You don’t even need to think about it. Your palm slams down on the button and the voting podium briefly flashes fully red before returning to normal. A patch is offered to you – a white X on a red background – which you proudly display on your right breast. Gi-hun is quick to follow, having already started toward the display while you were casting your vote, and when he joins you a moment later, your entire body goes limp with relief. He rests his hand on your shoulder, gives you an affirming nod and an almost-smile that you think you’ll treasure for the rest of your life, before guiding you to the designated waiting area.

You’ve both done your part. Now all you have to do is wait for the rest to follow.

If only it were truly that easy. While you were busy mourning the lives lost and yearning for home, many of the other players have been calculating. They’re greedy. You understand it to a point – life is never easy and money solves just as many problems as it causes – but you find it difficult to understand how anyone could choose to stay in the games after witnessing such a horrific and violent loss of life. Player after player chooses to stay. Young people likely around your own age, older folks with decades worth of debt, the awful man with the purple hair (not a surprise in the least), Miss Hyun-ju (it hurts your heart to watch – she seems so nice that her decision almost feels like a betrayal), all of them choose to stand in the blood and the gore for the sake of a little extra cash.

And when they aren’t dooming all the rest of you to unnecessarily violent deaths, they’re rioting at the slightest inclination of wisdom or sense. Gi-hun tries, he really does, to explain just how dangerous the games are. You can see it in his eyes how much it hurts him. The people who listen aren’t difficult to convince, but the ones who remain have hardened their hearts to anything he has to say, and that becomes a burden in itself. What hope had started to blossom in his chest and lift his shoulders is squashed the longer the voting goes on.

You want to take his hand and reassure him that everything will be fine, if only because the sight of his crestfallen face and haunted eyes makes you want to vomit what little remains of yesterday’s dinner, but it would be a lie. The only thing you’re capable of doing is waiting.

Ultimately, it comes down to Player 001. He’s been sticking to the shadows the entire time, the details of his face hidden behind other players and whatever uncertainties he carries with him. You catch a glimpse of his shoulder when he passes between the X and O groups, then the player number on the back of his jacket, but then he’s swallowed up by the crowd. Standing on your toes doesn’t offer you much more of a vantage point either, so you settle for leaning into Gi-hun and hoping for the best.

The room, once clamoring with competing voices all calling for their group to win, falls deathly silent. 001 pauses for a moment. If he says no, you get to go home. You get safety and freedom, you get Gi-hun, you get hope. But if he says yes…

Your eyes flicker to the scoreboard hanging overhead. A buzzer sounds when his choice is made and the number for the O team clicks up by one. All around you, your fellow players are groaning, hanging their heads in despair. Defeat rises up so quickly and so strongly in your chest that it feels like bile. Tears sting along your waterline as your surroundings grow blurry.

Somewhere in your vicinity, you think you hear Jung-bae attempting to comfort you and Gi-hun, but his words are hollow. Even grabbing for Gi-hun’s hand, clinging to him like some frightened thing lost in a storm offers little comfort.

When the sun rises tomorrow, you won’t be able to see it because you’ll be trapped here, forced into a game to kill or be killed, and you don’t even know if you or Gi-hun will be around long enough to survive to the end.

[dr-sameerdesai]

Recognizing Common Types of Knee Injuries in Children

Children are naturally energetic and love to engage in various physical activities like running, jumping, and playing sports. However, this high level of activity can make them more susceptible to knee injuries. As a Pediatric orthopedic surgeon and knee specialist, I frequently treat young patients who have sustained knee injuries. Knowing the types of common knee injuries can help parents recognize symptoms early and seek timely care. Below are five common types of knee injuries in children.

1. Knee Fracture:

Direct impact from a fall or accident can result in a knee fracture, especially involving the patella (kneecap). These fractures in youngsters may be caused by contact during sports, falls from a bike, or accidents on the playground. Severe pain, bruising, swelling, and trouble moving the knee are some of the symptoms. Treatment options vary from casting to surgery, depending on the severity, but children usually recover well with the right care.

2. Ligament Injuries

Sports like basketball and football sometimes include sudden movements, twists, or direction changes, all of which can result in ligament injury. The medial collateral ligament (MCL) and anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) are the ligaments that sustain injuries the most. Knee pain, swelling, instability, and occasionally a popping feeling are among the symptoms. While some mild ligament injuries may heal with rest and rehabilitation, severe ligament tears may require surgical repair.

3. Dislocation of the Knee

When the knee’s bones are pushed out of position, usually as a result of trauma or high-impact injuries, knee dislocation takes place. This is a dangerous injury that frequently harms the knee’s ligaments, blood vessels, and nerves. Knee dislocations should be treated right away because waiting can result in long-term problems. A noticeable deformity, extreme pain, and a restriction in knee movement are among the symptoms. Treatment options include surgery, physical therapy, and bracing, depending on the severity of the damage.

4. Meniscus Tears

The meniscus is a C-shaped piece of cartilage that acts as a cushion between the thigh and shin bones. In children, meniscus tears are commonly caused by Twisting or rotating actions, especially in sports. Signs include knee pain, swelling, and difficulty moving the knee, particularly when squatting or twisting. Medical treatment can cure some meniscus tears, but surgery may be necessary to repair bigger or more complicated injuries.

5.Tears in the Tendon

Falls and rapid motions that put excessive strain on the knee can cause tendon rips, especially in the kneecap or quadriceps tendons. A youngster may suffer from extreme pain, swelling, and an inability to straighten their leg if these tendons are damaged, as they are essential for knee extension. Complete tendon tears typically require surgical repair, although lesser rips can frequently be treated with rest and physical therapy.

Conclusion

Children’s knee injuries can range in severity, and full recovery depends on early diagnosis and appropriate treatment. My goal as a pediatric orthopedic surgeon is to make sure kids recover fully and may safely resume their normal activities. Strength training, safety clothing, and appropriate sports methods are essential for preventing injuries. Seeking prompt expert care for your child’s knee injury can significantly enhance recovery results. For the best care Visit the Pune-based Dr. Sameer Desai Clinic. Making ensuring you’re happy and receiving the best care possible is our main priority.

[zany1122]

Knee Replacement Surgeon In Mumbai

Is it safe to say that you are battling with knee torment that restricts your versatility and holds you back from partaking in your life? Try not to allow knee to torment keep you down any more. Kapadia Clinics is home to driving knee substitution specialists in Mumbai, famous for mastery and progress in performing knee substitution medical procedure.

Our group of specialists are profoundly prepared and experienced in performing knee substitution medical procedure utilizing the most recent methods. We use the most recent progressions in careful innovation to guarantee the most ideal results for our patients. Plan a conference with one of our top knee substitution specialists at Kapadia Medical clinics in Mumbai and examine your therapy choices.

What is Knee Joint Substitution?

Knee joint substitution medical procedure includes eliminating harmed bone and ligament from your thighbone, shinbone, and kneecap and supplanting it with prosthesis made of metal compounds, polymers and high-grade gums. Medical procedure at the best emergency clinic for Knee Replacement Surgeon In Mumbai can assist with easing uneasiness and reestablish capability in seriously harmed knee joints.

When is a Knee Substitution Medical procedure Suggested? Joint inflammation is the most widely recognized justification for the reason for knee joint substitution. This incorporates both osteoarthritis and rheumatoid joint pain.

Knee inconvenience or firmness that keeps you from doing day to day exercises like strolling, climbing steps, sitting or getting off the seats. It very well might be hard for you to walk in excess of a couple of steps without encountering significant uneasiness, requiring the utilization of a stick or walker.

Knee substitution specialists in Mumbai ordinarily suggest a medical procedure solely after other less meddlesome treatments have been depleted. These may incorporate calming drugs, cortisone infusions, greasing up infusions, and exercise based recuperation (Physiotherapy). In any case, for those considering a medical procedure, it’s significant to ask about the knee substitution medical procedure cost in Mumbai to settle on informed conclusions about their medical care costs.

Sorts of Knee Joint Substitution Medical procedure

All out knee substitution: The joint surfaces toward the finish of your thigh bone (femur) and the joint surface at the highest point of your shin bone (tibia) are supplanted during the all out knee substitution medical procedure. The underside of your kneecap (patella) may likewise be supplanted with a smooth plastic vault during an all out knee substitution. Best knee substitution specialist in Mumbai like to save as a significant part of the regular patella as plausible.

Fractional (unicompartimental) knee joint substitution: The knee is separated into three compartments: the internal (average), the outside (sidelong), and the kneecap (patellofemoral). On the off chance that your joint pain has impacted just a single side of your knee, a fractional knee substitution, otherwise called a unicompartmental substitution, will be done. This strategy brings about quicker recuperation as it has less obstruction with the knee.

Kneecap substitution: On the off chance that the underside of the kneecap and its furrow (the trochlea) are the main parts harmed by joint pain, they can be supplanted independently, without the need of complete knee joint substitution medical procedure. This methodology is otherwise called a patellofemoral joint arthroplasty or patellofemoral joint substitution.

Complex or update knee substitution: In the event that you’re having a second or third knee joint substitution in a similar knee, or on the other hand on the off chance that your joint inflammation is serious, you might require a convoluted knee substitution. The stem on a muddled or correction knee substitution is in many cases longer, permitting the part to safely be put in the bone depression more.

The parts interlocks in the knee’s middle to shape a pivot for added security. To make up for any eliminated or significantly harmed bone, additional bits of metal as well as plastic might be utilized.

Knee Substitution Medical procedure Strategy: Sedation will be given to you for knee joint substitution medical procedure. Your clinical history and inclinations will help the specialists in choosing whether to give you an overall sedation or spinal sedation.

To help and to stay away from post-careful contamination, you’ll be given an intravenous anti-toxin previously, during, and after the system. It’s conceivable that a nerve block around your knee will be used to numb it. The deadness progressively dies down after the medical procedure.

Your knee will be twisted during the medical procedure to uncover all surfaces of the joint. Your specialist will make a long cut of 6 to 10 inch and will drive your kneecap to the side and removes the harmed joint surfaces.

In the wake of preparing the joint surfaces, the Knee Substitution specialist in Mumbai will collect the bits of the prosthetic joint. To guarantee ideal capability, the specialist will flex and pivot your knee prior to shutting the entry point. The method would require around two hours.

You will be accompanied to the recuperation room and the length of your visit after a medical procedure still up in the air by how well you are answering the therapy. Numerous patients are released and can get back that very day. The pain relievers recommended by the specialist will help in dying down the torment.

Kapadia Multispeciality Emergency clinic is prestigious as the best clinic for knee substitution in Mumbai. With a group of experienced muscular specialists and best in class offices, we offer first rate care for knee substitution medical procedures. Our clinic is furnished with the furthest down the line innovation to guarantee effective results and quicker recuperation for our patients.

For those considering knee substitution medical procedure, it’s fundamental to comprehend the expense in question. At Kapadia Multispeciality Clinic in Mumbai, we endeavor to give reasonable knee substitution medical procedure cost in Mumbai without settling for less on the nature of care. Our straightforward evaluating strategy guarantees that patients know about all expenses forthright, permitting them to come to informed conclusions about their medical care. Reach Us today to plan a counsel with our master muscular specialists and study our knee substitution medical procedure choices. Recover portability and work on your personal satisfaction with the best knee substitution medical procedure in Mumbai.

Venture out towards an aggravation free existence with our Free Counsel offer. Our specialists will evaluate your condition, examine your treatment choices, and assist you with coming to an educated conclusion about your knee substitution medical procedure in Mumbai.

[painrelief123]

How to get relief from Knee pain relief

Source:-url

Knee pain relief is common complaint that affects people of all age.knee pain relief may be the result of an injury, such as a reputed ligament torn cartilages Medical conditions includes arthritis Knee pain relief  can have causes that aren’t due to underlying disease.Examples include heavy physical activity,lack of use, injuries such as sprains or strains, sitting in a  

Constrained area or sitting on knees for a prolonged period

 

Treatment

         SELF-TREATMENT

   Losing weight may help relieve long-term knee pain relief.

    For new pain relief , resting,applying ice several times a day,

 Keeping the injured area elevated and wrapping the area with an elastic bandage may help. Avoiding squatting and climbing stairs may also help. 

SEEKING MEDICAL CARE

See a doctor immediately if you;

Heard popping sound when your knee was injured

Notice your knee looks deformed 

Feel severe pain relief

Have sudden swelling 

Can’t use your knee

Rest your knee. Take a few days off from intense activity

Make an appointment to see a doctor if you:

Also have redness ,swelling , warmth or  significant pain relief

Develop a fever

Feel constant pain relief

Notice your pain relief getting worse

Diagnosis 

 During the physical exam, your doctor is likely to:

Inspect  your knee for swelling, pain relief,tenderness ,warmth and visible bruising 

Check to see how far you can move your lower leg in different directions

Push on or pull the joint to evaluate the integrity of the structures in your knee

You can do many things to help knee pain relief  whether it’s due to a recent  injury or arthritis you've had for years.

Follow these 11 dos and don’ts to help your knees feel their best.

Don’t rest too much. Too much rest can weaken your muscles, which can in turn increase reinjury. Find an exercise program that is safe for your knees and stick with it . If you're not sure which motions are safe or how much you can do, talk with your doctor or a physical therapist. 

Do exercise.Cardio exercise strengthen 

The muscles of the heart, but not the joints.it is weight training mixed with keeping your muscles limber. Cardio is important for keeping your weight stable and 

Knee pain relief and problems

Knee pain relief is a common complaint among adults and most often associated with general wear and tear from daily activities like walking , bending, standing and lifting. Athletes who run or play sports that involve jumping or quick pivoting are also more likely to experience knee pain relief and problems. But whether an individual’s knee pain relief is caused by aging or injury, it can be a nuisance and even debilitating in some circumstances.

Brief anatomy of the knee 

The knee is  a vulnerable joint that bears a great deal of stress from everyday activities, such as lifting and kneeling, such as jogging and aerobics.

The knee is formed by the following parts:

 Tibia. This is the shin bone or larger bone of the  lower leg.

  Femur. This is the thingbone or upper leg bone. 

Patella. This is the kneecap.

Each bone end is covered with a layer  of cartilage that absorbs shock and protects the knee , including the quadriceps muscles (located on the back of the things), which bend the leg at the knee.

Tendons are tough cords of tissue that connect muscles to bones. Ligaments are elastic bands of tissue that connect bone to bone. Some ligaments on the knee provide stability and protection of the joints, while other ligaments limit forward and backward movement of the tibia (shin bone). 

Cause 

Knee  pain relief can have different causes. Being overweight puts you at greater risk for knee problems. Overusing your knee can trigger knee problems that cause pain relief. If you have a history of arthritis, it could also cause knee pain relief.

MEDICAL CONDITION 

Arthritis–including rheumatoid arthritis , osteoarthritis, lupus, and gout 

Baker cyst – A fluid-filled swelling behind the knee that may occur with swelling 

(inflammation) from other causes, such as arthritis

Cancers that either spread to your bones or begin in the bones

Osgood-Schlatter disease

Infection in the bones around the knee

Infection in the knee joint.

What is chronic knee pain relief?

Chronic knee pain relief is long-term pain relief, swelling, or sensitivity in one or both knees. The cause of your knee pain can determine the  symptoms you experience. Many conditions can cause or contribute to chronic knee pain relief, and many treatments exist.Each person’s experience with chronic knee pain relief will be different.

What causes chronic knee pain relief? 

Temporary knee pain relief is different from chronic knee pain  relief. Many people experience temporary knee pain relief as a result of several causes or conditions. 

Physical conditions or diseases can cause knee pain relief. These include.

Osteoarthritis: pain relief, inflammation, and joint destruction caused by degeneration and deterioration of the joint 

tendinitis: pain relief in the front of the knee that is made worse  when climbing, taking stairs, or walking up an incline

bursitis: inflammation caused by repeated overuse or injury of the knee

Chondromalacia patella: damaged cartilage under the kneecap

gout: arthritis caused by the buildup of uric acid

Baker’s cyst:a buildup of synovial fluid (fluid that lubricates the joint) behind the knee

Meniscus tear:a rupture in one or more of the cartilage in the knee

[maxprofitness]

3 Common Injuries for Runners and How to Avoid Them

Running is a fantastic way to stay fit and enjoy the outdoors, but it can also lead to injuries if not done correctly. Here are three common injuries that runners often face and how to avoid them to keep your running routine safe and effective.

1. Runner's Knee (Patellofemoral Pain Syndrome)

Symptoms: Pain around the kneecap, especially when going up or down stairs, squatting, or sitting for long periods. Prevention:

Strengthening Exercises: Incorporate strength training exercises for your quadriceps, hamstrings, and glutes to support your knee.

Proper Footwear: Invest in quality running shoes that provide good support and cushioning. Consider using orthotic inserts if you have flat feet or overpronate.

Gradual Increase in Intensity: Avoid sudden increases in running distance or intensity. Gradually build up your running routine to prevent overuse.

2. Shin Splints (Medial Tibial Stress Syndrome)

Symptoms: Pain along the inner edge of the shinbone, often caused by repetitive stress on the bone and connective tissues. Prevention:

Proper Warm-Up: Always start your run with a proper warm-up and include dynamic stretches to prepare your muscles.

Surface Variety: Try to avoid running on hard surfaces like concrete. Mix up your running routes to include softer surfaces such as grass or dirt trails.

Strength Training: Strengthen your lower legs, particularly the calves and the muscles around the shin.

3. Achilles Tendinitis

Symptoms: Pain and stiffness along the Achilles tendon, usually felt in the morning or after activity. Prevention:

Gradual Increase in Activity: Slowly increase your running distance and intensity to avoid overloading the Achilles tendon.

Stretching and Strengthening: Regularly stretch your calves and strengthen the muscles in your lower legs.

Proper Footwear: Use supportive shoes that fit well and provide adequate heel cushioning.

Additional Tips:

Cross-Training: Incorporate cross-training activities such as cycling, swimming, or using fitness equipments like the Welcare elliptical cross trainers to reduce the repetitive strain on your running muscles.

Rest and Recovery: Ensure you get enough rest between running sessions to allow your body to recover and prevent overuse injuries.

By following these preventive measures, you can significantly reduce the risk of common running injuries and enjoy a safer, more enjoyable running experience.

[orthopedicsurgeon1]

Total Knee Replacement Surgery: What You Should Know

If your knee is severely damaged due to osteoarthritis or an old injury, basic activities like walking or climbing stairs might become challenging. There are moments when pain could even be experienced while resting on a bed or chair.

When treatments like pain relief medications, injections, physical therapy, or crutch use no longer provide relief, doctors may consider total knee replacement surgery. This surgical intervention is effective in alleviating pain, correcting leg alignment issues, and enabling a return to daily activities without discomfort.

Understanding the Necessity for Total Knee Replacement

Total knee replacement surgery is a proven and safe procedure for addressing persistent knee pain. It restores proper leg alignment and facilitates a return to daily activities without pain. The primary cause of enduring knee discomfort and limited functionality is often osteoarthritis, particularly age-related osteoarthritis, rheumatoid arthritis, and post-injury osteoarthritis.

Osteoarthritis: This condition commonly affects individuals over the age of 50, leading to the wearing away of cushioning cartilage in the knee, resulting in bone friction and discomfort.

Rheumatoid Arthritis: Inflammation of the joint membrane causes cartilage damage, leading to pain and stiffness.

Post-traumatic Osteoarthritis: Cartilage may be affected after traumas like knee fractures or ligament tears, resulting in long-term knee pain and impaired function.

The Surgical Process

The total knee replacement procedure involves four fundamental steps:

Bone Preparation: Damaged cartilage and a portion of the underlying bone are removed from the ends of the thigh and shin bones.

Metal Implant Placement: Metal components replace the removed cartilage and bone to recreate the joint's surface, often cemented with specialized cement.

Patella Replacement: The underside of the kneecap is replaced with a plastic button, a decision based on the surgeon's expertise.

Spacer Insertion: A robust plastic piece is inserted between metal parts to create a smooth and functional outer layer.

Is Total Knee Replacement Right for You?

The decision to undergo total knee replacement surgery should be a collaborative decision involving you, your family, your general practitioner, and your orthopedic surgeon. Your doctor may recommend consulting an orthopedic surgeon to assess whether this surgery could be beneficial for you.

When Surgery is Recommended

Several factors may warrant knee replacement surgery, including:

Flexed knee due to severe osteoarthritis.

Limiting knee pain or stiffness during daily activities.

Persistent knee pain and swelling unresponsive to conservative treatments.

Ineffectiveness of previous treatments like anti-inflammatory drugs or physiotherapy.

Knee deformity requiring prosthetic surgery to realign limbs.

While age or weight is not strict criteria for knee replacement surgery, excess weight can impact implant longevity. Although most candidates are aged 50-80, the decision is based on pain and disability, not age.

Setting Realistic Expectations

A crucial aspect of deciding on total knee replacement surgery is understanding what the procedure can and cannot achieve. While over 90% of those who undergo knee replacement report a significant reduction in knee pain and improved daily activities, the prosthetic knee may wear down over time with repeated use.

Potential Post-Surgery Issues

While complications after total knee replacement are generally low, there are potential issues:

Infections: Infections can occur in the wound or around the prosthesis, requiring antibiotic treatment or, in severe cases, additional surgery.

Blood Clots: Formation of blood clots in leg veins is a common issue, with preventive measures such as leg elevation, early exercises, support stockings, and blood-thinning medications.

Problems with the Implant: Despite advancements, implants may wear down or become loose, requiring future interventions.

Persistent Pain: A small percentage of patients may experience ongoing pain after surgery, with causes sometimes challenging to determine.

Neurovascular Injuries: Rare but possible injuries to nerves or blood vessels around the knee during surgery.

Conclusion

In the journey towards total knee replacement, understanding the benefits and potential complications is vital. This guide has illuminated the intricacies of the procedure, from addressing chronic pain to restoring mobility. Individual experiences may vary, so approaching this decision with caution and consultation with medical professionals is essential. Seeking guidance from orthopedic experts ensures personalized insights, helping you make an informed decision tailored to your unique needs. By relying on skilled professionals, you can embark on a path towards an improved quality of life with reduced discomfort.

To know more,  visit https://www.drganeshnavaneedhan.com/blog/demystifying-total-knee-replacement-surgery-what-to-expect/

[dreamerstreamer]

Telltale Talent

Pairing: Dream / Clay x gn!reader

Summary: [Dream SMP!AU] When Dream tries to teach you how to spar, he learns that you’re more than what meets the eye.

Word Count: 2.1k

A/N: this was requested by an anon who wanted a fun sparring practice with a surprise! here’s to the first fic of 2021, and i hope you enjoy <3

Clay stared down at the map on his desk, his fingers curling tighter around the quill in his hands. A mess of scribbles and circles gazed back up at him as he made another mark. He bit back the sigh that threatened to escape his throat, his brow twitching.

You were doing it, again.

He could feel your eyes on him from the other side of the room, practically boring a hole through his skull. He clenched his jaw, chewing on his lip as he tried to focus his attention on the map lying before him. If you were going to do what he thought you were going t—

At that exact moment, you opened your mouth, but he spoke before you could.

“No.”

Almost immediately, a whine flew from your lips, and you thrashed your legs in annoyance. “What?! Why not?” You frowned, determination etched into your features. “It’ll be a good experience!”

This time, he actually did sigh, lifting his head to look at you dead on, balancing his quill between his fingers. “For one, it’s not like you’re not going to go into battle, anyway.”

Your frown deepened, a line forming between your brows as you shot him a longing look. “That doesn’t mean you still can’t teach me how to spar.”

He pursed his lips, his tongue poking at the inside of his cheek. “There’s no need to.”

For a few seconds, you simply stared at one another, your eyes swimming with resolve as he grimaced. Then your face lit up, and you shot your arm into the air, making him jump. 

“Self-defence!” you shouted, your entire body practically glowing with hope. “If you teach me how to spar, then I could use it for self-defence purposes.” Before he could open his mouth to retort, you cut him off with a cold look. “Clay, you can’t tell me that there’s no chance that I won’t ever have to defend myself—you just can’t.”

Clay blinked at you, glowering. You weren’t wrong, per se. He didn’t want to acknowledge it, but there was still a very real possibility that at any point, you could be in danger, regardless of whether or not you were on the battlefield. It wasn’t that he didn’t think you were capable of keeping yourself safe, but teaching you how to fight would mean having to admit that there may come a time where he couldn’t be there for you.

The mere thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He stared at you for a long moment, taking in the sight of your pleading face and clenched hands, your eyes desperately searching his. Then, he sighed once more, setting his quill down in its holder. “Fine.”

You let out a delighted squeal, springing to your feet before bounding over to his desk. Bending over, you pressed a quick peck to his cheek. His heart skipped a loving beat in his chest, and his cheeks flushed pink.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Clay!” you cried, flashing him a bright grin as you pulled back. Your eyes curved into crescent moons as you giggled with glee. “You won’t regret this, I promise!”

He rested his head on his hand as he watched you cheer to yourself, pumping your air in a successful dance. A small smile flitted across his face, his emerald eyes crinkling at the corners as his map lay forgotten on the desk.

Oh, who was he kidding? You were far too cute to say no to, even if he wanted to.

“So, what’s first?”

He hummed, tucking a hand under his chin. Above you, the midday sun beat down on you both, the clouds watching with eager eyes as Clay paced around the clearing.

He was lucky to have found a spot within the forest that was both open and had plenty of soft grass. This way, you’d have a proper spot to practice while also having some semblance of cushioning beneath you in case you fell. As much as he wanted to simulate a real fight scenario for you, he didn’t want you to actually get injured. He could hardly manage to keep his cool when you got a simple scrape on your finger—there was no way he’d remain calm if you got hurt in a fight, practice or not.

His steps suddenly came to a halt, and he turned on his heel to look at you with a thoughtful glance. “Before we even properly start practicing,” he began, raising two fingers, “there are two things you should know and remember.”

Your eyebrows knit together as you let out a small whine, your shoulders sinking at your side. “Aw, is this a lecture?” You frowned. “I just want to skip to the fun part, already.”

Clay rolled his eyes as shook his head, but you didn’t miss the tiny smile on his lips as he wagged his fingers at you. “Ah, ah, ah. I’m the teacher here, so you better pay attention.”

You shot him a sour look, then quietly grumbled, “Well, you’re not a very fun teacher.”

He scowled at that, placing a hand on his hip. “We’re getting there!” His gaze softened, and his tone grew gentle as he offered, “Let’s just do this first, okay? I promise I’ll keep it short, and you will get to try a real spar, today.”

Your frown was slowly replaced by a smile, and you sent him a keen look, shifting forward onto your toes. “Okay.”

He grinned, taking a few steps back from you until he was standing on the opposite side of the clearing. “Good. First,” he said, pointing his two fingers at his eyes then to yours, “never take your eyes off your enemy.” He cocked his head as he lowered his arm. “It may seem obvious to you, but you’d be surprised by how often people forget in the heat of the moment.”

Your gaze was serious when you nodded, and he was almost taken aback by how quickly your demeanour had changed. “I can do that.”

He blinked for a second, then sent you another encouraging smile. “Perfect. Second,” he carried on, pointing downward, “remember that your feet exist.”

“Okay—wait.” You froze, your eyebrows furrowing together as confusion flickered across your face. “What?”

He chuckled at your confused expression, dropping his arm. “I know it sounds dumb, but it’s true! You see,” he explained, tapping a finger against his temple, “the human brain is kind of dumb, and a lot of the time when it comes to fights, a person’s first instinct is to focus on their enemy’s hands and immobilize them.” He raised his hand toward you, curling it into a tight fist. “After all, they are pretty effective weapons. But your feet can be just as, if not more, powerful.” His gaze darted back to yours. “Do you follow?”

Slowly, you nodded, your eyes staring directly at his knuckles. “In the same way,” he continued, “it’s also good to remember that your elbows and knees are two of the strongest parts of your body.” He raised one hand, the other reaching over to tap his elbow. “Don’t be afraid to use them, because they can be especially useful.”

Your lips parted as you bobbed your head. He could practically see the gears churning in your head, and he almost wanted to coo at how focused you looked. “Feet, elbows, knees,” your murmured quietly to yourself, huffing. “Got it.”

He dropped his arm, his lips quirking. “Awesome.” He turned slightly to the side, shifting his weight onto his back foot. “Now that the so-called boring part is done, do you just want to give it a first go and try a practice fight? First person to knock the other person over wins.”

Your eyes lit up, and for a split second, Clay could have sworn he saw something dark flicker through your gaze. But it was gone as soon as it had appeared, and he was soon blinded by your dazzling grin. “Sure!”

His expression mirrored yours as he brought his arms up in front of him, his hands forming fists. In front of him, your eyes quickly scanned him up and down, and you slowly moved to copy his stance. He felt a tinge of satisfaction shoot through him. You were a fast learner.

“I’m ready when you are,” he called, cracking his neck with a grunt.

Your eyes narrowed, your tongue darting out to wet your lips, and for a moment, all was still.

Then, in a flash, you were charging toward him, stopping only just in front of him to throw your fist at his skull. He smiled at your earnest effort, quickly twisting to the side. You nearly toppled forward when your fist met empty air, and he reveled in your widening eyes. A split second later, you leapt back, swinging your left leg up and into his side. But just before your shin made impact with his hoodie, he lifted his arm, his hand quickly latching onto your ankle and holding it in place.

“Ooh, nice try, sweetheart,” he hummed, shooting you a crooked grin. He drank in the shocked look on your face as his expression grew a fraction darker and his grip on your ankle tightened.

“But not nice enough.”

He swiftly threw down your foot, watching as you stumbled back at the force. You didn’t get the chance to regain your balance before he was suddenly looming beside you, his fist flying toward your nose. With a yelp, you ducked, your arm shooting above your head to grab his arm in midair. He blinked as your fingers dug into his sweater, curling tightly into the fabric. Then, a devious grin crept onto his face.

As much as you may try, he had the upper hand when it came to brute strength.

But to his shock, he felt something sharp and hard slam into his gut, knocking the air straight out of his lungs. He quickly back-pedaled, but your hold on his sleeve didn’t let up. He only barely caught a glimpse of your kneecap before you stepped behind him, twisting his arm around and pinning it to his back. Just then, he felt something brush against his ankle.

No way.

In the blink of an eye, his legs were flying out beneath him, and he was flipping into the air. With a thud, he slammed into the ground, a dull ache shooting through his back as the grass cushioned his fall. Before he could even react, you quickly placed your foot on his chest, keeping him thoroughly pinned down.

His eyes were the size of saucers as he took in your half-shaking figure, your eyes trained on his fallen form. You panted above him, your fists slowly uncurling. “Was—was that good?”

Clay gaped at you, his head spinning with what you’d just done. You had just knocked him, a trained soldier and practiced assassin, flat on his back with practically no instructions whatsoever. He had only given you two—well, two and a half—simple tips before putting you on the spot, and you still managed to take him down.

There was no sugarcoating it—you were a prodigy. 

If he wasn’t in love with you before, then he definitely was, now.

Pride swelled in his chest as he closed his mouth, swallowing. He stared at you for a moment longer before shaking his head free from his reverie. He couldn’t wait to teach you more.

“[Y/N],” he breathed, his lips stretching into an awed grin, “you’re amazing.”

You blinked, pointing to yourself in surprise. “I-I am?”

He nodded without even an ounce hesitation, his grin growing even wider. “Very.” With a small grunt, he pushed himself back onto his feet, dusting off his behind before turning back to you. “Now,” he said, “do it again.” His eyes glinted with something akin to mischief. “I won’t go easy on you this time.”

You tilted your head at him as a devilish smile of your own tugged at your lips. “In that case, neither will I.”

He raised a brow at you, but he couldn’t stop the affection bubbling up in between his lungs. He felt his heart beat faster as you settled into a fighting stance, your arms raised in front of you. “That’s the spirit.”

Your eyes locked onto each other, and for a moment, all was still.

Then, you came barreling towards him, your eyes glimmering in the sunlight. His lips curled into a smirk as he raised his foot.

Perhaps teaching you to fight wasn’t too bad of an idea, after all.

[onyxgabriel]

Pot of Gold: New friends and new names

One recap later...

Jaune: ...And that’s what happened.

Jaune just finished telling his story on how he met the pups, while his friends, mainly Weiss, Ruby, Nora and Yang kept on bombarding the puppies with affection. Safe to say that the four girls were absolutely livid that someone would abandon these sweet babies. Oh and Zwei was also there, he wants to meet his new playmates and possible siblings.

Weiss: THE NERVE OF SOME PEOPLE!

Her loud screeching made the pups flinch in fright. Thankfully, Weiss noticed this.

Weiss: baby voice Oh  I’m sorry little guy, mommy Weiss is just mad that there are despicable sacks of disappointment would leave precious little angels like you! Whose a good boy, yes you are!

Weiss reassured and cradled one of the puppies in her arms like a baby and giving belly rubs and scratches.

Jaune: ‘Wait, did she just call herself-’

Jaune was cut off by Nora.

Nora: Yeah! I wanna break their kneecaps!

Damn it, Nora...

Ren: Nora, no.

Nora: NORA, YES!

Double damn it, Nora!

Pyrrha: Breaking knees aside, have you named these little guys, Jaune?

Thank you, Pyrrha!

Jaune: Err, not yet, Pyrrha. I haven’t thought of names for the little guys.

From the corner of his vision, he saw Ruby, Weiss, Yang and Nora perk up from the statement, and he saw Blake being cornered by one of the puppies.

Weiss: brings her face close to the pup she was holding From now on, you will be called “William.” How does that sound to you?

The puppy barked happily in her arms, like he was saying yes.

Weiss gushed in delight and cuddled the the little baby in her arms, all the while rambling “Whose a good boy, you are!” And “I’ll get you and your siblings different colored collars!”

Nora raised the doggo in her arms like a sacred treasure.

Nora: Henceforth, you shall be named as “Prince Pancake!”

The pup barked in delight at the name.

Jaune: Uhh, Nora, that one’s a girl...

Nora: “Princess Pancake!”

Ren: sigh “Pancake” is just fine, Nora.

Ruby: holds puppy close to her face How does “Pumpkin” sound to you?

Her answer was a lick to her nose. Which made Ruby happy. Zwei barked in happiness at his new sibling/playmate.

Yang: Dad’s gonna flip out when he finds out we got a new puppy.

Jaune saw Blake still against a corner with a pup parallel against her. The pup seemed to be happy if the wagging tail was an indication.

Jaune: Hey, Blake, what are you gonna name that one?

Blake: hiss Mutt...

Jaune: deadpan “Matt” short for “Matthew” it is then.

He heard the puppy barked, and Blake hiss again. Jaune then felt something against his shin. He looked down to see one of the puppies. He smiled.

Jaune: kneels down Hey there little guy, you want to be with me?

A bark was his answer.

Jaune: smiles Okay, how does “Pete” sound to you?

The pup barked happily and wagged his tail. Making Jaune happy.

Then Jaune got an idea.

Jaune: Hey, Ruby. Zwei has his aura unlocked, right?

Ruby: getting her cheek licked Yeah, why?

Jaune: Let’s unlock these pups aura!

(Tadah! The pups meet their new friends and owners! And they got new names! Let’s see what shenanigans will ensue for these pups, especially now they’ll get auras and semblances!)

Pete (Boy) - Jaune and Pyrrha

William (Boy) - Weiss

Pumpkin (Girl) - Ruby and Yang

Pancake (Girl) - Nora and Ren

Matt “Matthew” (Boy) - Blake (NOOOOO!)

Other pups names:

Lucky (Boy)

Dory “Dorothy” (Girl)

Oswald (Boy)

Newt “Newton” (Boy)

Sam “Samson” (Boy)

[fruitcoops]

Could we please have a prequel to the praise kink fic? Because i really want to know why were Sirius and Remus not together and what did Remus send him. I really need context

I was hoping somebody would ask for this!! The aforementioned fic is here for any curious souls (18+ please) and SW credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for spicy texts (not exactly nudes), and smutty feelings with nothing explicit

The bus went over a bump and Sirius winced as his shins knocked against the back of the seat in front of him, connecting with the metal brace inside. “Fuck.”

“You sure you don’t want to switch?” James asked next to him. Sirius glanced down at the veritable wall of gear and empty snack bags between them, then back to James in disbelief. He shrugged, then set his headphones back over his ears. “Worth a shot.”

“Merde,” Sirius hissed as a pothole nearly took off his kneecap. He gritted his teeth and readjusted, drawing his legs closer to his chest. I want to be home, he thought, allowing himself an internal moment to whine.

He checked his phone—not even ten in the morning. It was a Saturday, so Remus would probably just be rolling out of bed, still sleepy and soft with his hair sticking up like a disgruntled cat’s. Sirius sighed heavily and stared out the window at the small town rolling past in the distance; there was little he wouldn’t give to be back with him instead of on the way to a full week of conferences.

“Why did we have to win the Cup?” he grumbled.

James lifted one side of his headphones. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It wasn’t like they had had much time to themselves before that, either—Sirius’ schedule was packed with interviews that felt more like interrogations, and Remus had been running the PT department mostly by himself while Moody took a well-deserved vacation. They were dead on their feet every night, worked to the bone with little energy left to do more than cuddle and fall asleep. Still, Sirius was grateful for every second of it.

He waited ten more minutes before giving in.

New Message To: Re

Bonjour mon loup <3

There was no immediate response, which made sense, though he was a little bit disappointed. Sirius closed his eyes and tried to make himself relax; it would be at least another six hours before they arrived at their destination, and the bad weather gathering overhead didn’t bode well for quick travel.

His phone buzzed gently and he scrambled to answer. Don’t be Reg, don’t be Reg, don’t be Reg—

New Message From: Re

Morning love!

Thanks for the bagels <3

“Fuck yes,” Sirius said under his breath. The bagels had been a last-minute decision as he crept through the house in the early hours of the morning after carefully detaching himself from Remus with a final half-asleep farewell kiss. There was no guarantee he would remember breakfast with everything going on, so Sirius figured it was a safe bet to toast them and leave them on the countertop before heading out.

Message To: Re

Pas de problem

Sleep well?

Message From: Re

Decent

Missed you :(

Sirius rested his temple against the cold window with a soft sound. He hated leaving at different times, but that was just how their life worked at the moment.

Message To: Re

Missed you too <3

Three small dots appeared for a long moment before vanishing without a trace just as his heart rate began picking up. Where’d you go? he almost wondered aloud. Something bumped his arm and James raised a quizzical brow. “Loops,” Sirius said by way of explanation.

“I figured. He okay?”

“I think so? He just…disappeared on me.” Sirius was well-aware of how plaintive he sounded—James’ teasing smile was completely unnecessary.

“Aw, Cap,” he laughed, reaching over to mess with his beanie until Sirius slapped his hand away. “It’s alright, buddy, it’s just a couple days.”

Sirius jammed his hat back on his head and flicked James on the unprotected bit of his ear, making him yelp. “Fuck off, I know you’ll be a mess as soon as Lily FaceTimes with my godson.”

“He has a name, you know.”

“Sorry. You’ll be a mess as soon as she FaceTimes with Pocket Pots, who happens to be my godson.”

James rolled his eyes. “I regret giving you that title.”

“Nah, you don’t.”

As if on cue, his phone lit up again; Sirius ignored James’ snickering as he quickly unlocked it.

New Message From: Re

When will you be at the hotel?

“That’s it?” he muttered.

Message To: Re

That was a lot of typing for one sentence

6-7 hrs, if the weather holds

Why?

Message From: Re

Sorry lmao Reg came in for a bit

Just curious :) Keep me updated?

Message To: Re

Will do <3

Tell Reg he needs to wash his sheets. It’s been over a month.

A small thumbs-up emoji was his only answer, and he tried not to be too bummed. Remus liked having things to do; sitting there and texting Sirius while he slowly got further and further away was probably not his preferred way to spend a morning. With a sigh that was likely a bit too dramatic for the situation he was in, Sirius faced the window once more and buckled in for a long ride.

He chatted off and on with the others when they stopped for lunch, but everyone was exhausted from the combination of a packed week and an early morning. Even Talker stayed fairly quiet, and James kept his headphones on for most of the trip.

Sirius finally succumbed to his tiredness and put some music on, then dozed for an hour or three while they traveled through yet another field. A few halfhearted calls of “cows” made their way around the bus, though nobody seemed particularly enthused about being packed in with double the gear due to a broken storage compartment. Donuts and gas station coffee could only do so much.

“Just crossed the state border,” Arthur called from the front of the bus as Sirius tried to ignore the cramping in his thighs. Three hours. Just three more.

His music was interrupted by a soft jingle alert and he pulled his phone out, hoping against hope that Regulus hadn’t caused a fire anywhere. It was unlikely given the…well, everything about him, but with Sirius’ luck it could happen.

New Message From: Re

How far?

Message To: Re

About 3 hrs. Ran into some detours

Good day?

Remus remained silent on the other end and Sirius frowned. That was rather rude, and highly unusual. Between the two of them, Remus was the one who kept conversations going past the initial question to be answered.

Message From: Re

Attachment: 1 Image

Love you! Call me when you get there : )

Sirius opened the attachment and almost threw his phone in utter shock. Skin. Bare skin everywhere, its smooth edges broken up only by tight black fabric that may as well have been painted onto the curve of Remus’ ass. “Oh my god,” he whimpered, voice barely audible even to his own ears. It had been taken in their bedroom mirror; Remus looked over his shoulder, and Sirius caught the corner of a devious smirk on his lips. “Oh, you fucker.”

Message From: Re

Thoughts? They’re cozy

Message To: Re

Did you miss the part where I said three (3) hours

Message From: Re

Nope

Second one is a guessing game and u get a prize if u get it right : )

The second photograph was more zoomed-in than the first and Sirius wracked his brain, running through his mental catalogue of Remus’ body to figure out the answer. It did absolutely nothing to calm the situation in his pants.

He had no idea what the promised prize was, but anticipation made his hands shake slightly as he carefully scanned the picture. The shadows caught it at an odd angle—it wasn’t the steady slopes of his face or neck, nor was it the strong curve of a shoulder. Not enough freckles, either, he thought.

A lightbulb lit in the back of his mind.

Message To: Re

Right hip

Another thought connected half a second later.

Holy fuck you took them off

Is that my prize?

Re?

Remus Lupin I swear to god

TEXT ME BACK

Message From: Re

Bingo!

Christ you’re impatient, I was gone for like 2 mins

He chanced a look toward Pots, whose head lolled to the side as he snored.

Message To: Re

Hey quick question why are you like this

It’s a good thing Pots is out cold bc this bus is too small to hide anything

Message From: Re

Haha sux to be you

Sirius’ cheeks heated with a whole cocktail of different emotions as he furiously typed a response.

Message To: Re

‘Sux to be you’???

Are you 13 yrs old????

Message From: Re

Do you want your prize or not u horndog

Message To: Re

YOU MADE ME THIS WAY

He took a deep breath through his nose and flexed his fingers.

Yes please

A simple smiley face—Sirius would never see those things the same—popped up, followed by an audio file. He triple-checked that his headphones were plugged in before tapping ‘play’ with an unsteady thumb.

His face went very, very hot before all the blood went straight to his groin and he closed his eyes, covering his mouth with his hand. Breathy sounds came through the heavy earphones, a little more crackly than they would be in-person; he heard Remus’ gasp catch in his throat and crossed his legs as best he could in the too-small seat, torn between thanking and cursing any higher power. He could practically see Remus’ face in his mind’s eye as the noises continued, intermixed with fragments of desperate words.

The file came to an end after what felt like the blink of an eye and a hundred years, and Sirius did not look away from the violently red seat cushion in front of him for a long moment as his brain came back online. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so turned on.

He took a few deep breaths, though it did nothing to erase the poorly-muffled whines that still rang between his ears like church bells. Sirius huffed and turned to grab his waterbottle out of his duffel, only to make direct eye contact with Finn across the aisle.

Sirius froze.

Finn grinned.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hissed, too low to wake James but just loud enough to carry over the four feet separating them. Finn’s smile widened. “Stop it. Stop it right now.”

“How’s Loops?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“That good, huh?”

“O’Hara, I swear to god—”

“Oh, is Cap spilling secrets?” Kasey asked, poking his head over the back of the seat.

Finn opened his mouth, but the force of Sirius’ glare must have been enough to at least intimidate him a little, because he shook his head. The smug Cheshire grin remained. “Nah, just having a chat about our plans when we get home.”

Kasey groaned. “You’re a lucky man, O’Hara. Both your people get to come with you. Nat sent me a promise, like, twenty minutes ago and I can’t stop thinking about it. I won’t be available tonight from six to eight if anyone was wondering.”

“Did she really?” Finn looked back to Sirius, who bit the inside of his cheek and tried to keep his cool. Two and a half hours, and then he would be safe. Just two and a half more hours.

[tendertokyo]

Which NCT boy could I beat in a fight; a discussion

yours truly is feeling nasty today and who better to destroy than 23 idiots (mom i love them but i wanna kick their ass)

let's get it

taeil: the most powerful thing about him is his voice, this man built like a grandpa, i'm not sorry. one good kick in the shin would be enough to floor him

taeyong: he's the softest bitch i've ever seen. my scorpio bloodlust is too much for his weak cancer ass, i'd knee him in the nuts and he'd apologise to me for standing in my way

johnny: this man is the textbook definition of chaotic evil, i would not fight him even if you paid me. he would play dirty and use his height to intimidate me but i feel like he wouldn't attack me at all. he'd just smile at me calmly and cage me in with his giant man body and i'd be done

yuta: it's tricky with yuta, 'cause i kinda wanna fight him for scorpio dominance but i also know it won't end well for me. unlike johnny, he would attack me and strike me down. but he couldn't intimidate me enough to give up so he better bring his best game

doyoung: i feel like i could take him in a physical fight bit not a verbal one you know? like yeah i could fuck up his kneecaps but he could verbally traumatise me like a champ. something about him reminds me of my very balkan mother and that makes me uneasy. could easily picture him threatening me with a wooden spoon

kun: he's too nice and patient to outfight fight me even if i attack first, would try to persuade me to talk it out but i'm not here for a chat motherfucker. i would knock him unconscious with an uppercut, but make sure he safely falls on a soft armchair

ten: i would never fight him, are you kidding me? he's an apsolute legend

jaehyun: i would beat his ass at the drop of a hat, dumbass white boy. he's higher than a kite 97% of time, bitchboy wouldn't even notice me swinging at him. i would right hook him square in the face and it would feel so good

winwin: i would fight him for that sweet scorpio dominance and i would win. listen i know he's a classicaly trained dancer and i'd use it against him. he'd be wasting too much time on looking ellegant and not enough on catchin deez hands

jungwoo: he looks all cute and innocent but i'm telling you he's one sadistic motherfucker. i'd run away from him the way you run away crying from a horror house at the fair

lucas: he has the bodyodyody for it but he's too slow for me, i'd scratch him up like catpost. he also wouldn't take the fight seriously 'cause he's friendly like that which creates a perfect opening for me to punish him with my claws

mark: i would never fight mark, can you imagine how tired this man is? also i feel like he becomes hella terrifying when he gets MAD mad and and i apsolutely don't wanna be at the recieving end of that

xiaojun: i could make him cry like a baby with my words only

hendery: it's like when your brother tries to play fight you, he swings a lost to scare you but is actually completely useless. makes those woosh noises and keeps going "u wanna fight huh u wanna fight me?...! c'mon sucka fight me wooooosh pow pewpew wooshhh" yeah i'd be threw with him in only clean punch

yangyang: i'd break his chicken legs and eat sushi with them

shotaro: he's adorable, why would i fight him? kawaii ass tiktok boy smh

sungchan: i have previously wished to fight his virgo ass but upon seeing his rap in misfit i've changed my mind, he gets a free pass but just this once

renjun: i'd fight him with such joy, he's all bark but no bite i'm telling you. i'd wrestle him, pin him down and pull the "why're you hitting yourself" trick. he'd surrender soon after because i would annoy him into it. as he limps away from me i hear him mutter "...bitch" under his breath but you know what i've hurt him enough for one day, so i let it slide

jeno: my lovely taurus boy, i could never fight you. i love tauruses too much y'all i can't. he deserves cuddles and warm drinks

haechan: oh i'd whoop his ass sooooo fast, he'd see me approach him from the distance and he'd already know it's over. i'd make him scream like a little girl no cap

jaemin: this is a 10/10 lil fuck. i would never fight him because i like him too much. it's a joy to watch him simply exist in his own weird, wonderful way. he's just a stupid cute boy and i wanna pet his hair

chenle: he's also too much of a legend for me to even attempt it and honestly i don't really want to. i adore that young man with all my heart, he's just a really cool chill dude with good vibes. i don't doubt for a second that he could beat my ass though, he is a sadist and has no mercy

jisung: i wanna protect him from the world, dog. only thing he's getting from me are words of encouragement, never fists. god bless him

that is all

[enhalovebot]

꒰ mutual ꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

➸ nishimura riki x reader (gender neutral)

➸ fluff ⌯'▾'⌯

➸ ˗ˏ ➶ [☁️]. ✧ ˚ - kim

⤷ nishimura riki, the name of the boy you hated. and in this case, the feeling was mutual.

“All of the people in this wretched school, it had to be you.” You pressed your back harder onto the shelf. 

“Please, it’s not like I’m the one who wanted to be stuck here with you. You’re honestly so suffocating to be around.” You feel a slight kick on your shin. 

You glare daggers at him in the darkness of the supply closet. “Real mature, Ni-ki.”

This was not how you imagined your night would go. To be alone in a small space with the one person you hated more than anything else, no less. Nishimura Riki, or as he liked to call himself, Ni-ki. The boy who tripped you over your bike when you were seven. He had you running with tears in your eyes to your mom by the end of recess. In conclusion, you hated him with every fiber of your whole being. And from what you have gathered from his actions, the feeling was mutual. And spending the afternoon with him will ultimately make you go crazy if you don’t find a way to get out of this closet. 

“Shut up.”

You sigh, “I didn’t say anything.”

“Sorry, your breathing is way too loud. I can literally hear you from here.” Ni-ki chuckled. 

With all you’ve got, you kicked him in the kneecaps, which sent him kneeling on the ground.

“Oh, sorry. You were talking way too much. It’s getting infuriating.”

“This is why I don’t like you.” Ni-ki rubs the probably reddening spot, sneering at you. 

“Good, nice to know that the feeling is mutual.” 

There wasn’t much you could do. It was a Friday night, and it was raining, and you’re trapped in this dusty closet. 

“I never understood why you hated me so much. What did I even do to you?” Ni-ki slides down and sits down on the cold closet floor. You grimace at this. “You are being too dramatic. Here, sit with me.” He pats at the space beside him. A raise of your eyebrow was enough for Ni-ki to put his hands up as if saying he is surrendering. “I won’t try anything, I promise.”

“Well, this is new.” You fold your arms over your chest as you sit down next to the boy. 

“This is the closest we’ve been without having the urge to strangle each other.” Ni-ki nonchalantly sighs, closing his eyes. You chuckle at his confession. What he said was correct in so many ways. 

“I always thought you had the best reaction.” Ni-ki once again speaks up, cutting off the silence looming in the small space you're both in. 

You turn your head at him in confusion. “What?”

Reaction to what?

“When I teased you when we were kids... You always had the best reactions, which is why I continued to do it.” He turns away from you, refusing to meet your questioning eyes. He hated the way you looked the first time he saw you. He guesses it’s just the way you acted and not your light-up shoes that bothered him. Or it was maybe the way you laughed with your smile reaching your eyes. Maybe that was the reason why he didn’t know how to react when it came to you. 

“You’re so stupid. You know that?” Your eyes glaze over his face. “You could’ve just asked, or you could’ve approached me. For all I know we could’ve been the best of friends.” 

Ni-ki discreetly shakes his head as he ignores the slight hurt he felt in his chest. Yeah, friends. 

“Yeah, you’re right. We could’ve been something else.” Ni-ki shuffles closer to you. You weren’t sure what he meant by something, but you certainly won’t mind knowing if that was what he meant. 

Both of you stay silent, letting the calmness of the situation take its place, which was nice to feel once in a while. You were so used to the endless bickering that you forgot how to act calm around Ni-ki. The difference this time was that there’s no fighting, bantering, and teasing. There was just silence. And honestly, you’re not complaining. It was soothing to know this side of Ni-ki. And maybe it was just your brain fooling around you, but you swear you felt your heart skip a beat. Or maybe, you even heard it through the silence. 

A few minutes pass is when you hear the sounds of keys echoing in the hallway. With this, you pull Ni-ki up to his feet as you banged on the door. “Let us out!” “We’re here!” 

Ni-ki draws you away from the door once the person on the other side finally opens the door. “Finally, we’re free.” The boy spreads his arms apart as he dashes out of the closet. The janitor quickly gives the two of you to hurry home, but not before also giving you a talk about how to avoid locking yourselves in a closet. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You can’t help but ask. It felt like something changed in the short time you shared. 

A loud laugh escapes his lips, doubling over in laughter. “Y/n, we have no school tomorrow. It’s a Saturday.”

Oh.

Oh. 

“W-what I meant was I’ll see you on Monday.” You try to play it off.

Ni-ki chuckles and hands you his umbrella. “Yeah, I’ll see you. Definitely.” 

You nodded in embarrassment and turned around, ready to bolt out of the school. But Ni-ki was one step ahead of you. He catches your arms and pulls you to him. 

He leans close, lips almost touching the shell of your ears. “Stay safe, loser.” 

Yeah, the feeling is mutual. 

all rights reserved © enhalovebot

[randomwriteronline]

'You must be plagued by a benevolent spirit' used to be one of the things that people liked to tell him the most.

It is not uncommon. Spirits and imps and faes enjoy favoring or (much more likely) impeding Hylians, Gerudos and all other people of Hyrule alike. It must be a fun pastime for them, a popular one among their kind - or a very common way to blame the everyday misfortunes which the Goddesses allow to befall us.

But in his case, it is different.

Because in his case, it is seldom bad luck.

Whether it is a matter of getting that one darn cucco that keeps stubbornly hiding away somewhere back in the coop, or finding a little thing that has been lost for ages or just in the last hour, or returning home safely in the darkest of nights: he always seemed to manage it.

He had thought he had seen it as it haunted him, that little benevolent spirit of his, once or twice: he had almost been sure to have caught the glimpse of the shining of a large warm hued gem, spying from corners and shadows, with spindly fingers covered in grey ash and a voice as thin as a copper wire, glimmering from the shallow recesses of velvet shadows...

It had only been visions of course - quick, faint tricks of the mind.

He tried not to believe in it, anyways. It's never good to pretend the otherworldly has some kind of hand in unimportant lives.

Unless of course the Goddesses decide you are important.

Not just important, even.

Of the outmost importance.

The Hero reincarnated.

Hot damn.

It made him think - during the few times he could think of something different than the war's hectic insanity, which often was as he laid desperate for sleep that wouldn't come and unable to concentrate on important matters without feeling like bursting him into flames - about that little benign plague.

If it truly did haunt him.

The Chosen appears out of the bushes with a big silly grin and the healer having a hard time concealing something behind his back.

"Guess what we found!" the bird rider prompts him excitedly.

"BLUEBELLS," spoils a thin coppery voice.

The healer struggles to contain the sound of wood against wood behind him.

"Guess what we found," repeats the Chosen.

"IT'S BLUEBELLS."

The brown-haired hero turns a little to keep the grey head, hands and legs from peeking out. He is not very successful.

"Guess," tries the skychild one last time.

"I'M PUTTING THEM IN YOUR HAIR," Skull Kid screams again. In their small waving fist is a concerning amount of bluebells.

The captain looks at the little pest being barely held back by the healer, twists his mouth, clicks his tongue, dreads what is to come, and turns to the man who started the whole hero-ing business.

"I'm guessing it's bluebells," he says dryly.

The Chosen still smiles.

He looks mildly mortified.

The little bastard creature runs directly into the captain's leg, flowers still in an iron grip.

They pull at his tunic insistently: "Get down," they order.

"No, thank you."

"Get down!"

"What do you say?" the farmer chastises them as he stops tending for the fraction of a second to the slightly wet and not fully conscious man he has drowned under about five blankets.

The imp stops pulling for a moment: "Please," they say. Then they kick the captain in the shin.

"Ow," he protests.

"Get down or I'll eat your kneecaps," they threaten him.

"You wouldn't do that."

He proceeds to get his knee bitten.

The healer's eyes grow enormous as his scarfed companion nearly invokes the Goddesses in less than respectful ways: he grabs the round bald head and somehow pries it from the captain, leaving a few cuts on the fabric and maybe a drop of blood as the brunette yells: "No! Bad!" as if talking to a misbehaving cat.

A nasal voice rises from the earth suddenly: "My boy!" calls out delighted and a little feverish very sick former time-traveler.

"Which one?" Skull Kid asks, perfectly calm all of a sudden.

"My beautiful boy!" croaks the man.

"Be more specific,” Skull Kid says, “There’s four of them.”

“You missed one,” their friend corrects them.

The four indeed very handsome boys currently at the camp watch (and would swear that they also hear) the cogs in their dear menace’s empty little head turn feverishly for a minute as they stand perfectly still. The end product of their exhaustive detective work is a very earnest and very confused: “You?”

The eldest hero flops on his stomach with a gross hoarse laugh.

The sky dweller nudges the imp: “He meant you,” he suggests. The way they light up with genuine, delighted surprise makes the sick man cackle hard enough to get into a coughing fit.

“You kill me, sweet heart that you are,” he hacks up with a smile, “I’d kiss you but alas, I’ve come down with a fever.”

The healer turns to the farmer, concerned: “Did he jump into the frozen river like we told him not to do?”

“He jumped into the frozen river like we told him not to do,” the other confirms with a dreadful disappointed air to his face which is quickly copied by the Chosen, while the brunette opts for one that is merely worryingly mortified.

“Never said it wasn’t my own fault,” the time-traveler shields himself. “I take responsibility for my shortcomings. Unlike the Goddesses.”

A blue scarf swats at his face gently: “You're in no shape to be blasphemous, old man.”

“You shush and sit down,” the sick man huffs, “You’ve got to get those bluebells in your hair.”

"It's too short for that."

"Do not test me, boy!" Skull Kid shrieks. "I know my braids! Now sit down and let me make you smell decent for once."

The captain gasps outraged (his cologne smells very good and he will take no criticism on it, thank you). The gasp turns into a very heavy soldier-like curse as the child kicks him again before the farmer can restrain them.

"GET DOWN!" they yell from the strong rural grown grasp.

The captain repeats a not kind exclamation.

He then screams as two strong hands grab him from under the armpits and lift him in the air, swaying him like a large tube in the air before being forcefully sat on the ground.

The oldest among them raises his head and stumbles for a moment under a dizzy spell.

"Oh damn," he murmurs, "Oh fuck."

Three pairs of hands grab him like arpies to keep him from crashing all the way to the ground, at least one set of eyes burning viciously with an intense desire to force the imbecile idiot man still and possibly asleep to recover from his stupid idea.

The Chosen hisses with a glacial stare: "Now lay down, and stay down."

The time-traveler nods a couple times.

Then he lays on the captain's legs before the other can even try to stand up.

"I'll stay down now." he announces.

"Son of a good mother," the captain tells him.

The older hero smiles smugly.

Little wooden fingers begin running through the captain's hair to somewhat comb them. He huffs; it's not like there's any point in fighting them anyways. The old man spoils the imp too much, he mumbles.

The healer looks around: "Seems to me like we're a few links short in the chain," he notes. "Where has everybody else gone?"

"Moss and Sea are in hell," answers the imp.

"They might as well be," the farmer groans, "We lost track of them this morning when they went out exploring. The veteran and the blacksmith have been gone for a while trying to find them and we have been stuck here since Pops got convinced he was a Zora and took a bath."

“I can turn into a Zora.”

“Well, you didn’t when you jumped in the freezing water.”

The bird rider gives a deep pained sigh.

This will take long.

The captain waves his hand in a somewhat permissive manner at them: "You three go get our lost causes," he almost orders. "I'll stay here and watch over camp. The children have me imprisoned either way, so."

He shrugs excessively. He revels in short lived revenge as Skull Kid chirps angrily, their combing disrupted momentarily.

"No other choice for me."

The oldest hero stretches his arms, inviting his friend to deposit the flowers in his hands (which they do), as he hums a goodbye to the small expedition leaving to find their omonimous brethren.

There is not much of a sound. A gentle scraping against the scalp, deep breaths, rustling of blankets pulled over a sick body.

Skull Kid says: "Bell, pick a number."

"Seventeen," the captain says instinctively.

He feels their phalanxes pull at his hair two, three more times; then their mouth moves to whisper what sounds like a melody, a beat, and as they pick the first flower to fix on his head, they start singing.

"I saw seventeen pink sugar elephants," they breathe, "Sitting under a chestnut tree."

They are not a good singer. That is not what their voice is built for.

"I said good morning, pink sugar elephants, but they wouldn't speak to me."

It is charming either way, in some way; it is charming like songs murmured by children braiding flowers into hair.

"Each had two eyes, but they couldn't see me there. Each had four legs, but they couldn't go anywhere."

(For some reason it feels almost familiar. It cannot be, because he has never heard it before - but he can almost feel some sort of forlorn memory stir in him, some remembrance of these same skinny fingers pulling at him gently, and this same graceless, charming voice lulling him to sleep with this same song.)

"And so we just sat, that early autumn morning, sun not yet risen and magic everywhere."

Their coppery voice traild off with soft la la la la-s, and proceeds with the new verse.

"I walked up to one pink sugar elephant, asked why wouldn't he speak to me..."

The captain returns to that weird thought of his, that weird feeling. Who knows - perhaps that really happened (but with a different song, certainly. It could not have been this one. That would be silly.) and perhaps it had been his 'benevolent spirit', whatever it was, who had sung to him.

"... But he was a handy-made pink sugar elephant, given to children for treats of the teeth."

His eyes fall on the man already soundly asleep on his legs. He checks his forehead with the back of his hand: still warm. There he is, he thinks, that damned 'benevolent spirit' of mine, down with a fever after jumping into a freezing river like an idiot. He tries to imagine him sneaking up to his window - with all the time that passed between them, he might have been a skeleton! - to whisper him a nursery rhyme and help him sleep.

He had thought it had to be him back when he first saw him.

He had been certain of it.

That confused look on the small face as he had approached him with a strange smile, sure of his theory, came to his mind.

'I've got you all figured out,' he had told the child, his index finger tapping on his own smirk. The kid had given him a funny puzzled look and tilted his head.

'You are a Skull Kid, aren't you?'

That had made the boy almost laugh. That glimmer of mischief in his eyes had been confirmation enough for him.

'Do you even know what a Skull Kid is?' the little voice had asked.

But he had been prepared, perfectly prepared: 'You take me for a fool,' he had replied, 'They are the eternal children of the Deku Tree, who could not escape the Lost Woods - am I wrong now, little spirit?'

His response had been a giggle: 'I won't be the one to tell you!'

That had cemented it for him.

(How could he have known? He had no idea what a Skull Kid looked like at the time - hell, he might have gone his entire life without knowing such a thing! And the young time traveler had seemed like the perfect candidate to be one: older beyond his appearance, clearly knowledgeable of magic, and with something about him that felt strange in an incomprehensible manner. He understands now what truly causes his peculiarity - but how could he have known?)

That same giggle had caught his attention an evening, he could not remember precisely when, as he passed near the door of the castle behind which the puzzling child had taken residence briefly.

He had lingered, and heard two voices - both thin, child-like in nature, both exchanging quiet laughs in amused tones. He must have made some kind of noise, for one of the two gasped and hushered the other out with a gentle ‘go, go!’; and through a narrow he had caught the glimpse of a round head (made of wood?) gently colliding for a second with the child’s rosy face.

When he had opened the door the boy was looking out of the window and into the night, alone, his head on his arms.

‘How is the evening looking, lost child?’ the captain had asked.

The time traveler had turned with a mischievous smile and slightly colored cheeks: ‘The full moon is lovely,’ he had just replied.

He never did find out who that round head belonged to, didn’t he.

What a strange thing to remember.

His hand plays boredly with the sleeping man’s hair and his mouth keeps moving without him noticing.

“... He had two eyes, but he couldn’t see me there. He had four legs, but he couldn’t go anywhere.”

He can’t have heard this before. What a silly thought.

“And so we just sat, that early autumn morning, sun not yet risen and magic everywhere...”

La la-la la, la la-la la, la - la la la...

“Hi,” says Skull Kid, and the captain feels as confused and dizzy as if he had just woken up from a very long dream. He feels  the weight of their hands idly sitting on his shoulders; when he lifts his head to look at them, theirs has been turned for a while to welcome the seven man party returning to camp.

“Hi,” the sailor says sheepishly, several eyes glaring at him and at the cook: “We, uhm, we got lost.”

“Did you go to hell?” the imp asks.

“They had the bright idea of sailing halfway across a damned lake,” the veteran answers for them. He is positively furious. “And got fucking stuck in the middle of it until farmer boy got his swimming suit on and dragged them back because somebody left his magical baton in the bag he forgot back here and somebody else broke his deku leaf on the way.”

“Was the lake nice?” Skull Kid asks, ignoring the point.

“No,” the farmer sighs, equally angry and sopping wet. “No, it was not.”

A feverish bundle stirs: “I should’ve come with...” croaks the older man.

“You’re delirious,” the captain stops him.

“And you’re looking fancy,” the blacksmith informs him.

The scarfed man touches his hair. How did he forget about the flowers? He groans and reaches for the old man’s mirror shield.

Gazing upon it, a head of golden hay and blue spots greets him.

For a moment he loses himself in the reflection.

“Wow.” he comments finally after a pensive pause: “I look ridiculous.”

"Shut up." the imp punches his shoulder.

The veteran looks at him with half-lidded spiteful eyes: "I'd say it's an improvement," he argues, "Makes it clearer you're a clown-"

"You both stop that!" the skydweller barks at them, carrying away the cook and sailor by the ears that soon will be chewed by both himself, the farmer and (in a more concerned than outrigh paternally furious way) the healer.

The blacksmith, only one with the faculty of speech at the moment, intervenes gently: "I for one think Skull Kid did a good job."

The imp reserves him a wide, sharp, delighted smile, and a prideful 'thank you'.

The ill time traveler hums in agreement; his elbow nudges the captain, making him huff and look into the mirror again. The blue petals in his hair return his gaze and spread a sweet scent.

(That’s another weird thing. The smell of the bluebells - it’s so familiar, too, and for what reason? Goddesses know he cannot understand it. He has picked them, once or twice, hasn’t he? He must have. But never such a quantity that it would feel so close to himself. They make him think of... Of... Sleeping. Sleeping in a bed that feels too big, their sweet perfume sorrounding him, with fingers as thin as sticks combing through his hair and a voice so strange, like a copper wire, singing to him of pink sugar elephants. A little benevolent spirit plaguing his days with quiet help and his nights with calm dreams. But that cannot be right.)

The captain tugs gently at Skull Kid’s sleeve, pulling the bark of their cheek to his mouth to press upon it the kind of kiss bestowed out of love or spite by older brothers to their little pests.

“Thank you,” he says politely as the imp is too stunned to reply.

(In his silent acceptance of their coarse giggling hug - and he could swear that giggle sounds so much like the second voice he had heard one night behind that castle door - he forgets that time does not work in the Lost Woods.)

[the song Skull Kid sings is “17 Pink Sugar Elephants” by Vashti Bunyan]

[abortionado]

I’ve been a true crime researcher (just a hobbyist) for years and years, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from studying so many cases, it’s that as a woman, trusting your gut can save your life and the lives of others.

If something about a particular person or situation just feels wrong, chances are that it very well could be. If you feel a vague but overpowering sense of unsafeness, don’t be afraid to make a break for it, even if it seems “weird” or doesn’t make sense.

Look out for each other, especially other women. If you see another woman in a public place who is being harassed by a man, who looks uncomfortable with the man standing with her, who is intoxicated and being hassled by a man, if something just seems wrong, step in. Pretend you know her. Pretend she’s your sister, best friend, long-lost high school pal. Best case scenario, she and her boyfriend think you’re weird, and you walk away. Worst case scenario and you’ve just saved her life.

Don’t be afraid to be “rude.” Tell persistent men to fuck off. Carry pepper spray. Kick creepy men in the shins and in the kneecaps and in the nutsack if they won’t leave you alone. Learn basic self defense. Don’t say yes to something you don’t want to say yes to just because you’re afraid of looking “rude.”

As women, we’re taught that our instincts and emotional responses are irrational, that other women are our enemies or our competition, and that we should always be sweet.

All of this is lies—you’re smarter than you think. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up for a reason. Other women are your allies, and the greatest you will ever have. Don’t ever, ever hesitate to put your safety over a man’s feelings.

Stay safe.

[blushoseoks]

GREY AREA (M) 14

“And just like that, your fate was sealed - because Min Yoongi was absolutely going to destroy you. But hell, if you weren’t going to let him, or bask happily in the flames as he did so.

And sadly, at the time, you didn’t think that your thoughts would become so literal.”

pairing: min yoongi x reader

warnings: mature, heavy angst

genre: soulmate!au, slowburn

words: 1,752

chapter index

Cherry blossoms bloom from their sprouts and envelope the trees above where you lay, illuminating the already orange-red leaves with even more color. 

What a shame, echoes in your head, they’ll be dying soon.

“Hey, Y/n,” a voice fills the surrounding air shared between the three of you. Looking away from where your eyes had been focused on the branches above, you turn your head towards Seokjin, cocking an eyebrow indicating for him to continue on. 

“Have you heard from Jungkook lately?” The air in your lungs lets out as he voices his question. “He’s been a bit hard to keep in contact with.”

You part your lips to let your sigh escape silently, lifting a hand you rush it through your hair, head moving to glance back upwards at the blossoms, shaking your head in the process of your statement. “No.” You say. “I haven’t.”

And it wasn’t a lie, you had not heard from Jungkook in over a week, not since the night of the party. Texts you sent went unreplied to, but certainly were read if the little R indicated anything at all. You had attempted to talk to him once after class, only for him to all but run out of the room before you had the opportunity to even approach him.

During the day you had seen him in Sociology, the younger looked worse for wear. Dark circles littered the space underneath his eyes, his brown hair went unkempt, and a blank face he had been sporting. 

It had been odd, you noted, seeing Jungkook with anything but a smile.

Whatever had happened to Jungkook, was enough for him to completely isolate himself. 

“Hm.” Seokjin says, lips moving to curl to the side as if in deep thought. “Yoongi says he hasn’t really been at their apartment all that lately either.”

The mention of the aforementioned causes another deep sigh to slide past your mouth.

You hadn’t spoken to  or even seen Yoongi since the day after the party, he had not shown up in Literature - which hadn’t really surprised you all that much. And the text he had sent you that night was the first and last you had received.

“I’m sure he’s just busy.” Namjoon voices a moment later, eyes moving from the words in his book to stare at his boyfriend, and then to where you lay in the grass. “You and Jungkook seem to have gotten closer lately, has he said anything to you? Is anything bugging him?”

And that’s just the thing- you weren’t sure. Memories of the party were still coming back, bits and pieces were making themselves known little by little - but many parts were still missing. You couldn’t be sure that Jungkook hadn’t warned you that he may be busy as of late, you couldn't be sure that Jungkook didn’t mention if something was bothering him. 

Luckily for you, Seokjin cuts in before you have to think of a response.

“--But that’s the thing, even when Jungkook is busy he’s never been one to just cut off all contact.. That’s more of  a Yoongi thing.”

There’s a moment of silence as you and Namjoon try to search for answers. Neither of you were that close with the younger, therefore neither could offer a logical reason for his sudden radio silence towards not just you - it seemed, but the entire friend group.

Seokjin lets out a distressed sigh, in which Namjoon’s hand immediately moves to run through the older’s pink locks. “I’m sure he’ll come around.. When he’s ready.”

Yeah, you say silently. Hopefully.

Sunday [10:39 PM]

You:

Hey, I’m sorry for not messaging you sooner.. I’ve been asleep all day. What happened last night? R

Tuesday [1:12 PM]

You:

Hey, I had a question about the assignment due. Do you have time to meet for lunch? R

Thursday [2:15 PM]

You:

Did I do something wrong? R

“-- Alright, what is it?”

You glance up from where you had been absentmindedly thumbing through the same messages you had been staring at for a week straight.

“What?” You mumble out, eyes finding Yoona who sits at the opposite end of the couch. 

“Dont ‘what,’ me.Tonight was supposed to be a girls night, but I’ve spent the entirety of it looking at you wallow at your phone.. So fess up, what is it that’s got your undies in a twist?”

It takes a moment for you to soak in her sentence,  lips parting around no words as you contemplate whether you should indulge her or keep it all to yourself. 

Part of you felt guilty. You had promised Yoona an explanation for your disappearance the night and day after the party, and instead you were repaying her friendship with a half-assed night. With not an ounce of your attention.. The situation with Jungkook was driving you crazy, having someone upset with you for no known reason was something you were unfamiliar with.

You were sure you had plucked a strand of grey from your hair. 

A grey hair!

Never in your life had you felt the stress you had, ever since Jungkook had started to avoid you. 

Nevertheless, you let out a soft breath.. “I told you, Yoona.. I still don’t remember everything that happened that night.”

Her eyes narrow at you skeptically, silently letting you know that she didn’t fully believe you, not that you could blame her - even if you did remember the events of that night, the chances of you telling her were slim to none. 

“Okay fine.” She says, eyes looking like they’re about to roll out of her head. “But tell me about what happened when you woke up.”

You pull your legs up onto the couch, arms hugging around your shins as you rest your chin on your kneecaps.

“To put it bluntly, I woke up in Yoongi’s bed.”

It could be described as comical - the way Yoona’s eyes almost bug out of her head. 

“Wait..” She screeches, “Yoongi’s?” She asks, a face akin to horror shown obviously around the curve of her lips.

You decide to ignore her confusion, having no energy to explain.

“I had no recollection of how I got there. None..” You shake your head, “Then as I was leaving their apartment, he shows up.”

“Wait.” She says, still appalled. “Yoongi’s bed? Like - the one that isn’t very friendly -- has sort of a resting bitch face? Hardly talks? That Yoongi? His bed?”

“Yoona,” you say, “focus.”

Her lips form around a silent o, as she tries to take in the information handed to her. “Okay..” she urges you to continue. She gathers her legs, bending them behind her so she can sit on the back of her knees.

“Anyway,” you start, “he offered to buy me food since I hadn’t eaten in hours, and I accepted, thinking he could give me some information. We went out to this little diner.”

You watch as her lips purse, her eyes pulling together. 

“So, did you ask him how you came about ending up in his bed?”

“I did.”

“And?” 

You let out another sigh. “He said he found me asleep in some bedroom at the party.”

She’s silent for a moment, you watch as the confusion continues to spread across her face. 

“Any idea whose?”

You lift your shoulders upwards in a shrug. “Some friend of  Jungkook’s.. Yoongi says he found me asleep with Jungkook.”

She lets out a breath, one that seems a little like relief. 

“Alright, that, I’m not surprised by.”You want to scold her for making light of the subject, “-but I am confused as to why Yoongi took you to their apartment and not your own. And why he didn’t leave you alone with Jungkook?”

You shrug, letting out another sigh. “I asked him, he said he wanted to make sure that I was safe.” Your eyes fall down to where you’ve interlocked your fingers together, lips parting as you recount the story Yoongi had told you. 

The realization that he had wanted you safe, brings the smallest of smiles onto your lips.

In a small voice, you speak, “he said I didn’t have my key on me and he didn’t know if Hoseok and Taehyung would be home to let me in.”

You watch her teeth bite her bottom lip as she’s silent for a few moments - moments that for some reason, put you on edge. Your anxiety raises a little bit. She studies you - expressionless. And then after what seems like minutes, she finally speaks, thumbnail brushing across her bottom lip.

“Alright.. Hear me out, okay?” Her eyebrows uplift, you swallow the building lump in your throat, but nevertheless nod.

“Remember how I told you I thought Jungkook had a crush on you, and Seokjin basically confirmed that?”

You nod. recalling the conversation that had revealed that truth.Seokjin had basically confirmed it, and you were still trying to figure out how that made you feel, nevertheless whether at all it was possible or not.

“Well, you started the night out in bed with Jungkook-” you grimace-  “do not give me that look, I’m not judging just stating facts - but, you ended up in Yoongi’s bed. So let’s say that Jungkook wakes up to find you gone, he panics and tries to call you, no answer. Then, he gets to his apartment and for some reason goes into Yoongi’s room - and sees you in Yoongi’s bed..”

She trails off suddenly, hand moving to steady her chin as her elbow digs into her thigh. 

“Maybe he thinks something happened between you and Yoongi, he’s either jealous or angry, and that’s why he’s behaving towards you the way that he is.”

You take a moment to soak in her words.Contemplate whether it made sense or not. The thought of Jungkook completely ignoring you due to his own assumptions didn’t make a lot of sense to you, it didn’t seem characteristically accurate for him to do something so petty. And, if you remembered correctly he hadn’t attempted to call you that night nor the next morning.

“I’d like to think that Jungkook knows me better than to--”

You’re interrupted by a well manicured finger swaying in the air. “Baby, when it comes to feelings all logic is tossed out the window.”

You unravel your arms from around your legs as you allow yourself to relax into the back of the couch, head moving back and chin tilting so you’re staring up at the ceiling. “I don’t like that.”

“Most of us don’t.” Yoona says around a melancholy snicker.

You let your eyes fall on your female friend. “What do I do now? He won’t answer my texts and he all but runs whenever he sees me.”

You watch as she visibly contemplates this for a moment, pink tinted lips rubbing together. 

“Maybe this is something he’ll come to you with.. Eventually.”

“So I give him time?” 

The thought of not talking to Jungkook for even longer makes something swell up inside of your chest. Something twisted and revolting. Something you cant quite pinpoint.

She nods, moving a hand to rest over your own, as if she can somehow view the inner turmoil this causes within you. “Sometimes time is the only thing a person truly needs.” Her voice is soft, comforting.

And though she is speaking about Jungkook, her words resonate with you. 

If Jungkook needed time - you’d give it to him, just like you had done the same with Yoongi, even if it made you feel sick inside. 

You hadn’t known Jungkook for long, but the boy had seemed to wrap himself around a place in your heart. 

If only time could explain why the knot you had felt in your chest for a week hadn’t disappeared but only intensified as the days went on..

[a/n] it’s been a long, long, long, long time. :( i am sorry this is little and short compared to past chapters, i just thought you guys deserved something. i love you, still. <3 as always, feedback is truly appreciated... if anyone is still reading or still there.