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hyuckiefluff · 1 month ago

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casual | mark lee

pairing: idol! mark lee x waitress! fem. reader genre: fluff, strangers to lovers wc: 8k summary: you wouldn’t normally fall for a guy who left his number on a dinner bill. too bad that guy was mark fucking lee. content warnings: slightly suggestive content (making out), light cursing, food mentioned, parasocial themes, reader works a service job, a very overworked mark lee :(. no explicit smut in this part. a/n: hiii before anyone yells at me—yes, i know this isn’t the haechan fic i’m supposed to be working on (promise i’m still on it!!) but listen… i went to the smtown concert last week and it fully reignited my delusions, so i wrote this as a coping mechanism :P ik we’ve all been out with friends maybe at a restaurant, and thought, “what if my bias walked in right now?” right?? that’s basically the entire premise of this fic. pretty unrealistic but super fun to write & i hope it’s just as fun to read! also no smut… yall know what that means lol if you want a part 2... just say the word. ps: if you’re ever at an italian restaurant, do yourself a favor and get the gnocchi. trust me.

giving up your one free day to cover someone else’s shift wasn’t how you planned to spend saturday. but when your coworker begged with teary eyes and a story about her sick cat, saying no felt impossible.

so instead of sinking into your couch with a pint of chocolate ice cream and pride and prejudice on repeat, you were hustling through a saturday night at one of the city’s busiest restaurants.

it was hour six of your shift and you were at that breaking point where one starts fantasizing about quitting—or at least hiding in the walk-in freezer for five peaceful minutes.

any weekend here was a carnage with nonstop orders, zero patience, and customers who thought yelling would grill a steak faster.

but it was finally past eleven which meant the dinner rush had slowed and the only remaining stragglers were either couples too in love to notice the time or office workers too tired to cook at home. just two more hours, you thought to yourself.

“y/n! table four,” your coworker called, rushing past with a stack of empty plates.

you snapped out of your daze and walked over, expecting tired business executives or another couple feeding each other breadsticks. instead, you made eye contact with the two people you least expected to see here.

mark lee and johnny suh were looking right at you.

your heart dropped to your ass. for a second, you actually considered turning around. but even with your brain buffering, you knew you had to keep it together. the last thing you wanted was to make them uncomfortable.

you stopped beside their table, immediately recognizing the other two who had their backs to you as haechan and jungwoo. internally, you were combusting, but externally you prayed your expression didn’t scream that you were seconds from melting into the floor.

“hi, welcome to cecconi’s,” you said, voice steady enough despite your heart hammering your ribs.

when you handed over their menus, your fingers brushed mark’s briefly and you hoped he didn’t notice you flinch. that’s when you noticed the book peeking out of the front pocket of his hoodie.

you recognized the cover instantly— south of the border, west of the sun by murakami.

you cleared your throat, smiling before you could stop yourself. “that’s a good one.”

mark’s eyes followed where you were pointing and his eyebrows shoot up when he realized “wait… you’ve read this?”

you nodded, trying to be casual, as if you hadn’t picked that book apart alone on your bedroom floor at 2 a.m. two months ago. “i’ve read all of his stuff. but this one was a whole different experience.”

“i literally can’t put it down.” mark said, angling his body to yours with excitement. you could see he was tired but the small talk seemed to give him an energy boost.

“right? anything by murakami makes me feel like i’m eavesdropping on my own memories,” you said, mostly to yourself.

“that’s exactly it!” he said, eyes going wide. “i never knew how to put it into words before.” you had to look away before you got caught smiling at how boyish he looked when he got excited.

the other members stared with amused expressions on their faces, so you quickly straightened up and went back into server mode.

“right… uhm, our special tonight is black truffle gnocchi in a garlic cream reduction, topped with parmesan and chive oil. would you like something to drink while you look over the menu?”

“what kind of beers do you have?” johnny asked, leaning back in his seat.

you rattled off the list, stepping in to point them out on the menu. your hand was visibly shaking, but you hoped they’d chalk it up to general social awkwardness and not the fact that your four favorite idols were sitting in front of you.

“just water for me,” mark said softly. despite his smile, you could clearly hear how strained his voice was.

“great, i’ll bring those right out.”

they must’ve come straight from the venue. tonight’s show—the very one you’d missed because of this shift—had ended less than two hours ago. and now they were here, in your section, eating dinner.

you walked to the bar, filled the glasses as requested except for mark’s. for him, you brewed a mug of hot water, dropped in a slice of lemon, a swirl of honey, and a small nub of ginger. it wasn’t even on the menu but something about his tired eyes and strained voice made you move on instinct.

you brought the tray back with all the drinks, placing them down carefully. when you reached mark, you set the mug in front of him.

“i hope this is okay,” you said quietly. “honey-ginger tea. it’s good for your throat.”

mark blinked, taken off guard. “oh… thank you.” he looked down at the mug, then back up at you. “seriously. that’s really thoughtful.”

you just smiled, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “are you guys ready to order?”

they each placed their orders, nothing too extravagant. jungwoo wanted pasta, johnny asked for a steak medium rare, and haechan—after a dramatic five minute debate with himself—settled on the truffle gnocchi. mark went last.

“can i get the steak medium rare? and the mashed potatoes instead of the fries, if that’s okay,” he asked, glancing up again, voice still carrying that soft exhaustion.

“of course,” you said, jotting it down. “i’ll get those in for you.”

you dropped the order slip at the kitchen window, still feeling weirdly out of sync with your body. it didn’t help that you had to keep circling their table to serve other guests. table five had just ordered dessert, the group behind them needed their wine refilled, and your feet barely touched the floor before you were moving again.

still, awareness prickled at the back of your neck whenever you passed their table.

you turned your head slightly, pretending to scan the room. mark was looking right at you but quickly glanced away, suddenly very invested in the tea in front of him.

you hesitated. maybe they needed something?

smoothing your apron, you walked back to their table. your heart thudded way harder than it needed to, but you managed a smile.

“everything okay here?” you asked.

mark cleared his throat, shaking his head as a faint flush crept up his neck. “we’re good. thanks, though.”

johnny’s lips twitched, and haechan was very clearly hiding a smirk behind his glass.

you smiled again, warmth rising in your chest at how shy he looked. “no worries. food should be out soon.”

back behind the bar, you tried to focus. really, you did. but your eyes kept drifting back to their table. thankfully, they seemed too wrapped up in their conversation to notice. every now and then, though, mark’s gaze would flicker your way.

he’s probably just zoning out, you told yourself. or exhausted, probably both. don’t be weird about it.

still… he kept looking. did you have something on your face? was it obvious you recognized them? god, what if he thought the tea was too much?

you groaned softly and buried your face in your hands when no one was looking.

pull it together, y/n. finish the shift. freak out later.

they are pretty quickly and eventually, their table quieted down. it was past midnight now, and the restaurant was finally starting to shut down. you printed their bill, then hesitated, chewing your lip as your pulse ticked higher.

should i?

this was your shot. it was maybe a little silly and borderline embarrassing, but if you didn’t say something now, you’d regret it forever.

before you could second-guess yourself any more, you scribbled a note at the bottom of the receipt:

"hii, hope this isn’t weird but i’m a really big fan. you’re amazing and i hope you enjoyed your meal and that the tea helped. get some rest tonight! :)"

you took a breath, walked back over, and placed it gently in the center of the table.

“here’s your bill,” you said quietly. “no rush, of course.”

mark looked up first. the smile he gave you was a little tired, but genuine.

“thank you,” he said warmly.

you nodded and stepped away, legs wobbling slightly as you disappeared into the back.

it’s done, you told yourself. no going back now.

as you busied yourself cleaning other tables, you watched from the corner of your eye as they got up. haechan said something that made mark laugh quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your stomach flutter helplessly.

then they were gone.

you waited a few extra minutes before heading over just to be sure. as you cleared the plates, you reached for the bill with your heart already racing, though you told yourself not to expect anything.

but when you opened the leather folder, your breath hitched.

they’d left a generous tip—but that wasn’t what caught your eye. there was something written under your message, a response scribbled quickly in neat handwriting:

"thanks for taking care of us tonight. especially the tea! :)"

followed by a number.

your heart kicked so hard you had to brace a hand on the table edge. there was no name at all, just the number. the ink looked a little smudged near the dash like whoever wrote it had closed the presenter in a hurry.

holy shit.

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

it was past one when you finally made it home, hair smelling like garlic butter and burnt steak. the city lay quiet, your apartment even quieter, yet your brain refused to join the calm.

with a tired sigh, you tossed your bag onto the couch and collapsed beside it, fingers still gripping the bill tightly.

you’d reread the message ten times already. the ink was even more smudged now from your fingers, but the number was still clear.

you exhaled loudly, then groaned into a throw pillow.

“what the hell is happening.”

it had to be mark. right? it felt obvious.

then again, maybe another member had simply appreciated the gesture and thanked you on behalf of mark. after all, their handwriting wasn't exactly familiar. you’d seen them a few times on signed albums or online fan letters, but not enough to be certain.

suddenly determined, you sat upright, snapped a quick photo, and zoomed in immediately.

“this is insane,” you muttered.

but that didn’t stop you from opening a tab to search: mark lee handwriting.

this wasn’t your best moment. you were tired, emotionally compromised, and clearly spiraling. still you opened a second tab and went deeper until you were staring at stan twitter handwriting threads for half an hour.

after many more side-by-sides, you sat back and stared at the screen like it could confess to you.

“it looks like his,” you whispered.

just text him. what's the worst that could happen?

the thought alone conjured every embarrassing scenario possible and made you nearly throw your phone across the room. how would you even start that conversation?

“hi, is this mark lee from nct? because i’m lowkey in love with you and i really hope you're the one who left your number at my workplace tonight?”

your heart nearly stopped at the thought. you glanced at the clock again—2:17 a.m.

yeah. no. you needed to lie down. you’d sleep on it. calm down a bit and gain some perspective.

but three days passed.

three whole days. that’s how long you spent agonizing over a single text. you'd written and deleted at least twenty drafts—too casual, too eager, too weird. one even included a joke you cringed at the second you typed it, and deleted just as fast.

he’s probably already back in korea, you reminded yourself while folding napkins at the restaurant on tuesday. fan accounts had posted airport photos before you even got out of bed. mark in a beanie and headphones, eyes puffy with exhaustion.

two more days passed. eventually, courage outweighed dread.

on thursday night, curled up in your pajamas, you stared at the too-bright glow of your phone while netflix asked if you were still watching. just do it, you told yourself. again.

you opened a new message. typed. erased. retyped. your pulse pounded, drowning out mr. darcy’s proposal in the background.

hi! this is y/n, the server from cecconi’s last saturday night. i know you’re probably crazy busy, but i just wanted to say thanks again for coming in. hope you’re resting well :)

it was friendly and not too over the top… right?

you hit send and immediately shoved the phone under your blanket, like that could somehow shield you from the rejection.

an hour passed, then three more, and nothing. you forced yourself to sleep, pretending the tight knot in your chest wasn’t disappointment. the next morning, you checked your phone before even opening both eyes.

still nothing. not even a read receipt.

it’s fine. they were idols. they were busy. you’d waited too long anyway. the group was back in rehearsals, buried in schedules. who had time to answer a text from a random server in another country?

another day passed with no reply. you tried to talk yourself down. maybe it wasn’t even his number. maybe it was a manager’s. maybe his phone was off. maybe international sims are weird. maybe—

“why did you wait so long,” you muttered into the couch, face buried in a pillow.

you were just about ready to let it go when your phone buzzed softly against the coffee table.

your heart nearly launched itself out of your chest. you scrambled for it, almost knocking over the entire table in the process.

a new message.

sorry!! things got crazy once we got back to korea. i’m really glad you texted though. and we’re resting (sort of haha). it’s mark btw :)

you stared at the screen.

read it. then read it again. and again.

warmth flooded your chest. you'd been right.

it was him.

your thumb hovered over the keyboard, brain scrambling for something to say. but for the first time in days, all you could do was smile.

you hadn’t realized how easily a single text could flip your whole mood until he replied. you must’ve read that message ten times before you even responded.

somehow, the conversation flowed naturally from there.

it started with casual back-and-forths. he’d talk about the tour, and you about your shifts. it quickly turned more personal though like blurry late-night snack pics from his studio, or mirror selfies of your server fits before dinner rushes.

none of it felt forced. but still… what was this?

you’d be wiping down table six or pulling espresso shots for a regular who never tipped, and suddenly your phone would buzz with a text message.

mark: can’t believe you’ve never seen inception…

you: maybe i was busy having friends

he sent back a string of laughing emojis and a photo of his laptop playing it.

mark: you’re watching it with me next time. no excuses.

next time.

you didn’t know what that meant, but it echoed in your head for the rest of the shift.

by the second week, it wasn’t just texts.

sometimes he’d call when your time zones aligned, and you were both free. once while you were folding laundry. another while he walked home from the studio, breath fogging the cold air as he complained about his busted heater.

“i feel like an old man,” he said once, voice scratchy. “my knees hurt”

“you’re twenty-five.”

“and breaking down.”

you laughed until your stomach hurt. he was quiet for a second, then said, “i like your laugh.”

you had to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.

a month later came the first video call.

it was early morning. you were still half-asleep, texting with one eye open, when your screen lit up with a facetime request. you froze.

no makeup. puffy eyes. pimple cream still on your chin. but your fingers accepted the call before your brain could stop you.

he was lying down, hoodie half over his face.

“oh thank god,” he mumbled. “i thought you weren’t gonna pick up.”

“i almost didn’t,” you laughed, pulling the covers up to hide half your face. “you caught me in a vulnerable state.”

his eyes crinkled. “you look cute.”

you didn’t know what to say to that, so you just tucked your face further into the blanket.

after a few hours, the call fell into a comfortable silence, his eyes starting to flutter shut as you both lay in your respective beds.

you should’ve hung up, but you didn’t. you just stayed on the call, watching him sleep.

video calls became routine after that.

at first, they were short—ten, maybe fifteen minutes. he’d call after practice, his hair a mess, face still damp with sweat. the phone would be propped against his water bottle as he peeled off his hoodie and complained about sore calves.

but the calls started stretching longer. sometimes he was lying on a hotel bed, cheek pressed into the pillow, telling you about his comeback preparations. other times, he wandered through whatever city he was in, showing you the neon signs, quiet side streets, and cafés tucked into corners no tourist would ever find.

“i’ll take you here one day,” he said once, camera panning to a ramen shop. “i mean… if you ever visit.”

you didn’t answer right away. just smiled and pretended the idea didn’t stick in your chest like a pebble you couldn’t shake loose.

you started saving little things throughout the day just to tell him later. customer stories, songs that reminded you of him, strange headlines you knew would make him laugh. without realizing it, your brain made notes labeled tell mark this later.

he did the same. he sent you photos of whatever snack he was eating on set, told you about a dream where you both worked in a space bakery, asked what you thought of new songs he was writing. he never sent full demos, just a few seconds here and there—but it still felt intimate.

you started noticing things you hadn’t, even after all your years as a fan. how he bit the soft skin of his knuckles when he was anxious or the fact that he brushed his teeth for 6 minutes (yes, you counted).

neither of you brought up what this was. and maybe that was okay.

still, on some nights, you’d wonder does he text other people like this? has he done this before, video calls, sleepy laughter and quietly sharing his day?

you never asked.

you didn’t want to ruin the quiet magic of it all by needing too much too soon.

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

mark eased you into his life bit by bit.

on a random thursday night, you were sprawled on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through tiktok when your phone buzzed. you smiled automatically when you saw his name and hit accept.

but it wasn’t him when the call connected.

“yo! she’s real!” johnny’s voice boomed through the speaker, far too loud and way too amused.

you blinked. “wait—what?”

the screen shook as mark scrambled to get the phone back. “okay, okay, stop—hyung, give it back!”

“nice to meet you,” jungwoo added brightly in the background. “finally!”

haechan’s face popped into view next. he hovered close to the camera, flashing a crooked grin. “she’s the one, right? the reason he’s always giggling at his phone like a loser.”

they were all speaking in korean, except for johnny—who made sure you caught the gist. you weren’t fluent, but you knew enough to piece it together. their tone said a lot, anyway.

“what did he say?” you asked, laughing nervously.

johnny leaned in. “he said mark’s obsessed with you.”

mark groaned in the background. “don’t translate that.”

“he talks about you,” haechan added in english, still half-hiding behind jungwoo but clearly enjoying himself. “all. the. time.”

you stared at the screen, wide-eyed, face already burning. “oh god—wait, we just—”

“aigoo, she’s cute,” jungwoo said with a grin, nudging haechan’s shoulder. “mark, you’re done for.”

mark finally got his phone back, his flushed face filling the screen. he was breathless from laughing.

“i’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “that was… i didn’t mean for that to happen.”

you were still blushing but grinning too. “so you talk about me all the time?”

he covered his face with one hand. “please. don’t start, they won’t let me live this down”

after that night, it became a running thing. sometimes you’d call just to talk to mark and end up ambushed by his members. taeyong once popped into frame with a plate of fruit, offering you a piece through the screen like you could actually take it. “for energy,” he said in halting English, then smiled and wandered off.

chenle appeared a few times asking random questions as if you’d been friends forever, one time he asked “do you like mark as much as he likes you?”

you sputtered something while mark tried (and failed) to shut him up.

renjun showed up once too, squinting at the screen. “so this is the girl,” he said, then walked off dramatically without another word.

it was chaotic, awkward, and constantly embarrassing but it also made your chest ache in the best way. knowing you weren’t some secret he was hiding. you were someone he wanted them to know.

and then one night, a few weeks later, mark called with a different kind of energy.

“guess what?” he said, barely able to sit still.

you blinked at him through the screen. “what?”

“we’re going to the US,” he grinned, and your heart nearly stopped.

“wait, seriously?”

“yeah, for a festival. just one weekend, but i’ll have a couple free days before the flight out. i—” he paused, scratching the back of his neck. “i was really hoping i could see you.”

you stared at him, stunned for a second.

“you want to see me?” you asked softly.

“yeah,” he said immediately. “i mean, only if you want to, obviously. i just… i’ve been thinking about it for a while. texting and calling is great but,.. i kind of miss being in the same room as you.”

not just the same city, not just in passing. but in the same room with you.

you swallowed past the nerves bubbling up in your chest and nodded, trying to keep your voice steady.

“i want that too.”

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

you tried for tickets the second they went live.

you had alarms set, several tabs open, your card ready. but none of it mattered…

they sold out in minutes.

you stared at the screen in disbelief, refreshing the page over and over hoping the outcome would change. it didn’t. your chest tightened with each failed refresh.

you were so close. and now, you had no idea how to tell mark.

you waited a whole day, thinking they’d release more tickets, maybe someone would resell—but the prices were insane, triple what you could afford, and the longer you waited, the more hopeless it felt.

when he finally called you that night, you tried to act normal for about ten seconds before it all came spilling out.

“i didn’t get tickets,” you said, voice cracking before you could stop it. “they sold out so fast and now the only ones left are like impossible. and i know you’re going to be super busy and probably won’t be able to meet up anyway, but i was really looking forward to seeing you perform, and now i don’t even know if i’ll get to see you at all—”

“hey, hey, slow down.” mark’s voice was soft. “breathe, y/n.”

you inhaled shakily, pressing your forehead to your knee, curled up on the couch. “sorry. i just… i really wanted to be there.”

“i know,” he said gently. “and i want you there too.”

you went quiet, biting the inside of your cheek.

“but we’ll figure something out, okay?” mark continued. “don’t stress about it too much. just… trust me a little.”

“what do you mean…,” you said slowly, suspicion creeping in.

he chuckled. “nothing. just saying... maybe don’t give up hope yet.”

you narrowed your eyes at your phone. “you’re being cryptic.”

“am i?” he said, way too innocently.

you groaned into your pillow. “don’t do this to me.”

“i’m not doing anything,” he replied. “just... keep the day of the festival open, okay?”

you wanted to press him, but the look in his eyes was too confident. so you nodded slowly, heart still a little heavy but soothed by the warmth in his voice.

the day they landed in the US, you got the call while brushing your teeth.

your phone lit up with his name, and you answered with a mouthful of foam, spitting it out quickly as you mumbled, “hey, did you land?”

“we did,” mark said, voice laced with excitement. “and i have good news.”

“what?”

“a car’s going to pick you up the day of the show,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “my team helped sort it out. we wanted to make sure you’d be there.”

you blinked, wide-eyed, toothbrush still in hand. “wait what? you—what do you mean? mark—”

“you’re coming to the festival, y/n. you’re not missing this. not if i can help it.”

you clutched your phone, stunned into silence, overwhelmed by how much care he’d tucked into those few words.

“you didn’t have to—”

“i know,” he interrupted, voice softer now. “but i wanted to.”

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

you’d never felt more nervous getting ready for anything in your entire life. not for job interviews, not for first dates, not even for a final exam. nothing compared to the fluttering anxiety buzzing in your chest right now.

it was almost ridiculous how much effort you'd put in. your hair was carefully styled in waves that took you half an hour to do, your makeup was done and redone multiple times until you finally settled on something subtle but pretty. your outfit had taken ages to choose, you didn’t want to look too casual but also didn’t want to make it seem like you were trying too hard. so you settled for a regular black skirt and a white long sleeved top, it was comfortable but not boring. you wanted to look good, even though mark had already seen you at your most tired, sweaty, and disheveled.

the car arrived precisely at the time mark had promised. your heart jumped to your throat when the driver opened the door for you, offering a polite nod.

your hands trembled slightly in your lap the entire ride to the venue. you felt giddy, overwhelmed, and deeply nervous all at once.

but when you finally arrived, the excitement abruptly shifted into self-awareness. several staff members glanced at you warily, some whispering to each other and throwing quick looks your way. suddenly, you felt very out of place, shrinking slightly under their scrutinizing gazes.

“excuse me,” came a sharp voice behind you. you turned around to see a woman approaching, her expression serious, a clipboard held firmly in her hands. “you must be y/n?”

“yes,” you replied nervously.

“there are some documents you'll need to sign,” she informed you.

“documents? like—”

“standard NDAs, confidentiality agreements, liability waivers,” she cut in and handed you a clipboard, flipping briskly through pages filled with dense legal text. “you'll need to sign these before we move forward.”

you stood frozen for a moment, feeling incredibly naive and small as reality hit you like a slap to the face. you’d let yourself get carried away, almost forgetting who exactly mark was—who exactly these people were. they weren't just regular guys; they were idols, celebrities, people with management teams and carefully guarded images.

this was serious and you had somehow underestimated all of it.

the woman noticed your hesitation, her expression softening just a fraction. “it’s standard procedure,” she said, “mark personally asked us to ensure you’re comfortable, but we need to protect everyone involved.”

“okay,” you whispered shakily, taking the pen from her hand. your fingers felt numb as you signed, barely registering the words printed on the paper.

once the woman was satisfied, she took the clipboard back, nodded curtly, and gestured for you to follow her. your heart thundered in your chest as you walked through the busy hallway.

then she stopped in front of a dressing room door, knocking sharply once before opening it slightly. “mark? your guest is here.”

you held your breath as the door slowly swung open, your pulse so loud you could hardly hear anything else.

mark appeared in the doorway, eyes widening slightly as he took you in. suddenly, all the anxiety, paperwork, and awkwardness faded into the background. his expression softened immediately, that familiar warmth returning as his eyes crinkled in a gentl smile.

“hey,” he breathed softly, clearly just as relieved to see you as you were to see him. “you made it.”

mark steps fully into the hallway, blocking the view of the bustling green-room behind him. for half a beat you both just stare, soaking in the fact that you’re finally sharing the same oxygen again instead of pixels on a phone screen.

“wow…” he breathes, cheeks coloring as his eyes scan you. “you look so—” he catches himself, smiles sheepishly, and opens his arms. “can i?”

you nod before your brain supplies coherent language, letting him tug you forward. the hug is quick—he’s hyper-aware of everyone around you—but his hand stays at your elbow afterward, grounding you.

“sorry about the fuss,” he murmurs, voice pitched low so only you can hear.

“it’s okay… just a bit intense.”

“i know.” his thumb sweeps a tiny circle on your sleeve. “but you’re here now. c’mon, the guys are waiting.”

when you walk inside the room is buzzing with energy. there’s stylists zipping garment bags, a makeup artist following jungwoo around to touch up his lips, haechan drumming on a folding table with two half-empty water bottles. the second he spots you, his face splits into a grin.

“look who made it!” he crows, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “mark’s special guest.”

johnny swivels in a chair. “oh, the infamous y/n at last.” he stands, offering a hand that turns into a gentle half-hug when you take it. “nice seeing you again.”

jungwoo waves from a corner, cheeks puffed with gummy bears. “hi! mark’s talked a lot about you,” he says around the candy.

mark groans. “ignore them, they’ve been insufferable since i told them you were coming.”

“insufferable?” haechan clutches his chest theatrically. “hyung, we’re just supporting your relationship!”

you feel your face go nuclear. “it’s not— we’re just—”

“friends,” mark supplies, shooting haechan a warning glance. but the tips of his ears have gone pink, and the little smile tugging at his mouth totally betrays him.

johnny leans closer, whispering, “lies, he’s always grinnung at his phone like a middle schooler whenever you talk.”

you let out a mortified laugh that turns into a squeak when mark nudges johnny away. “we have to be on stage in ten minutes, maybe focus?”

jungwoo claps. “right! you can watch backstage with staff.”

an assistant appears then, handing mark an in-ear pack. he hesitates, then squeezes your hand once before following the others toward wardrobe.

“sorry i gotta get dressed,” he says over his shoulder, “see you in a bit.”

you exhale for the first time since stepping off the car, pulse finally settling as the door swings shut. you tuck a stray hair behind your ear, catching your reflection in a vanity mirror. your cheeks are flushed and there’s a stunned little smile on your lips.

the staff member that escorted you in approaches again, her expression now more polite but still distant as she walks you down a narrow hallway. “you’ll be watching from here,” she explains as you reach a curtained-off section just beside the stage entrance.

the space is just wide enough for a couple of folding chairs, and a monitor showing the stage feed. even through the curtain, you can hear the low rumble of the crowd growing louder by the second—cheers, screams, the crowd chanting “ilichil, we love you!”

you perch at the edge of a chair, feeling entirely out of place and wildly overwhelmed.

what am i even doing here?

this wasn’t some fantasy anymore. you weren’t watching fancams in your pajamas or whispering to your screen during late-night video calls. you were backstage, in their world, and everyone around you belonged to it except you.

you looked down at your outfit again, smoothing invisible wrinkles, suddenly doubting every choice you’d made that morning. your nails, your shoes, even the way you’d done your eyeliner. it all felt too much and not enough at the same time.

a soft noise pulls your attention back to the side curtain. one of the stylists slips through, handing off a mic pack to someone just outside your view. you recognize mark’s voice quickly.

he’s laughing at something jungwoo said, but even through the laughter you can hear the edge of nerves in his voice. it makes you feel… less alone in your own.

you peek around the edge of the curtain. they’re all gathered near the wings, adjusting their in-ears and bouncing on their heels to shake out last-minute jitters. mark’s back is turned at first, but then he glances over his shoulder almost like he can feel your eyes on him.

your breath catches when his gaze finds yours. through all the chaos and noise, his eyes meet yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t wave or call out—he just smiles.

he turns back as staff starts to guide them toward the entrance tunnel, and you’re left sitting there with your heart doing an unholy rhythm in your chest.

you hadn’t expected this, the building pressure in your chest, the way your emotions feel too big to hold.

but underneath all of it, layered between the nerves and the noise inside your own head, there’s a flicker of anticipation.

he’s just a few feet away now. he’s about to be on stage, doing what he was born to do, and you’ll be right here, watching not just as a fan anymore.

but as someone who matters to him.

the stage lights cut to black, and the low hum of the backing track pulses through the arena like a heartbeat. from your narrow perch in the wings you can feel the vibration under your soles, a physical reminder that this isn’t a dream.

a lone spotlight slices across the darkness—jungwoo steps into it, and the crowd erupts. the boys fan out behind him in practiced formation.

mark is near the center, head lowered, hand cupped over his earpiece as he settles into position. you’ve watched this opening on countless fancams, but up close everything is magnified: the hiss of their in-ears, the snap of jacket fabric when they turn, the ragged inhale before the first line.

johnny’s deep vocal rolls out, haechan answers with his bright harmony, and suddenly the whole place is singing along..

mark’s part hits next. he steps forward, eyes scanning the sea of faces before flicking to you. it’s only a second, a brush of attention so quick the crowd would never catch it, but it lands like a spark in your lungs. he grins, then pivots into choreography.

you never understood how performers could look both effortless and deadly focused until now. sweat beads at their hairlines within minutes, but they don’t miss a beat. haechan riffs a playful ad-lib, doyoung shoots him a mock glare, johnny laughs into his mic; the crowd screams, drunk on the interaction.

halfway through the set, they perform gold dust as a surprise, the stage lights go yellow. mark moves to the far edge closer to you and delivers his verse straight ahead. but on his last bar he tilts his head, eyes skimming the shadows where you’re standing. his voice drops into that warm, gritty register you know too well from late-night calls, and despite the roar of the arena the moment feels impossibly intimate.

you tuck your hands under your arms, trying to calm the goosebumps, but the sheer thrill of seeing him own that stage while still tossing these tiny pieces of himself your way is overwhelming.

the final song explodes in confetti cannons. the boys hit their last pose, breathing hard, grinning wide. the screams from the audience are deafening; even the backstage staff exchange awed looks.

mark bows with the others, shouting “thank you!” into his mic, but as they turn to exit he catches your gaze one more time. he taps two fingers against his chest, then points subtly toward the hallway where you’re waiting and mouths the words stay right there, i’ll find you.

and you waited exactly where he told you to.

or… at least tried to.

but the moment the boys disappeared off stage, chaos swallowed everything whole. several stagehands rushed past with crates, wires and gear flying in every direction, staff barking orders into walkies while backup dancers and security weaved in and out of the narrow corridors.

you stepped back into the corner, trying not to get trampled, but every second you waited the crowd thickened, people shouting over each other, crew passing by so quickly that you were bumped into more than once. you caught glimpses of the members being swept off into different directions—haechan laughing breathlessly with a towel around his neck, johnny taking a water bottle from someone. but there was no sight of mark.

“you can’t stand here,” someone snaps, grabbing your elbow and steering you quickly away. “please, move along.”

“wait, i was supposed to—” you start, but your protest drowns in the noise as you’re guided through the maze of corridors.

you glance over your shoulder anxiously, panic rising in your throat. mark said he’d find you but you don’t even know where you’re going.

the staff member stops abruptly near a back exit, where a van is parked outside the open door. he gestures hurriedly. “wait in there, please. someone will be with you shortly.”

before you can question it, he’s already vanished back into the building. hesitantly, you climb into the empty van, settling awkwardly on the leather seat. not even a minute later your phone buzzes with a text from mark.

mark: where are you??? backstage is insane, i can’t find you.

you quickly reply: someone moved me to a van near the back entrance?

your heart pounds as minutes stretch into eternity and doubt starts gnawing at you—they will probably film some behind the scenes content now, interviews, livestreams, what if he doesn’t have time to find you before he’s sent away?

but just as anxiety peaks, the van door suddenly slides open. your eyes widen as mark appears, breathing heavily like he ran to reach you, his stage makeup slightly smudged, hair damp and tousled from the performance. he sighs in relief, shoulders visibly relaxing the second he sees you.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes, climbing quickly into the van and closing the door behind him. “i was so worried. everything okay?”

“yeah, it was just really hectic—” you start, but your words fade as he sits beside you, closer than you’ve ever really been. close enough that you can see the faint glitter along his jaw, the sweat glistening at his temples, the warmth in his gaze as it settles fully on your face.

“you were incredible out there,” you say softly. “i’ve never… it’s different seeing it up close.”

his cheeks pink despite the post-performance flush. “i kept looking for you.”

“i noticed,” you admit, smiling.

mark’s gaze drops to your hands twisting in your lap and he reaches out.

“thanks for being here,” he murmurs.

your laugh is a shaky exhale. “i wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“also…the NDA,” he starts quietly. “i didn’t want you to feel like i was cornering you into some weird situation. that’s not what this is.”

“mark, i didn’t think that. i mean—it was overwhelming, yeah, but i get it. you’re…” you gesture helplessly. “you.”

he laughs softly, but there’s no real humor behind it. “i hate it. you know, not being able to just… hang out with you. not having the freedom to do normal things, like… i don’t know—go get coffee or show you the city or tell people about you without it turning into a whole thing.”

“is that what this is? am i…” you hesitate. “something you’d want to tell people about?”

he looks up at you, and there’s not a trace of hesitation when he says, “yes. i think about it all the time.”

you blink, throat suddenly dry.

he leans in slightly. “i just… i didn’t want you to think i was trying to make you sign your silence just so i could keep you a secret. it’s not about hiding you. it’s about protecting something that means a lot to me.”

and there it is. the part he hadn’t said yet.

you mean a lot to him.

your chest tightens with the weight of being chosen in a world that doesn’t make space for this kind of closeness, that demands boundaries, a good image and clean lines drawn in ink. and yet here he is, blurring those lines for you.

“thank you for saying that,” you murmur, voice trembling a little. “i didn’t realize how much i needed to hear it.”

mark reaches across the space then, taking your other hand. “i don’t want this to feel like you’re walking on eggshells because of my life. i want it to feel real.”

your fingers tighten around his instinctively.

“it already does,” you whisper.

and when he finally closes the distance between you, pulling you into a quiet, careful hug, it feels so right.

his arms wrap around you and for a second the world outside the van ceases to exist. he’s warm even through his stage jacket, you can feel his heartbeat thudding fast against your cheek. you breathe him in, clean sweat and fabric softener.

when he pulls back, he doesn’t release your hand. his thumb brushes lazy paths over your knuckles.

“i kept picturing this,” he admits quietly. “all week. wondering if it would feel the same in person as it did in my head.”

“and?” you whisper.

“it’s even better,” he says without hesitation.

he shifts slightly, the space between you rapidly shrinking. his gaze flickers briefly down to your lips, and the movement sends your pulse racing.

“mark,” you whisper, voice barely audible, “i—”

his other hand gently finds your cheek, thumb tracing lightly along your skin, tipping your chin up just a fraction. he searches your face, breathing shallow and eyes heavy with something soft and vulnerable.

you lean in instinctively, eyes fluttering closed as his breath ghosts warm over your lips—

and then the van door suddenly swings open, a burst of noise and harsh backstage lighting flooding in.

“mark hyung, manager hyung says—oh shit.” haechan freezes halfway inside the doorway. “ohhh, sorry… was i interrupting something?”

mark jerks back, cheeks blazing crimson as his hand quickly leaves your cheek and lands awkwardly in his lap. “dude, are you serious?” he groans, dropping his head with a sigh and muttering a very un-idol-like curse word.

you cover your mouth, laughing breathlessly through the embarrassment even as your pulse continues hammering in your ears.

“sorry, sorry,” haechan says, grinning wickedly, clearly not sorry at all. “but uh, we gotta go. manager hyung’s freaking out. we got an interview, hurry up.”

“yeah. coming.” he searches your face, apology written in his eyes “they’ll herd us to the hotel soon. can you wait a little longer? i want to ride with you after they clear the crowd.”

you nod, trying to ignore the throb of almost-kiss still sparking across your lips. “i’m not going anywhere.”

“give me twenty minutes tops, and then i’m kidnapping you for actual food.”

“bold of you to assume i’d say no.”

as he slips out, you catch the faintest curve of a smile before the door thuds shut and you’re alone again.

thirty minutes later, mark slips back into the van. this time freshly changed, hair still damp but swept under a dark cap.

“sorry that took forever.” he drops into the seat opposite you, knee bouncing with leftover adrenaline. “do you wanna come meet the other members properly before we leave?”

you follow him back through a quieter service corridor to a smaller green room that smells heavily like hair spray. inside, half the members are sprawled on sofas in various states of post-show exhaustion. the energy shifts the second mark ushers you in.

“guys, this is y/n,” he says.

taeyong shoots up first, hand extended. “the legend herself,” he jokes, grinning wide enough to prove he’s still riding his performance high. jaehyun offers a shy wave and drags over a chair so you won’t have to hover. yuta, also walks over and introduces himself politely.

doyoung is the only one who stays seated, arms folded. his eyes flick between you and mark, assessing. it lasts all of three seconds before he notices how relaxed mark looks—those shoulders that usually sit somewhere near his ears are loose, his smile easy. doyoung’s expression softens.

“thanks for cheering him up,” he says quietly, a little sheepish. “he’s been impossible the last few weeks.” the tease lands gentle, and mark flicks a sweat towel at him in retaliation.

the small talk bubbles up easily. the topic shifting from favorite festival moments, to whose in-ears cut out, and the confetti that caught in doyoung’s mouth during a high note. the atmosphere is warm and surprisingly normal, until a manager pops his head in to remind everyone they’ve got early rehearsals tomorrow.

mark steers you quickly back to the van after saying a quick goodbye.

“so…” he ran a hand through his hair and put his hat back on. “food?”

“please,” you groaned, head falling back against the seat. “i’m starving.”

“wanna go to a restaurant?” he offered.

you winced. “too risky.”

he nodded slowly. “true, my hotel’s worse.”

you turned your head to face him. “sasaengs?”

“they wait outside sometimes, follow the vans from the venue” he trailed off, already looking annoyed with the reality of it.

“we could…” you swallow, then barrel through. “we could go to my place? it’s not far, and no one knows where i live. we can order in.”

mark’s head tilts, surprised but already nodding. “are you sure?”

“only if you’re okay hiding out in a tiny apartment that smells like scented candles and stale coffee.”

he smiles brightly. “sounds perfect.”

you rattle off your address to the driver, heart hammering as you drive through the city. mark’s knee bumps yours every time the van hits a pothole, but neither of you moves away.

he glances over. “thank you for trusting me with your space.”

you breathe out a shaky laugh. “thank you for trusting me with… all of this.”

his fingers brush yours on the seat between you. outside, the van slows to a stop at your curb. the driver kills the lights for discretion. thankfully, the street is empty.

you turn to mark, pulse racing for an entirely new reason now. “welcome to my part of the world.”

he grins, tugging his cap lower and reaching for the door handle. “lead the way.”

your apartment is small, cluttered with book stacks and half-burned candles, but it’s yours—and when mark steps in, slipping off his shoes at the door like he’s done it a hundred times, it feels suddenly, impossibly domestic.

“so,” he murmurs, looking around with quiet curiosity. “what’s good for takeout around here?”

you settle on thai food after a chaotic five-minute debate that ends with mark looking up from your couch and going, “okay but do you trust me with your spice tolerance?”

you blink at him. “mark. i watched you cry eating jalapeño chips during that one livestream.”

“they were ghost pepper!” he defends, slightly pouting. “and i didn’t cry, my eyes were just... dry.”

you giggle and the tension that had followed you into the apartment fades with it.

while you wait for the food, he wanders around your space with curiosity. never touching too much, just observing. he stops at your bookcase, smiles at the titles stacked sideways, fingers brushing one of the cracked spines.

“so this is where you’ve been calling from,” he says as he returns to the couch, flopping down beside you. “it’s cozy.”

“that’s code for small, right?”

he tilts his head, grinning softly. “no. cozy means i don’t want to leave.”

you glance over at him, heartbeat spiking in your throat. his hoodie’s a little rumpled from the ride, cap tossed somewhere by your front door, and he’s leaned so close your shoulders brush.

“you’re kind of the only boy who’s ever said that,” you murmur.

“then they’re idiots.”

your lips twitch with a smile. mark leans his head back on the cushion, you get distracted by the cute bump on his nose and the lines of his jaw.

you both fall quiet for a while, your legs stretched out beside his on the couch, ankles knocking occasionally. your body relaxes more than you expect, as if it remembers this feeling from all those calls and imaginary versions of this moment.

when the takeout finally arrives, you both eat cross-legged on the couch, plastic containers open between you, your playlist humming low in the background.

you talk through mouthfuls of noodles about everything and nothing—his weird craving for peaches whenever he’s overseas, your childhood phase of putting ketchup on rice, how you both secretly judge people who don’t rewind movies when they pause.

somewhere between “i really miss my mom’s kimchi stew” and your story about the nightmare customer who demanded gluten-free breadsticks, your shoulders touch. a minute later his arm slips along the back of the couch, fingers grazing your shoulder each time he shifts. your nerves fizz under your skin, but the contact feels safe.

You lean into him. He doesn’t move away.

the conversation slows and when you glance up to make a joke, your nose brushes the edge of his jaw. his breath hitches at this, then a warm hand settles on your knee.

“this feels…” he starts, swallowing. “kinda unreal.”

“yeah.” a whisper—because your voice has gone missing.

his palm lifts to your cheek, thumb soft against your skin. “can I kiss you?”

you’re already nodding.

the first kiss is shy and careful, more smile than pressure. The next slips deeper, mouths moving in a lazy rhythm neither of you rush. Your fingers tangle in the hem of his hoodie; his other hand skims your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the quiet drum of his heart.

eventually the couch gets too cramped. mark breaks the kiss with a sheepish laugh. “my back is dying,” he murmurs.

you tug him down the hall to your room, giggling when he nearly trips on a sneaker. he perches on the edge of the bed and you climb into his lap without thinking, legs draped around him. his hands settle on your hips and he sighs.

“i really, really like you,” he says, forehead resting against yours.

“i like you too. a lot.”

he kisses you again. you spend the next half hour like that, trading soft laughs and softer kisses until the adrenaline drains from his limbs. head falls heavy on your shoulder, he mumbles something about the best night of his life…and falls asleep mid-sentence.

You ease him back onto the pillows, kick off your skirt, and curl into the space beneath his arm. One leg hooks over yours; his hand rests at the small of your back, protective even in sleep.

it’s the tenth call that finally wakes him the next morning.

mark groans into your pillow, dragging his phone blindly toward his face. “what…”

a second goes by and then he jolts upright. “shit. shit.”

you blink groggily, one arm reaching out for him. “what’s wrong?”

he’s already stumbling for his shirt which he doesn’t even remember taking off last nigh. “i slept in. i never—fuck, i never sleep in.”

you sit up slowly, watching him try to shove his hat over tousled hair while checking his phone. “i have like ten missed calls.”

he answers the incoming call hurriedly, voice tense and apologetic. “yeah, i’m sorry, i know… i’m on my way now, just got… held up. i’ll explain later.”

he glances down at you then, taking in your messy hair, swollen lips and sleepy eyes, and the look on his face softens just a little.

when he finally hangs up, he rushes back to your side, quickly pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i gotta run, but i'll text you as soon as i can. i promise.”

you smile sleepily up at him, already missing the warmth of his body against yours. “go. don’t get in trouble.”

he pauses briefly before leaving. “last night was… perfect. thank you.”

and then he’s gone, leaving you to curl back into your pillow, still feeling the ghost of his touch and the lingering warmth of everything you shared.

#smtown live ruined my life guys #did i project? maybe #slow burn (kinda)#mark lee x y/n #mark lee x you #mark lee x reader #mark lee fic #mark lee fanfic #nct x y/n #nct x you #nct 127 x reader #nct mark fluff #nct imagines #nct dream fic #nct fic #nct x reader #nct mark x reader

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eraserbread · 1 month ago

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ugh that ex husband gojo fic HURT but i loved it sm,, do u think u can write ex husband gojo AGAIN but even after the divorce he's still so in love w/ u? thank uuu!!

the ex husband gojo in question ✧

→ f!reader, angst... mostly angst

sure, gojo took it well, but at the beginning, he was a mess.

it was fleeting at first—you two had only been married for five years before it all got too much. but five years in the grand scheme of things was a long time. he was your twenties personified—a walking shell of your old self—but he was just too distant.

your marriage wasn't a marriage. there was no partnership, gojo is married to a job he can't even tell you about.

so those first few weeks without you were hell. you're the one who finally did it in after moving out, sending him a classified bundle of papers to his address at jujutsu high. then, you hit no contact. you left him in the dust.

must be nice, pretending like he never existed. gojo died that night, standing alone in the manufactured shell of your love.

that big-ass apartment in the city he doesn't even live in—he leased it for you—your love that you could decorate to the sound of his voice. right now, it's an expensive thorn in his pocket.

and he's only here because half of his wardrobe is here. It's sad how bad he is at doing his own laundry. it's the first time he needs to be on top of it in over ten years. luckily for him, clothes you laundered just before you left him sat untouched in the expansive walk-in closet. some of those shirts will be a good buffer until he finds a good laundry service.

yeah... that's his reason for being back at this apartment, key sliding through the gold-plated doorknob. it's locked, just like he left it a few days ago. if he were counting on his fingers, it's been exactly ten days since you left him.

and only his second time being back.

so when he walks into the door, footsteps light as he shuts it, he's shocked silent when he sees you.

you're in the kitchen, back turned, packing a reusable bag of cooking tools. the first thing he notices... your face. you're so beautiful. even just your side profile shines in the low light. his unshakable form quakes when you look up at him. his gaze softens. you're the same as you always were.

"hi, stranger."

"i'm just here to grab some dishes. i'll be out in a few." you're emotionless and quiet as you pack your bag. some of the things in here are your favorite—it's been hard to cook without them, but you just couldn't come back yet. gojo's schedule is too all over the place, the wound is still fresh.

"take your time. i've been meaning to talk to you." he's talking to you the only way he knows how: soft and loving, dripping sweetly because his heart still sees you as his wife.

you're trying everything to ignore him, not to listen to the words that you know will sway you. this divorce was not easy. you're trying to relearn your life without your external heart—the heart standing at the doorway with a relieved smile on his face. all he had to do was call you by your old name, paint you in lovelicked daydreams backed by the sweet sound of his laugh. it's what made you fall in love. he covers up so much of himself with the humor, that you reveled in the time it took you to peel it all away.

but he's peeled, now. waiting to be devoured like a piece of oddly-shaped fruit.

"don't really wanna talk..." you're murmuring, not wanting him to hear you. you don't want to make him laugh—can't bear the weight of it anymore. "sign those papers when you get a chance, yeah?"

gojo watches you hoist your bags over your shoulder, the way they catch your blouse under the arm. he can't help but smile, I mean... you're right in front of him. "sign what papers? i'm not signing any papers, you're a gojo. always will be—never gonna change."

"you're bitter."

"so i'm gonna wait for this to pass... this, whatever it is for you," he's waving at you, noting the small embarrassed scowl on your face. "a call for help, maybe? a desperate plea for more attention? i understand, it's okay." he's so sure of himself that it makes you sick, but he won't come closer to you. won't even take a step. "you can just move back in, we'll fix it together. that's all we can do."

"i don't deserve to hang on your string for weeks, barely any contact. not when you agreed to be my husband." suddenly sure of yourself and your crafty ability to turn him down, you're pummeling for the door. "you make promises you can't keep, satoru. i don't want an absent marriage."

"you not wanting to be married to me is fine—we don't have to be married, just wait." now, he's pleading. palms held together at his chest as he watches you reach for the knob. you're angry, he sees that, but he knows you. "i love you so much, please don't go."

"no matter what you think, this isn't easy for me."

"you want the apartment? you can have it. the diamonds I bought are all yours."

"i just want you."

"here i am! come get me, i'm here in the flesh." you can feel yourself starting to cry as he finally walks up to you, vaguely reaching for your hand. his eyes are sad, yet passionate against some form of the word. it's a familiar look on him, as hard as that is to sit with...

"come get me," he whispers as his final plea, voice so distinctly low between the heavy wood door.

you're left speechless for a second, shaking away the tears that start sliding down your face. he makes contact against the door handle and it frightens you.

"i've made my choice."

that's what you leave him with, tearfully and starkly indifferent to his suffering. the knob turns, he backs away, and you bolt out of that door like the room is on fire.

and when you're alone in that hallway, face-to-face with the elevator, you cry. because, of course you do.

#y'all are simps #eraserasks #.satoruu <3 #.ex husband ✧#jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk angst #satoru gojo x reader #satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru

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manicpixiedreamkira · 2 months ago

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kigatsukeba

part one | chapter index

megumi x reader, aged up!megumi (and others), early twenties, working as sorcerers, post shinjuku showdown arc but megumi doesn't have his face scars, megumi trying and failing to be in control of his feelings, gojo's gone, bonded through trauma, friends to fwb to lovers, drinking/getting drunk, jealousy, confusing feelings, megumi sucks at feelings, miscommunication, misinterpretation, megumi being stubborn, reader being clueless, slowish burn, idiots in love, jerking off, a bit of size kink ngl, megumi is older here so he’s taller (like 6'2?), he's also buffer (he's toji's son guys, c'mon), reader is described as smaller/shorter than him, takuma ino mentioned, smut, unprotected piv, nasty sex (multiple times), but also love making, confessions, aftercare, a bit of angst, but there's fluff here too, megumi's down bad, not beta'd

a.n: let me know if i missed anything, hope y'all like this one <3

w.c: 11,221

Megumi Fushiguro didn’t jerk off.

Not because he was a prude, or shy, or hadn’t thought about it—he had. He was a twenty-something man with a healthy sex drive and more than a few opportunities to take the edge off.

But he didn’t need to.

He was disciplined. In control. Raised with restraint wired into his spine like steel. If the need got bad enough, there were hookups—casual, clean, quiet. No mess, no entanglements. No reason to wrap his own fingers around his cock like some desperate teenager.

Until tonight.

Until your scent sank into the sterile hotel air, soft and lingering. Until it clung to the couch cushions beside him, where you’d been tucked up against a throw pillow with your damp hair dripping onto your shoulders, skin still flushed from the shower. Until he could still see the shape of your thighs in the shorts you'd worn to bed, still hear your laughter under the glow of the movie you'd picked—some dumb action thing you swore was "a cult classic."

Until all of that stayed behind when you left.

The door to your room had clicked shut almost an hour ago. The suite had gone quiet. And still, the ghost of you lingered.

So now, Megumi had his cock in his hand.

Fingers curled tight, dragging up the flushed length of it, slow and frustrated. The head was red, slick with precum, veins straining against the weight of his restraint. His teeth dug into his lower lip so hard he tasted blood.

He hated this.

Hated the way his brain conjured the image of you, lazy and smiling, your bare legs stretched across the ottoman while you licked popcorn salt from your thumb. Hated the way your scent was everywhere. Hated that your name was on the tip of his tongue, curling like a curse.

His hips jerked against his fist, and he choked down a sound—something dark, desperate, pathetic. The walls were thin. You were right there.

And this—this was humiliating.

He squeezed harder.

God, he hated himself.

—

It was supposed to be a special-grade curse—dangerous enough that two full-fledged sorcerers were dispatched without question—but someone had definitely screwed up the classification. By the time you and Megumi arrived, it was clear the threat was barely even worth a second-year’s time. A third-grade curse, at best. One of you could’ve handled it solo, easy.

Still, neither of you complained. It was Shizuoka—quiet, a little more suburban than Tokyo, with the ocean close enough that the air smelled fresher. The hotel they’d booked for you was nicer than expected too, tucked a little away from the touristy parts, the restaurant downstairs good enough that you decided to make a night of it.

After the clean-up and the paperwork, you and Megumi shared dinner at the hotel restaurant, lingering over fresh sushi and grilled fish, sipping tea and half-heartedly talking about work. Mostly, though, you caught up. Missions had kept you both busy in different parts of the country lately—you hadn’t seen him in nearly two months.

It was easy, like it always was. He didn’t have to force conversation with you. Didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but himself. You laughed about old missions, filled him in on some dumb drama with other sorcerers at Jujutsu High, told him about the new cat you adopted. He listened, really listened, watching you from under the messy fringe of his hair with something almost soft in his eyes.

If he noticed how the curve of your mouth distracted him, he didn’t say anything.

If you noticed how he looked at you a little too long, you didn’t either.

Later, after dinner, you both showered and changed into comfortable clothes—loose shorts and a tank top for you, sweatpants and a t-shirt for him—and sprawled across the couch in his room to pick a movie.

Now you were lounging sideways with your hair still damp, loosely swept to one side. A blanket was thrown haphazardly over your legs, one foot sticking out. The TV glowed across your skin, casting faint blue shadows that made you look ethereal. Megumi tried not to stare.

“This is the dumbest movie I’ve ever seen,” he said flatly.

You beamed. “Isn’t it amazing?”

He rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. He’d let you pick the movie, like he always did, and like always, you chose something objectively terrible. Over-the-top stunts, cheesy one-liners, paper-thin plot. And yet—he was smiling a little. You made it entertaining. You always did.

“Admit it,” you said, nudging his shin with your toe, “you’re having fun.”

He didn’t answer, which only made you grin wider.

Outside the wide windows, Shizuoka’s lights twinkled against the dark, the city slowing down for the night but never fully asleep. Your mission was done. You had nowhere to be until tomorrow. The world, for once, felt slow.

You yawned and stretched, arms above your head, tank top riding up just slightly before you let them drop again. “Alright. Bedtime. Early train and all that.”

Megumi nodded once, eyes carefully on the TV.

“Night, Fushiguro.”

“Night.”

You stood, gathered your things, and padded off toward the left-side bedroom, the one you’d claimed when you arrived. The door closed softly behind you.

He didn’t move.

Just sat there, rigid, jaw tense, listening to the distant hum of the hallway and the quiet creak of the walls. Thin enough that he could hear you shuffling around, zipping up your overnight bag, plugging in your phone.

Thin enough that if he weren’t so tightly wound, so furious with himself, he might imagine hearing the faint rustle of your sheets as you crawled into bed.

Instead, he pressed his palms to his face, exhaled sharply through his nose, and cursed under his breath.

He needed a shower. A cold one.

—

But he doesn't take a shower.

Instead, thirty minutes later, he’s flat on his back in the dark, one hand buried under the waistband of his sweats, jerking himself off to the thought of you—after making sure to lock his door. It’s not even a coherent fantasy. Just flashes. Snapshots. The sound of your voice. The way your hair stuck to your neck. The shape of your thighs when you shifted positions on the couch. That one time you stretched in front of him in your sports bra before a mission and didn’t even notice he’d stopped talking mid-sentence.

Your smell. That lotion. Sweet and warm and unmistakably you.

He bites back another noise, this one closer to a whimper.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s noticed you. He’s not that blind. He’s seen the way other people look at you—sorcerers, civilians, even cursed spirits in the middle of battle. You’re beautiful. Sharp. Capable. Terrifying when you want to be.

But this is the first time it’s hit him like a goddamn truck.

The first time he’s had to acknowledge how deep it goes. How the fondness has turned into tension, how the teasing has gotten sharper, closer. How your hands linger longer when you pass him a drink. How your voice softens when it’s just the two of you.

His eyes squeeze shut as he strokes faster, chasing the high he doesn't want to admit he needs. His name on your lips. Your lips on his skin. The idea of you slipping into his bed and—

Fuck.

He comes with a stifled grunt, biting down hard on his own wrist to keep the sound from leaking out. His whole body tenses, the aftershocks wracking through him as he lies there, spent and furious and still half-hard because it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

He wipes himself off with shaking hands, then lies back against the mattress, chest heaving.

He’s so fucked.

—

The next morning, Megumi was already awake when your alarm buzzed faintly through the wall.

He hadn’t slept.

He’d laid there in the dark for hours, shame prickling under his skin like a fever, staring at the ceiling and replaying every humiliating second over and over in his mind.

The worst part wasn’t that he jerked off.

It was that he couldn’t stop thinking about you even after he came.

It was that it didn’t make it better. It made it worse.

Now, sunlight was creeping pale and soft over the city outside. The train back to Tokyo left in a few hours. And Megumi knew he had to face you.

When you finally emerged from your room—stretching and yawning in an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair still mussed from sleep—Megumi’s stomach twisted painfully. You smiled at him, easy and warm, completely unaware of the disgusting mess he’d made of everything inside his head.

You could have climbed inside his mind right then—he felt that vulnerable, that raw. Like you could peel him open and see every shameful, ugly thought he'd ever had.

He dropped his eyes to the floor immediately.

“Morning,” you said, voice a little scratchy.

He grunted something back that barely qualified as a greeting.

You cocked your head slightly. "We’ve got time before the train—wanna grab breakfast downstairs?"

Your tone was so casual. So normal. Like nothing had changed. And maybe for you, nothing had.

But Megumi couldn’t even look at you.

He shook his head stiffly. "Not hungry," he muttered.

You blinked. "You sure? Their buffet looked—"

"I’m fine."

It came out harsher than he meant. Too harsh. He saw it—the flicker of confusion in your face, the way your mouth pressed into a softer, uncertain line.

Guilt bloomed hot under his ribs.

He felt like throwing up. For touching himself thinking about you. For thinking he could pretend nothing had happened. For hurting you now, too, on top of everything else.

You nodded once, careful, and disappeared back into your room to grab your things.

He hated himself more with every second that passed.

—

The train ride back to Tokyo was miserable.

You tried—god, you tried.

Little things. Commenting on the weather. Pointing out a funny ad in the station. Mentioning how badly you wanted a real breakfast once you got home.

Each time, Megumi answered in one or two clipped words, eyes glued to the window or his phone, refusing to meet your gaze.

He felt your energy falter gradually—like a dimming lightbulb. Confusion first. Then hurt. Then that heavy silence he knew was you giving up.

It made him feel even sicker. But he couldn't fix it. Couldn't find it in himself to risk looking at you again and you seeing everything written on his face.

So he stayed turned away, watching the landscape blur past, counting the minutes until he could get away from you.

Coward.

—

When the train finally pulled into Tokyo Station, Megumi was up and moving before it even fully stopped.

He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder with a speed that was almost rude. You barely had time to get up before he was halfway down the platform.

"Fushiguro—?" you called, voice cutting through the sea of people.

He half-turned—just enough to throw a glance over his shoulder. Not enough to meet your eyes.

"I’ll see you later," he said quickly. "Thanks for the mission."

And then he was gone—shoulders stiff, disappearing into the morning crowd before you could say anything else.

You stood there for a long second, your bag dangling from your hand, the city roaring around you.

Had you done something wrong?

You replayed the past twenty-four hours in your head, frowning. Dinner had been fine. The movie had been fine. You hadn't fought. Hadn’t said anything weird. Hadn’t—

You sighed, pushing those thoughts down and started moving, blending into the busy city folk.

—

Two weeks went by.

You didn’t see him.

Not at Jujutsu High. Not in the training halls. Not even with Yuuji and Nobara, having lunch at that chinese place they always seemed to be at.

The absence sat heavy in your chest, even though you told yourself it was stupid to care. It wasn’t like you were anything important to him. Just friends. Just mission partners.

And maybe not even that, anymore.

It wasn’t until Yuji’s birthday—March 20th, a Saturday this year—that you finally crossed paths again.

Nobara was throwing a party for him at a loud ramen place near Shibuya. She’d booked a private room, packed with more people than should have fit, all of them loud and happy and shoulder-to-shoulder at the long tables. The air thick with laughter and clattering bowls of noodles.

You were already there, wedged between Aoi and Maki, when Megumi arrived, a few minutes late.

You felt his presence before you even saw him—like your body knew.

He ducked inside the room, hair damp from a shower, wearing a black hoodie half-zipped over a plain t-shirt.

He looked exhausted.

He looked beautiful.

He looked like he wanted to turn right back around and leave the second his eyes landed on you.

You caught the stiff jerk of his shoulders, the way his mouth flattened into a hard line. You turned quickly back to your drink before you could make it worse.

But your chest ached.

—

You weren’t planning on getting drunk.

But a few shots in, it stopped feeling like a decision.

The private room Nobara booked was packed, heavy with the scent of broth and beer, the buzz of a dozen overlapping conversations. Ramen bowls clattered against the wooden tables, servers squeezed between chairs with trays of drinks, and someone had cranked the music up too loud on the old stereo in the corner.

You lost track of how many shots Yuuji poured into your cup. You lost track of how many toasts you cheered to. You stopped caring. Mostly, you drank to drown the sharp, ugly knot in your chest.

Across the table, Megumi sat stiffly, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead. He’d shrugged off his jacket, and the plain black t-shirt he wore clung to the lines of his shoulders, his arms. Even sitting down, he was long and lean, legs sprawled slightly under the table in a way that made him look like he didn’t quite fit in the too-small space.

He wasn't drunk.

He never got drunk.

He'd had a beer, maybe two, the lazy flush of alcohol just barely pinking his cheeks, but that was it. Always controlled. Always careful. Always responsible.

You hated him for it tonight.

You hated the way he sat there, silent and brooding, without so much as looking at you.

So you drank more.

You wore a slip dress tonight—short, backless, the silky fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, dipping low across your spine. It shimmered slightly when you moved, catching the dim restaurant light like liquid metal. Your makeup was heavier than usual too, smoky and dark around your eyes, your mouth glossed and soft.

You knew you looked good.

You wanted Megumi to look.

But if he did, he hid it too well.

Somewhere between your third and fourth drink, Yuuji slung an arm around Megumi's stiff shoulders, laughing too loud.

"What's with the funeral face, Fushiguro?" he teased, breath warm with sake. "It's my birthday, not yours, asshole!"

Megumi shrugged him off without much force, shooting him a withering look.

"Just tired," he muttered.

"Tired of what?" Nobara crowed from across the table, half-sprawled over Maki. "You've been sitting there looking like someone kicked your puppy all night!"

"I don't have a puppy," Megumi said, deadpan.

Yuta leaned in, smiling, voice gentle. "Maybe he just needs another drink."

"I think he needs to get laid," Todo declared, raising his glass with a booming laugh.

The table erupted into laughter. Even Toge, nestled between Panda and a slouching Noritoshi, muttered a muffled "Salmon" into his drink.

You laughed too, a little too loud, the alcohol making everything slosh and sway a little inside you.

When you looked over at Megumi, his jaw was clenched so tightly you thought he might break a tooth.

Good, you thought viciously.

Let him suffer a little.

That's when Ino slid into the empty seat beside you.

Takuma Ino—messy, charming, handsome in that way that didn’t feel serious. He’d hit on you before, more than once, always easy, always harmless. You never thought much about it.

But tonight... you were angry. You were drunk. And Ino was smiling at you like he thought you were the most interesting thing in the room.

"You look incredible," he said, tipping his drink toward you with a lazy wink. The dim restaurant light caught his sharp cheekbones, his strong jaw, the slope of his nose. The shadows made him look sharper, older. Handsomer.

Still—he looked like nothing next to Megumi.

That only made you angrier.

You smiled back at Ino, slow and syrupy, letting your hand trail lightly down his arm.

"Do I?" you said, leaning in, letting the neckline of your dress slip a little lower.

Across the room, Megumi’s hand tightened around his beer bottle so hard his knuckles went white.

He told himself to ignore it. He told himself you were drunk, you didn't mean anything by it. He told himself he didn’t care.

And for a few minutes, he almost managed.

Until he saw Ino’s hand slide lower on your back—fingers brushing the bare skin where your dress dipped scandalously low.

Until he saw you tilt your head back and laugh at something Ino whispered against your ear.

Something sharp and ancient tore through Megumi’s chest. He was moving before he realized it.

One second you were laughing into Ino's shoulder—the next, a large, strong hand clamped around your wrist, pulling you to your feet.

"Hey—!" Ino protested, half-rising from his seat.

Megumi didn’t even glance at him. His grip was firm but not painful, his body radiating a heat and fury you could feel down to your bones.

"She's done for tonight," he said curtly.

No one argued. Not even Ino.

Too much of something simmered under Megumi’s voice. Too much promise of violence.

You stumbled a little as he pulled you toward the door, your head spinning. Your heels clicked clumsily against the wood floor.

"Fushiguro," you slurred, trying to pull your hand free, "what the fuck are you—"

"Be quiet," he muttered under his breath.

Your heart stumbled.

Not because of the words. But because of the way he said them—low, rough, desperate.

You shut up.

Megumi didn’t let go of your wrist until you reached the sidewalk, the noise of the restaurant fading behind you. Only then did he stop, his chest heaving slightly, his hand dropping away like he was afraid of burning himself.

The second the restaurant door closed behind you, your skin prickled with cold, the flimsy silk of your backless dress no match for the crisp breeze rolling in from the river. You hugged your arms tightly to yourself, wobbling slightly on your heels as the alcohol buzz settled deeper into your bones.

You swayed slightly, like you were going to fall. He caught you instinctively, hands steadying you at your waist—but the second you were upright again, he snatched them back like he couldn't stand to touch you.

You stared up at him—blinking, confused, still dizzy with alcohol.

He was tall.

Much taller than you, the way he loomed over you without even trying—broad-shouldered, all lean, restrained strength wrapped in soft cotton and dark denim.

You had to tip your head back to meet his eyes.

And he was looking at you like you were a problem he didn’t know how to fix. Something dark flickered across his face—something he quickly, ruthlessly shoved down.

The night air bit sharper against your skin now, sobering you just enough to register the awful silence stretching between you.

Megumi still hadn’t said a word, still as stone and gaze trained on the pavement. Just a shadow in the orange wash of the streetlight, broad-shouldered and silent, his expression unreadable.

You turned your head slowly to face him, your voice sharp and slurred with anger.

"You dragged me out of there," you bit out, voice louder than you intended, "and you can’t even look at me?"

Megumi flinched almost imperceptibly—like your words physically hurt—jaw clenched. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, and even now, in his rigid silence, he couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes.

"You’re drunk," he said shortly. "You don't know what you're saying."

"Fuck you, Megumi," you snapped, chest heaving. "I know exactly what I'm saying."

He raked a hand through his hair, rough, frustrated. For a moment, you thought he might actually say something—something real—but still, nothing. No answer. Not even a flicker of emotion.

You gave a bitter, breathy laugh and turned away from him, hugging yourself tighter. A shiver rattled your shoulders.

And then, quietly, there was the rustle of fabric behind you.

He stripped off his jacket in one swift movement, draping it over your shoulders without looking at you. His hands brushed your upper arms only briefly, barely even touching, but it was enough to send a warm pulse through your chest.

The heavy fabric smelled like him—cedar, clean soap, something faintly citrusy underneath.

You looked up at him in surprise.

Even now—especially now—he couldn’t stand to see you shivering on the street because of him.

You tugged it closer instinctively.

It covered most of your slip dress, the silky hem barely peeking out from underneath, hiding the vulnerable expanse of your bare back and thighs.

You blinked.

“Thanks,” you muttered, mostly to the sidewalk.

Megumi’s face was a mask. But inside, he was screaming. He didn’t even trust himself to touch you again. Didn’t even want to risk it.

You crossed your arms against the cold, his jacket still warm from his body. It was only then you realized—in his rush to pull you out—you’d left everything behind. Your jacket, your purse, your phone... even your damn house keys.

Panic flickered up your spine, quick and mean.

"You made me leave all my stuff behind," you said accusingly, your words wobbling. "What am I supposed to do now, genius?"

Megumi's shoulders stiffened.

"I’ll figure it out," he muttered.

You wanted to hit him. You wanted to scream.

—

She was cold because of you, Megumi thought. She was standing here without a jacket because you pulled her out without giving her the chance to grab her things. Because you couldn’t stomach watching Ino touch her.

Because you couldn’t do a single fucking thing without messing it up.

You shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of his coat, and Megumi glanced back toward the restaurant—jaw tight, throat working.

You’d left everything. Your phone. Your purse. Your house keys. Even your damn jacket.

He could take you back, let you go in, get what you needed. You deserved that, at the very least.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

The thought of Ino still sitting at that table—smirking, buzzed, smug, maybe even brave enough to pull you back down beside him—sent a hard, nauseous twist through Megumi’s stomach.

He didn’t trust himself not to lose it.

So he pulled out his phone instead, typing out a quick message to Nobara:

[ hey. she left her shit at the restaurant. grab it before you go? i’ll pick it up in the morning. ]

A moment later, the read receipt popped up.

[ sure. you owe me. ]

He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at you.

You stared at him, confused and blinking through the drunken haze.

He didn’t answer.

A minute later, he ordered a cab.

—

The car rolled up to the curb a few minutes later.

Megumi opened the door, gesturing stiffly for you to get in first. You stumbled, nearly missing the step up into the backseat. The ravenette was there instantly, steadying you with a hand on your lower back—but he jerked away again like he'd been burned the second you were inside.

He gave the driver his address without hesitation.

You blinked at him, still confused.

"My place," he said shortly. "You’re not getting into your apartment without keys."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the seat was warm and you were so tired, and it was so much easier to just slump against the window and close your eyes.

—

The ride was short but suffocating.

You could feel Megumi beside you, rigid as a statue, tension rolling off him in waves. His hands stayed firmly planted on his thighs the entire time, clenched into white-knuckled fists.

When the cab pulled up to his building, Megumi got out first, circling quickly around to your door.

You hesitated before climbing out, legs wobbly in your heels, the cold sinking deeper through your skin despite his jacket wrapped around you.

"Goddammit," Megumi muttered under his breath.

The stairs to his apartment loomed ahead.

You squared your shoulders, stubborn, trying to prove some kind of point. But your heel caught on the very first step and the world lurched sideways beneath you, your ankle buckling.

Strong hands caught you before you could hit the ground.

Megumi exhaled through his nose, long and slow.

"You're impossible," he muttered under his breath.

You blinked up at him, dizzy. “You’re the one who—”

“I know,” he bit out, frustrated. “I know.”

Before you could say anything else, he bent low, one arm behind your knees, the other at your back—and lifted you.

“Megumi—”

“Just—don’t.” His tone was tight. Controlled. But there was heat simmering underneath, wild and cracked and guilty as hell.

You wanted to fight him. You wanted to cry. You hated how safe you felt, pressed against him—despite your rage, despite your confusion—curling unconsciously closer, cheek resting against the steady rise and fall of his chest.

He smelled like cedar and clean soap. Like safety. Like someone you’d once known well and now couldn’t reach.

He didn’t look down at you once—carring you all the way to the third floor, barely breathing heavily, his jaw locked tight.

At his door, he shifted you higher against his chest with a grunt and somehow managed to fish out his keys. The door swung open, spilling the familiar, clean scent of his apartment into the hallway.

He set you down carefully just inside the entryway.

The moment your feet hit the ground, you swayed dangerously again.

With a frustrated sigh, Megumi guided you toward the couch, his hand at your waist, keeping you upright.

You collapsed into the cushions with a groan, burying your face in his jacket still draped around your shoulders.

He hovered for a second, clearly unsure what to do.

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, mascara smudged slightly beneath your eyes.

"Why do you even care?" you muttered, voice raw. "You don't even like me anymore."

Megumi tensed.

"You don't even look at me," you mumbled. "You don't talk to me. You don’t want me around."

The words hung between you—heavy, accusing, bitter.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

A beat passed. Then two.

You laughed, short and sharp, and turned your face away from him.

“Thought so,” you whispered, curling into the couch.

You didn’t see the way he looked at you after. Didn’t see the way his fingers curled tight at his sides like he wanted to reach for you—but wouldn’t let himself.

You were already asleep.

—

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the smell.

Crisp, clean, familiar—cedar and soap and something warm underneath.

The second thing was that you weren’t on the couch anymore.

You blinked against the low citylight leaking through the curtains, heart thudding heavily in your ears as you sat up slowly. Megumi’s bed was bigger than yours—neat, sparse, a simple navy comforter tucked tight around you. His jacket had slipped halfway off your shoulders in your sleep, cool silk brushing against your skin.

You were still in your dress. Barefoot.

The room was silent. Heavy.

You pushed the jacket back up around your shoulders and slipped out of the bed, the cool floor making you shiver.

Somewhere past the half-open door, you heard it—the faint, broken rhythm of someone's breathing.

Careful, quiet, you padded down the short hallway until you reached the living room.

And there he was.

Megumi sat hunched on the couch, elbows braced against his knees, head cradled in his hands. The thin cotton of his t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the tense line of his back rigid with something you couldn't quite name. His legs were spread wide, his long frame taking up most of the space—a tall, powerful body crammed uncomfortably into a small seat he clearly hadn’t been able to sleep in.

For a second, you just watched him.

He was so much bigger now than when you’d first met years ago—taller, broader in every sense. Even folded over like this, he still took up too much space. It hit you all at once: how much he'd grown, how different he was, how painfully far away he seemed now.

"Megumi?" you called softly.

He jerked upright, hands flying off his head, his whole body tensing like he'd been caught doing something wrong.

His face—God, his face.

There was a flush blooming under his cheekbones, hot and sharp against his pale skin. His mouth pressed into a hard, thin line, and he couldn't meet your eyes.

"You should be resting," he murmured, voice low.

You took a tentative step closer. "I woke up and... I was confused. Why did you move me to your bed?"

He hesitated, fingers clenching into fists. "You were uncomfortable," he muttered, voice rough, not looking at you. "On the couch. Figured... the bed would be better."

You shifted awkwardly, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself. "And you?"

Megumi grimaced. "I'm fine."

You glanced down at the cramped, sagging couch, trying to imagine someone as tall and built as him trying to fold himself into it for the night. Your throat tightened painfully.

"You gave me your bed... and you took this?" you said, voice cracking slightly.

He still wouldn't look at you.

"I—" he started, then broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. "Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" you repeated, a bitter little laugh escaping before you could stop it. "Then why won’t you even look at me?"

Finally, he did.

And what you saw there—wild guilt, raw frustration, something worse lurking underneath—nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You took a step closer, heart hammering.

"What did I do?" you asked, voice wobbling. "Tell me, Megumi. What did I do that's so awful you can't even stand to be around me anymore?"

He flinched, like you’d slapped him.

"Nothing," he said hoarsely. "You didn’t do anything. It’s me."

You shook your head, fighting tears. "Then what? What’s so bad?"

He opened his mouth—and for a long, awful second, no sound came out.

Then, low and broken:

"You're in my bed," he said, almost to himself, like he couldn't believe it. "Wearing that—" his hands clenched tightly, knuckles white. "Smelling like you do. And I can't fucking stop—"

You froze.

Your heart thudded, confused. "Stop what?"

His whole body radiated tension, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"I can't stop wanting you," Megumi ground out. "Even when I don't have the right to. Even when I know it would ruin everything."

You stared at him, mouth dry, vision swimming.

And that’s when you noticed.

The heavy bulge tenting the front of his jeans, straining against the fabric, painfully obvious now that he was sitting back against the couch cushions. His thighs were spread wide, like even now he couldn’t hide how wrecked he was.

Your stomach twisted sharply. Heat bloomed between your legs—and then just as quickly, cold fear.

Because if he wanted you, why was he acting like this? Why was he avoiding you, treating you like you were some burden he couldn't wait to unload?

The tears you'd been holding back finally slipped free.

Megumi stiffened instantly at the broken sound you made.

"No," he said, alarmed, standing up so fast the couch squeaked. "No, don't—shit, don't cry—"

You stumbled back a step, brushing your cheeks angrily. "You hate me," you said, the words tumbling out half-sob, half-accusation. "You’re disgusted with me and I don’t even know why—"

"I'm not," he said fiercely, crowding closer without even thinking. "I'm not disgusted with you. I could never—"

You hiccuped through a shaky breath, clutching his jacket tighter around your shoulders.

"Then why?"

Megumi raked a hand through his hair again, looking wild, desperate.

"Because I want you," he said, voice ragged. "Because I'm not supposed to. Because you're drunk, and you're hurting, and if I touch you it’s just—it's wrong."

You blinked up at him, tears shining in your wide eyes.

"But you’re hurting me anyway," you whispered.

And that—that—split him wide open.

He cursed under his breath, stepping back like he was physically restraining himself. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His chest heaved with every breath.

"I'm sorry," he rasped. "I’m so fucking sorry."

You stared at him, breathing hard, jacket slipping off one bare shoulder.

Megumi’s eyes flicked down—then snapped away, jaw locking tight.

He looked like he was about to break.

"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter this time, almost to himself.

You stood there, wavering, hugging his jacket around your shoulders like an armor. Your lip trembled, your eyes shining, and Megumi thought he might throw up from the way it made his chest tighten painfully.

He took a slow breath, forcing his voice steady.

"Please," he said, the word scraping raw in his throat, "go back to bed. We can... talk in the morning."

You stared at him like you didn’t believe him, like you were trying to read something from his face that he didn’t know how to hide. And maybe you could—maybe you always could, that was the problem—but still, you stayed frozen there, shivering slightly, the silk hem of your dress brushing against your thighs in the draft.

Megumi felt like his body was locked in place. His hands fisted uselessly at his sides, nails biting into the heels of his palms. His cock was still hard—achingly, miserably hard—straining against the waistband of his pants, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

He deserved it. He deserved to sit there with this shame crawling under his skin, with his body betraying him at the worst possible moment, with the sight of you crying burned into his fucking memory.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to stay still, to stay silent, to stay contained.

Because if he let himself speak, he knew it wouldn’t come out right. If he let himself move, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

You blinked at him, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, and Megumi squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to pull himself back together.

"Please," he said again, softer now, pleading. "Just... just go back to bed."

Maybe—maybe if you slept, maybe if you forgot enough of tonight, he could fix it in the morning. Pretend none of this happened. Pretend he was still the responsible one, the one who could be trusted not to ruin everything just because he couldn’t get a fucking grip on himself.

He opened his eyes and found you still standing there.

For a terrible second, he thought you were going to stay, going to push, going to ask him for something he couldn't, shouldn't give you.

But then you blinked slowly, wiped at your cheeks with the sleeve of his jacket, and without a word, turned and padded back down the hallway toward his bedroom.

Megumi stayed frozen in the living room until he heard the soft creak of the mattress as you climbed back into bed.

Then, and only then, did he let himself move.

He sagged onto the couch like the strings holding him up had been cut, head falling into his hands. His cock was still painfully hard, a pulse of need that throbbed through him with every breath, but he didn’t touch himself. He didn’t even consider it.

No.

He deserved this.

He deserved to sit here, miserable and aching, with the weight of his own self-disgust settling heavier and heavier across his shoulders.

Every heartbeat was punishment. Every shallow breath, every twitch of his muscles.

This was what he deserved for letting you get close enough to hurt. For being weak enough to want you. For making you cry.

He stayed like that, head bowed between his hands, until the first pale threads of morning light began to creep through the cracks in the blinds.

—

You woke up slowly.

The first thing you noticed was the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton and wrapped it too tight. The second was the heavy warmth of the comforter over you, the faint scent of soap and cedar sinking into your skin.

Megumi’s scent.

You shifted, muscles stiff and aching, and only then realized you were still wearing last night's dress—rumpled now, the hem twisted high around your thighs. Megumi’s jacket was still draped over your shoulders, half-off, half-on, swallowing you up in worn fabric and the echo of him.

You pushed yourself upright with a groan, blinking blearily at the morning light bleeding in through the curtains. Everything hurt—your head, your throat, your pride.

And the memories—

They floated up slowly, sickly, filling your chest with something thick and sour.

The fight. The crying. The way Megumi had looked at you—gutted, guilty, refusing to touch you even when you had all but begged for answers.

You pulled his jacket closer around yourself, cold despite the sunlight, your heart thudding unevenly as you swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The apartment was silent.

For a second you just sat there, gathering yourself, dread pooling low and heavy in your stomach.

Then, cautiously, you stood.

Your bare feet made no sound against the floor as you padded toward the door, jacket trailing behind you like a shield. The hallway seemed longer than it had last night, every step loud in your ears.

You found him in the kitchen.

Megumi stood by the counter, his back to you, hunched slightly like he hadn’t slept at all. His hair was a mess, tangled at the roots like he’d run his hands through it a thousand times. His hands were braced on the edge of the sink, knuckles pale with the pressure.

He must have heard you—but he didn’t turn around.

You hovered by the counter, nerves scraping raw inside your skin, your voice catching in your throat.

"Morning," you said, voice hoarse.

He flinched.

It was subtle—just the barest tension running up his shoulders—but you caught it, and it made something twist painfully inside you.

Slowly, Megumi straightened. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the counter before he finally turned to face you.

You almost wished he hadn’t.

There were dark shadows under his eyes, tension carved deep into the lines of his face. He looked—wrecked. Like he’d fought a battle with himself all night and lost.

He opened his mouth—then closed it again, jaw tightening.

You swallowed hard, clutching his jacket tighter around yourself.

"I remember," you said, voice small. "Not everything, but... enough."

A beat of silence stretched between you—long and sharp and unbearable.

Megumi shifted his weight, his broad frame seeming even bigger in the tight space of the kitchen, dwarfing everything. His arms crossed over his chest—defensive, protective, like he was trying to physically hold himself back.

"You were drunk," he said finally, voice rough. "It doesn't matter."

You let out a shaky breath. "It matters to me."

He looked at you then—really looked—and you hated how much it hurt. Hated how much guilt and self-loathing you could see bleeding out of him, barely restrained.

"You’re mad at me," you said quietly, not a question.

"No," he said immediately, too fast, too sharp. "I'm mad at myself."

You blinked, confused.

"I made you cry," Megumi said, the words like gravel dragging out of his chest. "I hurt you. That’s on me."

You took a step closer, careful, feeling the heat radiating off his body even from a foot away.

"You didn’t hurt me," you said. "You just... confused me."

His mouth twisted, bitter and miserable.

"I can’t—I can’t want you like that," he said, voice low and cracked. "It’s not right."

Your breath caught.

"Why?" you whispered.

He turned away again, bracing his hands on the counter, bowing his head.

"Because you’re drunk," he muttered. "Because you’re my friend. Because you deserve better than—"

"Stop," you said, sharper than you meant.

He froze.

You stepped closer until you were right behind him, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the tension vibrating through him like a wire pulled taut.

"I’m sober now," you said. "And I know what I want."

He let out a rough, broken laugh—one that sounded more like a sob.

"It’s not that simple."

"Why not?"

He turned then, so suddenly you flinched. His hands caught your arms—careful, barely touching, like he was afraid he might hurt you just by holding on too tight.

"Because if I let myself have you," he said, voice raw and shaking, "I'll get too greedy."

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You stared up at him—at the storm raging in his dark eyes, at the way his fingers trembled against your skin—and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw the truth clearly.

This wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t disgust. It was need.

Fierce and desperate and so long denied that it had festered into something wild inside him.

Your hands lifted without thinking, tangling in the front of his t-shirt.

"I can be greedy too," you whispered.

Megumi made a strangled sound—something halfway between a groan and a curse—and dropped his forehead against yours.

He was trembling.

"You don’t know what you’re asking," he breathed.

"I do."

"You’ll hate me."

"I could never."

Megumi’s breath stuttered against your skin, the heat of him leaking through every careful inch where he wasn't quite touching you. His fingers curled tight in the fabric of your borrowed jacket, and you could feel how badly he was shaking—like he was fighting himself at every breath.

"You'll hate me," he whispered again, voice cracked and low, like the confession cost him something he couldn't get back.

You stared up at him, heart thudding too fast, your mind scrambling to make sense of the words—to shove them into a box you could understand.

Hate him? For what? Was it really that simple?

You swallowed, heart lurching painfully—but you still didn’t quite get it. Didn't see the war he was losing inside his own chest.

Instead, you gave a shaky little laugh, trying to lighten the crackling tension choking the air between you.

"I mean…" you started, teasing, trying for levity, "if you’re just talking about sex, Megumi... we can make that work."

Megumi froze—went so still you thought maybe he'd stopped breathing.

You blinked at him, confused, startled by the sudden intensity in his eyes. Dark, wild, burning like a fuse had finally hit the powder.

"I’m serious," you said quickly, heart hammering harder.

You smiled, a little awkward, a little too bright. "It's not like I never thought about it," you joked, nudging at the tension with a clumsy, hangover drenched bravery. "You're hot, Megumi. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t... Back in high school. Still do, sometimes. And if this is just... you know, a physical thing, that’s fine. We’re adults. We can be smart about it."

You winced internally the second the words left your mouth—but it was too late. They hung there, stupid and weightless, in the heavy, aching air between you.

Megumi's jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscle jump. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, like he didn't know what to do with them. His whole body was wound tight, every inch of him vibrating with something you didn’t know how to name.

You thought you did, though.

You thought it was guilt. Fear. Worry about crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

You mistook the devastated look in his eyes for hesitation—for regret—instead of what it really was: need, thick and choking and helpless.

You pressed on before he could retreat fully, heart thudding painfully.

"I'm not gonna freak out," you said quickly, voice softening. "If it's just sex, it's just sex. I don’t want to lose you over something stupid. We’re friends first, right? We can... figure it out."

You meant it. You meant every word. You would rather give him this, would rather let your heart ache quietly in your own chest, than lose him altogether. You could handle it. You could be smart. You could keep it simple if that’s what he needed.

So you smiled—small and earnest and maybe a little shaky—thinking you were offering him something safe.

Megumi made a rough, broken sound in the back of his throat and turned away, raking both hands through his hair like he wanted to tear it out at the roots.

Your stomach twisted, misreading it entirely.

You thought he was trying to resist. You thought he was scared of ruining what you had—the ease, the history, the friendship built over years.

You didn’t realize he was breaking apart because he knew he couldn’t pretend it would ever be casual. Not with you.

Still, you didn't want him to spiral alone in whatever guilt or shame he was carrying.

"Just... think about it," you said, softer now, stepping closer, your fingers brushing lightly over his sleeve. "You don't have to decide right now. I just... I don’t want you to feel bad. I’m not gonna hate you."

He turned his head slightly—just enough that you caught the shadowed edge of his profile. His lips were pressed into a hard, miserable line, like he was swallowing back something sharp and dangerous.

Megumi stared at you like you’d just offered him a loaded gun and told him to aim it at his own heart. Like you didn’t even know what you were asking him to survive.

But he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t correct you.

Maybe he couldn't.

His fingers just flexed uselessly at his sides. His throat bobbed in a rough swallow. His jaw was so tight you could see the muscle ticking in the hollow beneath his ear.

He couldn't breathe around you. Couldn't think. Couldn't even stand there another second without feeling like he was going to tear himself apart.

Finally, he muttered, hoarse and rough, "I need to go get your stuff. Nobara has it."

You blinked at him, a little thrown by the sudden change of subject, but you nodded anyway, giving him a small, shaky smile he didn’t see because he was already reaching for his keys.

"I’ll be quick," he added, already moving toward the door like the apartment was on fire and he needed to escape before he got caught in the blaze. "Stay here. Take a shower. Eat something. Wear whatever you want."

You stared at his back, your heart thudding unevenly, confused and stinging all over.

"After that... I’ll drive you home."

You nodded slowly, even though he wasn’t looking at you.

At the door, Megumi hesitated, one hand braced against the frame, the other clenching around the keys, the metal denting the flesh of his palm.

His shoulders stiffened, and he said, almost too quietly:

"I’m taking the bike. It’ll be faster."

You opened your mouth—not sure what you were going to say—but he cut you off before you could even breathe.

"Your dress," he said, voice tight, still refusing to turn around. "It’s not... it’s not bike-appropriate."

There was something almost broken in the way he said it. Like it wasn’t just about the logistics. Like if you climbed on behind him wearing that little slip of silk and nothing else, he wasn’t sure he'd make it back in one piece.

You stood there frozen, jacket swallowing your frame, lips parted and unsure, while Megumi finally forced himself out the door — pulling it closed behind him with a soft, definitive click.

You stared at the wood a long moment after he was gone, heart hammering hard and helpless in your chest.

The apartment buzzed with silence. Heavy, humming, full of words you hadn't been brave enough to say.

You hugged his jacket closer around yourself—the scent of him sinking into your skin—and let yourself skin to the floor, your knees pulling to your chest, the cold of the hardwood bleeding through your bare legs.

For the first time all morning, you realized:

Maybe you hadn’t understood anything at all.

—

The door clicked shut behind Megumi as he stepped back into his apartment, your bag and jacket slung over one shoulder, a plastic to-go container from the ramen place clutched in his other hand—some mercy from Nobara he hadn’t asked for.

He moved on autopilot at first—slipping the keys back into his pocket, toeing off his shoes—until his gaze caught, snagging helplessly on the figure moving across the kitchen.

Soft morning light spilled through the large window to his balcony, pooling across the counters, catching the slight sway of your body as you shifted from one foot to the other. You moved carefully around the stove, stirring the contents of a pan with a spatula, the buttery smell of cooking eggs soft in the air—smothered under the domesticity you’d stitched into his kitchen like a thread he hadn't noticed pulling tight.

And you were wearing his clothes.

An oversized black t-shirt hung loose on your frame, the neckline dipping slightly but clinging just enough to stay in place, soft cotton brushing the delicate line of your collarbones. His gray sweatpants sat low on your hips, cinched tight with the drawstring, the extra fabric pooling at your ankles in lazy folds, right down to where your socked feet met the floor.

You looked small like that. Warm. Not just because the clothes dwarfed you, but because you made them look soft, lived-in—like you belonged to them. To him.

You glanced up when you heard the door, offering him a cautious, wobbly smile—so soft, so unsure—like you were ready for him to push you away again.

Like you were still trying to give him a safe out.

Megumi’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the strap of your bag.

"Hey," you said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear, voice pitched soft. "I made you something."

You gestured toward the pan, where a half-folded omelette was browning gently at the edges. He could smell it from where he stood—eggs, cheese, something savory and sharp tucked inside.

You remembered. You always remembered the small, stupid things he never said out loud—like how he preferred salty over sweet in the mornings, how heavy breakfasts made him nauseous, how he took his coffee black without ever complaining about it.

The lump that formed in his throat was sudden and vicious.

He forced himself forward, dropping your bag by the door, setting the container carefully on the table without really registering the motion. His body moved on instinct, trying to pretend normalcy, trying to suffocate the riot building under his ribs—one heavy step, then another—until he was close enough to reach you if he dared.

You watched him—guarded but hopeful—twisting your fingers absently in the hem of the too-long t-shirt. Then it hit him.

The scent.

Subtle at first, creeping under the buttery heat of the kitchen, but impossible to miss once it reached him. You smelled like him.

His soap, his shampoo—cedar and musk, brightened faintly by the citrus edge he'd stopped noticing years ago—soaked into your skin, into the damp ends of your hair, familiar in a way that left no oxygen in his lungs.

You had washed yourself in him. You weren't just wearing his clothes. You weren’t just standing in his kitchen. You were wearing him. You were wound into his life now—sewn into places he hadn't even realized were empty until you filled them.

That knowledge sank its claws deep.

It was unbearable.

It was beautiful.

It was going to kill him.

He clenched his fists once at his sides, willing the heat roaring under his skin to die down, to give him some semblance of control—but it was useless. His hands itched to touch you. His mouth ached to say things he shouldn’t even think.

It was worse than before. So much worse.

Because now he knew you wanted him—even if it was just a flicker, a clumsy admission, a casual offer you’d made thinking it would be simple.

You smiled at him again, smaller this time—cautious, uncertain.

The soft curve of your mouth, the way his t-shirt swallowed your frame, the fact that you smelled like his fucking soul—it twisted something brutal deep inside him.

And Megumi knew, in some awful, bone-deep way, that he would take it. He would take whatever you offered him—even if it ripped him apart from the inside out.

Still, he forced himself to move.

"I’m gonna take a shower," he muttered, voice rough and low, already backing toward the hallway. "Then I’ll drive you home."

You opened your mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to ask him something else—but he didn’t give you the chance. He turned away before he could see the look on your face, the soft, confused crumpling of your expression—disappearing down the hallway like a man fleeing a fire he couldn't outrun.

Megumi hated himself for putting that look on your face.

It was cowardice. But if he stayed—if he let himself sit across from you, smelling like him, wearing his clothes, smiling at him like he hadn’t already broken something essential between you—he would crack open entirely.

And there wouldn’t be any putting himself back together after that.

—

The bathroom door clicked closed behind him.

Megumi leaned heavily against it for a second, head bowed, breathing ragged.

He shed his clothes like they were burning him, stepping under the scalding spray without looking at himself in the mirror. The water pounded against his skin, steam curling up around him in thick, smothering clouds—but it did nothing to drown the ache rooted low in his gut.

He scrubbed at his hair, at his skin, trying to wash away the ghost of you—the sweet, clinging imprint of your body in his clothes, your voice still echoing inside his chest.

He couldn’t. He never would.

He twisted the tap off when the water ran cold and grabbed a towel, roughing it over his hair with more force than necessary. His body was tight with frustration—blood still hot and heavy in his veins, his cock stirring half-hard again at the memory of you in his kitchen, socked feet and sweet and his in ways you didn’t even understand.

He wrapped another towel low around his hips and shoved the door open—still toweling his hair dry, eyes half-closed—when he froze.

You were sitting on his bed. Waiting for him.

The comforter was twisted around you, your legs tucked under your body, a stubborn pout blooming on your mouth as you glared at the doorway like it had personally offended you. Your damp hair clung to your temples, messy and soft.

You looked... furious. Frustrated. And so heartbreakingly beautiful he thought he might actually fall to his knees.

Megumi’s brain short-circuited.

He stopped breathing.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, your gaze catching—and sticking—low on his body, on the way the towel around his hips barely hung there, still damp from the shower, clinging to the hard lines of his waist, the ridges of muscle cut low across his abdomen. Water still beaded at his throat, trailing down the tense lines of his chest.

You swallowed—visibly—your breath hitching.

And then—

The barest flicker of want flashed across your face—raw and unguarded and so blindingly obvious it punched the air from his lungs.

And when your eyes lifted again, locking onto his—

It was over.

His cock hardened instantly—painfully—straining against the towel, throbbing with brutal, humiliating urgency, blood flooding south so fast it left him dizzy.

You caught the movement—the twitch, the thickening at the front of the fabric—and your lips parted, your breath hitching almost silently, thighs pressing together instinctively where you sat on his bed.

Megumi’s whole body locked up.

For a second, neither of you moved. The air was thick, humming, heavy enough to drown in.

And in that frozen heartbeat—

Megumi realized he was done.

There was no guarding himself anymore. No holding back. Not when you looked at him like you wanted him. Not when every trembling, uncertain beat of your heart was written across your face.

He was already drowning. He may as well let you pull him under.

—

He moved before he could think—before caution, before guilt, before anything but you existed in his blood. One step, then another, until he stood at the edge of the bed, the space between you crackling like a live wire.

You blinked up at him, your pout slipping into something softer—questioning, uncertain—but you didn’t move away. You didn’t run.

You just looked at him—chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths, damp hair framing your face—waiting.

Megumi dropped the towel from his hips with a dull thud against the floor. There was no ceremony in it—no attempt to hide the way his cock strained heavy and flushed between his thighs, already leaking at the tip, already so hard it hurt. But he didn’t reach for you with it. He didn’t even touch it himself.

You stared—your breath catching sharply in your throat.

The scars were impossible to miss.

But they were there.

They would always be there.

And still—he was beautiful.

More beautiful than anything you’d ever seen.

You leaned back into the bed, your hands curling loosely into the sheets beside you—an unconscious invitation.

He, instead, reached for the hem of the t-shirt you wore—his shirt—curling his fingers carefully into the soft fabric, pausing just long enough for you to nod once, almost imperceptibly.

He peeled it up over your body, baring you inch by inch.

No bra, just smooth, warm skin—the soft swell of your breasts, the gentle slope of your waist. His hands trembled slightly where they brushed your sides, fighting the instinct to grab, to worship, to fall apart.

He tossed the shirt aside without looking, gaze locked on you like you were something sacred.

Then his hands slid lower—slow, reverent—tugging at the waistband of the sweats you’d borrowed.

You lifted your hips automatically, helping him, and the pants slid down easily, crumpling at your ankles. He knelt briefly, steadying himself with one hand on your calf, the other working to peel the fabric free.

That’s when he saw the socks still clinging to your feet.

A muscle ticked sharply in his jaw—something raw and restless flashing across his face.

He hated it—hated leaving anything between you. Hated the barrier of it, the wrongness of something so small when the rest of you was already laid bare before him.

He hooked his fingers into the cuffs, tugging them down carefully one at a time, leaving you completely naked in front of him. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

You shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows, watching him with wide eyes, your breath coming a little faster now.

Megumi sat back on his heels, dragging his gaze up the beautiful lines of your body—the soft curves, the warm flush blooming across your chest, the way your thighs pressed together instinctively under his stare.

That's when he noticed. You weren’t wearing panties.

You must have folded them away with your dress from last night—leaving yourself dressed only in him, in his scent, in his space.

It undid him.

He crawled up onto the bed, straddling your hips lightly, his hands bracing on either side of your head. His hair dripped faintly onto your skin, dark and wild across his forehead, casting shadows across his desperate, wrecked face.

He cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing your skin, his expression cracking wide open—reverent, starving.

"Need you," he rasped, voice raw, before crushing his mouth to yours.

The kiss was messy—desperate—all teeth and tongue and broken sounds.

You whimpered into him, arching helplessly, your hands flying up to fist into his still-damp hair, pulling him closer, needing more, needing everything.

Megumi groaned low in his chest—a hungry, guttural sound—as he kissed you harder, tilting your head back, his mouth sliding hot and open against yours. He kissed you like he was drowning. Like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Fuck, baby," he gasped against your mouth, panting, "feel so good... so fucking good."

He kissed down your jawline, your throat, mapping every inch of skin with his lips, his teeth—hungry, possessive. His hands roamed greedily, skimming over your waist, your hips, your ribs—leaving nothing untouched.

"Mine," he whispered against your collarbone—low and rough and barely audible.

You shivered, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the hard lines of muscle beneath your palms.

He worshipped your breasts next—kissing over the soft curves, mouthing at your nipples until they peaked under his tongue, drawing gasps and helpless moans from your lips.

"Fuck," Megumi groaned, scraping his teeth lightly against sensitive skin, "could spend forever on you, pretty girl."

Your legs fell open without thinking, hips canting up against him, desperate for more friction, for more of him—anything he would give.

He kissed down your stomach—lingering over the dip of your navel, the soft curve of your hip bones—leaving open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs until you were shaking under him.

"So perfect," he muttered, voice hoarse, hot against your skin. "Gonna make you scream for me, baby. Gonna ruin you."

You whimpered—a broken, wrecked sound—and Megumi’s hands slid under your thighs, spreading you wider, lifting you toward his mouth.

You gasped softly as he bent down, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh, inhaling the clean, dizzying scent of your skin. He pressed another kiss higher, then another, slow and deliberate, until his nose brushed the tender crease where your thigh met your hip.

You were already wet—glistening faintly in the low light, the smell of you thick and sweet in the air between you.

And then he buried his mouth against you—tongue flattening against your soaked pussy, licking a slow, filthy stripe up your dripping folds. He groaned against you—the sound vibrating straight into your bones—and licked again, deeper, hungrier.

"You taste..." he muttered into your cunt, voice wrecked, "...fuck, baby, taste so fucking good... like you’re made for me."

You cried out, thighs trembling, head tossing back against the mattress as his mouth worked you open—his tongue fucking into you, circling your clit in devastating patterns that made your whole body shudder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling, clutching, desperate for something to anchor you.

"Please," you gasped, voice wrecked, "Megumi—!”

You jerked, a soft, but he only held you steady—hands braced under your thighs, locking you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

"That's it," he rasped against your cunt. "Give it to me. Let me hear you."

His tongue was relentless—flicking, swirling, tracing maddening circles around your clit, dipping down to fuck into your dripping heat and back again. Every sound you made—every breathless little whimper, every shuddering gasp—sank into his blood, pulling him deeper, deeper.

He could have lived with his mouth between your thighs forever.

Could have drowned there, if you let him.

You moaned—high, broken—your hips grinding helplessly into his mouth as he licked you harder, faster, losing himself completely in you.

He rutted against the mattress without even thinking—humping slow, desperate circles against the sheets—chasing the friction he needed like a man starved.

Your fingers twisted into the sheets—into his hair—tugging, clutching, as your thighs trembled around his head.

And Megumi—God, Megumi—he was dizzy with it, overwhelmed by the taste of you, the heat of you, the desperate slick noises filling the air as he licked you messily, sloppily, building you higher and higher until—

You broke—with a soft, shattered cry.

And when you came—when you sobbed his name and clutched his head between your thighs, trembling and wrecked—he followed.

Spilling hot against the mattress, undone by nothing but your taste, your sounds, your smell.

It was messy—his body locking up with the force of it—and it still wasn’t enough. It wasn’t even close to enough.

But he was wrung out. Hollowed. Broken open in a way he didn’t know how to survive.

He slumped forward with a low, exhausted groan, nuzzling his face against your bare hip, arms wrapping loosely around your waist like a lifeline.

You lay there stunned, your body still twitching with aftershocks, your hand falling instinctively to card through his messy, damp hair.

You could feel him trembling still—feel how hard he’d fought to hold himself together and how completely he’d lost, feel the weight of his exhaustion, his surrender.

Still, he didn’t try to fuck you. He didn’t even move to touch himself again—to maybe see if could go another round.

He just pressed closer—snuggling into your skin like he could crawl inside you and stay there forever.

You stared down at him, confusion flickering through the soft haze of afterglow.

Is this... how friends with benefits are supposed to work? you thought vaguely.

Just him... going down on me and falling asleep?

You didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand how he could be so... so selfless. So unguarded. So Megumi.

But you didn’t push it. Didn’t question it.

You just let your hand drift lower, tracing the broad span of his back—feeling the thick ridges of the scars that marred his ribs, sitting low under his pecs. Another one—brutal, ragged—slashed across his stomach, cutting from one hip to the other, just above his belly button.

You shivered—not from fear, but from memory.

The scars were old now—years healed—but they told stories you couldn’t forget. Stories of possession, of battles he almost didn’t survive.

Your hand hesitated briefly over his stomach, over the brutal scar left where Sukuna’s mouth had once gaped open.

Softly—almost reverently—you smoothed your fingers across it, feeling the uneven texture under your touch.

And when you lifted your gaze, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.

You knew, if you squinted, you could probably still catch the faint ghost of the ones that had cradled his face—two pale shadows along his right temple, over his eye and along his cheekbone, another one just below his left eye—almost invisible now, healed under Shoko's careful hands.

But they were there.

A ghost of the pain he carried.

A ghost of the boy he had been—and the man he had become.

You tucked the comforter up around his broad shoulders, cocooning both of you in warmth. He stirred slightly—a low, content hum rumbling against your skin—but didn’t wake.

And so you stayed there, tangled together, your fingers gently stroking along the scars and across his soft, dark hair.

Letting him rest. Letting yourself hold onto him, just a little longer.

Wrapped in him. Wrapped in something dangerously close to love.

426 notes · View notes

newkatzkafe2023 · 9 months ago

Note

I am curious about how our beloved monkeys react to the reader wearing a peach dress

Wink Wink 😉

Ohhhhhhhhh💋💋💋 We're looking sweet😋😏 and they're looking hungry 🤤🍽

(Lmk Wukong) He was shocked and blushing as you showed him the dress you got from the mall. You had asked him what he thought of the dress as you did a little spin to show him, you looked like the tastiest peach he ever seen. Looking nice and Juicy and plump, he was actively got up and showered you with Compliments as he licked his lips at you.

(NR Wukong) He was drooling excessively, with a nosebleed as he looked at your plump body, you looked so beautiful, so adorable and so sexy. You bought the dress on clearance and tried it on after finding that it fits, then later you showed him the dress and well his brain had crashed and he was blushing and drooling. He was smiling at you and decided to compliment and seduce you as he leads you to the bedroom to get a better look at it😉

(MKR Wukong) The second he had saw you were that dress, is the second he looked like he had a brain bleed. His face was red, he was clutching his chest and trying to control his breathing. You were so hot and adorable like seriously, what business do you have being that hot and adorable looking?!?!? and you looked like a ripe tasty peach just waiting to be plucked of a tree branch. That dress better be for his eyes only because Wukong is gonna get a bite out of you one way or another🤤

(HIB Wukong) HIPS!🥵 THIGHS!🥵 HIPS!🥵THIGHS!🥵 HIPS!🥵 THIGHS!🥵 this man is buffering like he's was acting up the second you showed him wearing that dress. He was mostly looking at those juicy plump birthing hip of your and the dress you wore put way to much Emphasis on them, especially if you were feeling brave wiggled them. As you did that and model the dress he was trying to estimate how much cubs he's gonna knock you up with while wearing that dress🥵🥵😳😳

(Netflix Wukong) He Actively grabbed his jewels in despair. Everything on his person was throbbing and red as his face was. God, he felt he was a teenage boy again looking at that pink peach dress on your already dangerously sexy body. God damned it, why do you keep doing this to him, do you like torturing him or something using that rocking thick and hot body against him, teasing him knowing that he can reach you, but he does love the dress, and he would love it even more with it on the floor. It was a matter of time before he lost his non Existent control and the next thing you knew your legs were held up with his face in between them and he had you moaning and screaming while he got his fill of your peach juice.🤤🥵

(BMW Wukong).....................😵😵😵😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 You did it you had finally killed him, so many had tried and he mentally died at the claws of his ridiculously hot wife. The second Wukong saw you in that dress he to use all of his Discipline not to go into an early mating season state of mind and jump your bones. You dare to wear that dress like a big tasty peach as you would dangle yourself infront of him knowing that he was starving. Ohhhhhhhhhh he was not gonna take this lying down with his boner. He's gonna wine and dine you into his bed and never let you go.

(Destined one)......you are but a tall, thick bottle of peach juice, and he is so very thirsty🥵, of course, the Destined one at first felt ashamed for his x-rated thoughts and feelings. Then here you are innocently asking what he thinks of the dress with your own light blush, especially with how revealing the dress was. He had never felt this way before and he's probably gonna beat his own ass later for this, but right now he wants you bad, he wants to take you, squeeze you, taste you and rock the little world you live on.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG 🍑

#monkey king netflix #monkey king reborn #lmk monkey king #monkey king hero is back #nezha reborn #black myth wukong #the destined one x reader #x female y/n #sexy and beautiful #thick and juicy #birthing hips

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livvymd · 2 months ago

Text

After Hours Service. MDNI

this one low key isnt eating sorry anon

The second the restaurant doors opened, you knew this day was going to be chaos.

You'd worked a few pop-ups before, but nothing quite like this — a full-on Sidemen event, half content shoot and half real service. It was all a bit mad: cameras everywhere, orders flying in, the back kitchen sounding like a school canteen on fire, and somehow you were meant to keep a smile on your face and carry three plates at once.

You were good at your job. Calm. Composed. Focused.

Or at least, you were — until ChrisMD entered the building in a too-clean apron and made eye contact with you for a full second before looking away like you’d physically blinded him.

And that became the theme of the day.

Chris was also “working” the event, roped into the front-of-house rotation with various YouTubers, and he was doing an okay job when he wasn’t short-circuiting every time you got close.

You didn’t even have to flirt. You just existed — and he apparently couldn’t handle it.

It started small.

You passed him a plate of sliders. “Table three, yeah? You good with that?”

He nodded a little too fast, eyes flicking from your hands to your face. “Yep — uh — totally. I’m good. I can do plates. Yep. That’s what I do.”

You raised a brow. “Right… Well, try not to drop them.”

Spoiler: he nearly did.

And that was before he walked into a folding signboard that hadn't been there two minutes earlier.

It escalated.

Every time your paths crossed, it was a fresh scene from a romcom:

You asked him to carry drinks. He spilled a third of a Coke on himself.

You brushed shoulders near the pass window. He nearly dropped a tray of garlic bread.

You asked him how the tables were going. He blanked completely, said “table 9 is a man,” and walked away.

You couldn’t not smile around him.

And apparently, neither could the others.

By the third hour, Harry had started narrating his movements. “And here comes Chris, attempting human interaction. Will he survive? Odds are low.”

Ethan chimed in, “Bro turns into a loading screen whenever she walks by. Buffering for his life.”

You caught Chris ducking his head behind the drinks fridge, pretending to look for cans. Probably hiding from you.

Cute.

You decided to push your luck.

Near the end of the lunch rush, you cornered him — lightly, playfully — by the cutlery stand.

“Chris,” you said, and the way his name sounded in your voice made him glance up, heart already racing.

You held out your hand. “Need help with section five? Looks like they’re about to riot.”

He blinked at you. “Help? From…you? Yeah. Totally. I mean, if you’re not too busy — ”

You just smiled and walked past him, bumping his shoulder gently. “Come on, then.”

He followed.

He always followed.

By dinner service, things had settled into something almost normal. Tables were clearing out, the last guests were halfway through desserts, and the YouTubers had mostly stopped pretending to be competent.

You were behind the bar restacking glasses when Harry strolled past you.

“Y’know he’s completely lost for you, right?” he said casually.

You raised an eyebrow, playing dumb. “Who?”

Harry snorted. “Chris. You’re like his Roman Empire. He can’t think straight.”

You smirked but didn’t answer. The warmth in your chest betrayed you. You liked knowing that. Liked that Chris wasn’t like the others — he wasn’t pushy, or flirty just for content. He was genuinely trying, and failing spectacularly, and that was half the charm.

The restaurant emptied out slowly.

Most of the crew started packing up, clearing the last of the plates, throwing out props. Cameras were off. The lights were dimmed. You stayed behind to tidy up your section, focused on the last table when someone stepped up beside you.

Chris.

Hair slightly messy. Apron wrinkled. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. He looked boyish, nervous, and — despite the long day — still painfully fit.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes on the table you were wiping. “I wanted to — uh — say thanks.”

You glanced at him, pausing your work. “For what?”

“For… not laughing at me. Much. Or for not reporting me to management for being the worst pretend-waiter of all time.”

You leaned back against the table, crossing your arms. “You weren’t that bad.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, you were terrible. But you were sweet.”

He shifted closer. “Sweet like… pity sweet? Or sweet like maybe-you’d-consider-hanging-out-after-this sweet?”

Your mouth quirked up. “Depends how brave you’re feeling right now.”

He looked at you for a long moment — longer than any glance he'd managed all day. His confidence wasn’t fake, but it was shy. Tentative. Like he’d finally decided to risk it.

“I’m feeling brave enough,” he said.

You reached out, your fingers curling lightly around the edge of his apron, tugging him closer.

“Then show me.”

The kiss started soft.

He leaned in slowly, carefully — like if he moved too fast you’d vanish. His lips brushed yours once, tentative, testing, then again with a little more pressure.

You sighed into it, your hand moving to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

That was the switch.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Not rushed — just sure. His hands slid to your waist, gripping gently like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You pulled him closer, mouths moving in sync, the kiss growing more heated. His tongue brushed yours and your knees went a bit weak — not from the kiss itself, but from how into it he was.

Like he’d been holding back all day and couldn’t anymore.

The door clicked behind you as Chris locked it.

You were both still breathless — bodies too close, pupils blown, hands already wandering.

The restaurant was closed. The others were gone.

You were alone.

Your back hit the prep counter as Chris’s mouth found yours again — this time deeper, desperate, no hint of nerves left. His hands roamed with less hesitation now, gripping your waist, skimming over your hips, tugging you closer until you felt every hard inch of him pressed to your body.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he breathed against your lips, voice low and wrecked.

You smiled, your hand sliding under the hem of his hoodie. “I think I do.”

You pushed it up and over his head, and Chris dropped it to the floor without a care. His chest was warm and lean, skin smooth beneath your palms as you traced down the slope of his abdomen, dragging your nails lightly just to watch his abs twitch.

“Fuck,” he whispered, shivering at your touch.

He bent, lips ghosting down your neck, then across your collarbone. His teeth grazed gently as he nipped, sucking marks into your skin you’d probably have to hide tomorrow. One hand slid under your shirt, warm and rough against your waist, until his thumb brushed just under your bra.

You arched into his hand.

“Off,” you said, tugging at your own shirt. Chris helped you peel it off in seconds, followed by your bra.

His breath hitched when he saw you — his gaze devouring, lips parted, frozen for a moment like he was trying to burn the image into memory.

“God, you’re — ” He stopped, swallowing thickly. “You’re unreal.”

His mouth latched onto your chest — tongue and lips moving slowly, wetly, kissing over sensitive skin while his hands gripped your thighs. You reached between your bodies, unfastening his belt and jeans, pushing them down just enough for his boxers to tent obscenely in front of you.

Chris groaned when you brushed your fingers over him through the fabric.

“Y/N…” he rasped, forehead against your shoulder, hips jerking.

You kissed his jaw, then his throat, licking a slow stripe across the hollow of it before whispering, “Want you.”

He stepped back long enough to drag your trousers and underwear down your legs, his hands firm but reverent. You helped him out of his jeans and boxers, both of you standing fully bare in the middle of the dark, empty kitchen — fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead.

Then he was between your legs again, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

Chris kissed you slow this time — less urgent, more worship. His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs tracing the inside gently, so close to your centre but not touching yet.

“I’ve thought about this too many times than I'd like to admit,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours.

“Then show me,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He reached down between your bodies and lined himself up, the head of his length brushing against you — hot, hard, ready.

And when he pushed in?

You gasped — head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you in one long, perfect thrust.

“Shit — ” Chris choked. “You feel — fuck, you feel amazing.”

He paused once he was fully inside, letting you both adjust, just staring at you with wide eyes and parted lips. You were flushed and panting, legs tight around his waist, hands gripping the back of his neck like you needed him to anchor you.

Then he moved.

Slow at first — deep, dragging thrusts that had your whole body rocking with each one. The wet, filthy sounds of skin against skin filled the kitchen, along with your moans, his groans, his whispered curses in your ear.

Your hips met every movement, your thighs tightening with each delicious grind of his pelvis against yours. He hit that perfect spot again and again, making your breath hitch, making your body clench around him until his rhythm stuttered.

“God, Y/N — you’re so tight — I’m not gonna last — ”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, eyes rolling back. “I’m close, Chris, please — ”

He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle — his thumb pressing to your clit just right.

Your whole body tensed.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm hit hard and fast, waves crashing through your body as you cried out his name, shaking, clenching around him. Your walls pulsed and fluttered, drawing him even deeper.

Chris groaned — deep, raw, helpless — and followed you over the edge with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, head falling to your shoulder as he trembled in your arms.

The air between you was hot and thick with breath, skin sticky and flushed.

You stayed like that — entwined, panting, bodies still joined — for long minutes.

Finally, Chris lifted his head, lips brushing your forehead.

“I’m never gonna look at the prep counter the same way again,” he muttered.

You snorted, too blissed out to care. “Guess I’ll never eat another chicken tender again without getting flashbacks.”

He chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to your mouth. “Reckon we’re due a round two in the freezer.”

You grinned. “And then maybe… dessert?”

Chris smirked, lips against your neck. “Sweetheart, you are the dessert.”

#chrismd #chrismd x reader smut #chrismd x reader #chrismd imagine #chrismd x you #chrismd smut #chrismd fluff #arthurtv #arthur frederick #arthur hill #george clarke #italianbach #uk youtubers #smut #fanfic

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nottslove · 2 months ago

Note

i keep spamming vixen by ayesha at the gym

main character vibe

event; profile; nav; hi honey!! believe me, i squealed when i saw you participating in the event... i'd never heard this song before until now, and i actually like it.

totally gives off main character vibes. so, i figured, this song would have to describe two, extremely stubborn main characters, both fighting for the upper hand....

enter you and enter mattheo riddle. 2.6k words

warnings: slightly nsfw, fwb, toxic relationship

song: vixen, ayesha erotica slytherin boy: mattheo riddle.

YOU had always been attracted to danger, always liked the thrill of putting yourself in risky situations, perhaps that was why you found yourself fascinated with him in the beginning.

the dark lord's son, the boy who was feared by half of hogwarts, and envied and respected by the other half.

he had it all; the looks, the brains, the charm, and even the arrogance and big-headedness that came with having to deal with all of that.

you didn't know how you stood him. but then again, the rest of your friends in your group did act as good buffers.

you always hung out in a group, from first year, to seventh.

things began to change during the end of the sixth year.

pansy got a girlfriend, so she would hang out with her, instead of the rest of you guys.

the get-togethers still went on, and you would all sit by the fireplace in the slytherin common room, or in the local pub at hogsmeade.

draco was the next to leave after pansy. he too, got a girlfriend.

lorenzo left too, eventually, trailing after this hufflepuff girl he was smitten with.

still, you, mattheo and theo would continue with your meetups, until theo transferred his attentions to chase after another witch he had a one night stand with.

leaving just you and mattheo.

you did try to hang out with him in the beginning, but after the first ten minutes of him smoking a cigarette and you reading your book, filled with mindless chatter here and there, the awkward silence that filled the space grew suffocating.

eventually, you decided that you would rather hang out alone.

"doesn't make sense for just the two of us to sit in silence since there's no one else," mattheo had agreed with you.

your friends did inquire why the two of you didn't hang out— "we're too different..." was your answer.

your friends also asked why the pair of you didn't find romantic partners to hang out with.

"you know me— i'm a low commitment guy..." mattheo had shrugged with a smirk.

"edwards and i broke up again," you replied, mentioning your ex-boyfriend; surely, an uncomfortable topic. "i'm not looking for anything serious right now..."

edwards had been your first love; and you had been dating steadily for a few months, until you broke up once over a small fight. ever since then, it had been an on and off relationship with him, and you felt suffocated in the relationship after he kept cutting ties with you, then winning you back with some grand, romantic gesture.

your friends, feeling a little uncomfortable at the mention of edwards, never brought the topic of you and mattheo hanging out with each other, or with other people again.

and the first few times the rest of your friends left to chase after their own romantic interests, you and mattheo dispersed as well; you going to the library and him staying in the common room, you realized there were only so many places you could go without running into mattheo.

suddenly he was everywhere; your paths kept tangling.

in the library? he was there.

quidditch pitch? he was there.

even when you got detention, he happened to be there.

eventually, you stopped trying to fight the forces that brought you two together and embraced it.

turned out, you had a lot in common with mattheo. and you did get along pretty well, even though the dialogue mostly consisted of unhinged flirting, dirty jokes, constant bickering, dissing, arguing and laughing.

it was exhilarating, to say the least.

you couldn't recall the last time you'd had this much fun in detention, and mattheo made up his mind that perhaps you weren't the uptight girl he thought you were.

sure you did contribute a lot to your conversations as an entire friend group, but alone?

god, he never knew you were so witty and flirty.

it drove him insane.

especially when he insulted you and you retorted by harshly slapping his shoulder and using the filthiest curse-words known to man.

or when he teased you about the amount of books you read and you flipped him off.

the worst moment for him was when you wore those slutty, short skirts of yours and it would hike up slightly as you would sit down. that was when he would catch a glimpse of the lace garter strapped to your upper thigh, holding a tiny flask of what he was sure was not water or pumpkin juice.

whether you were talking, or in class, his eyes wandered down to your thigh more often than he would care to admit, and he would have to excuse himself to the men's room.

he was growing addicted to you, and he didn't know it. he constantly had to deal with his urge to pin you against every surface and fuck the shit out of you.

as the pair of you walked back from detention together, you decided you were having too much fun together to part ways once you got to the common room.

hence you both found yourselves in front of the fireplace in the empty common room, casually betting on whether or not professor snape and the new ancient runes professor were sleeping together.

before you knew it, mattheo had pulled out a joint and offered you one. placing it between his lips, he fished around his pockets for a lighter.

"shit, you got a light? can't find mine—"

you gave him a sultry smile, and an understanding nod. "don't worry, i got you covered..." and then, you placed the death stick between your dark, red lips, and before mattheo's very eyes, you undid one of the buttons of your blouse and dug your fingers into your bra, looking for your lighter, unaware that he was losing his fucking mind.

he had never seen anything hotter.

you didn't realize the effect your actions had on mattheo, until you saw the slight rise in his pants. you knew exactly what you were doing when you pulled out the lighter and used it to light the tip of your cigarette, which was still dangling from your lips.

it was still warm from your body heat when you gave it to mattheo, and him, just knowing it had been stuffed inside your bra, pressing against your tits was struggling to hide his growing erection, which was straining painfully against the zipper of his jeans.

he simply couldn't stop staring, and he did nothing to hide his painfully obvious boner.

you noticed.

"close your mouth, darling, you'll catch flies," you drawled, your voice dripping with confidence.

"did— fuck, doll— did that just come out from your bra?" mattheo asked, head spinning. he simply couldn't believe it.

"they don't stitch pockets in girls' skirts," you replied vaguely, fully aware of mattheo's gaze on your tits that peeked out from beneath your shirt. "you can keep it if you like..."

you trailed off lightly, your eyes flickering up to meet his.

he stashed the lighter in his pocket, patting it lightly as if it were his most valuable possession.

his eyes never left yours as he says his next words, fully prepared to catch you off-guard.

"is that why you carry a flask of whiskey strapped to your thigh as well?" he drawled.

your breath hitched, and your eyes widened. no one was supposed to find out about that.

still, you weren't going to let him know he had the upper hand here.

"been staring at my thighs, matty?" you whispered, leaning closer, at an angle that gave him a perfect view of your tits right down your shirt.

"more than you can fucking imagine," he muttered through gritted teeth, your little nickname driving him feral.

"now now, be careful—wouldn't want you to cum in your pants now, would we?" you whispered, fingers reaching softly to caress his bulge over his jeans, your long, manicured nails grazing against the material and causing him to hiss lightly through his teeth.

that was when all hell broke loose. he didn't ask for permission any more. he wasn't going to treat you like a gentle princess when you were right there, acting like a whore.

his mouth collided fiercely with yours, emitting a possessive growl as he pulled you into his lap, cigarette dangling from his fingers.

the cigarette smoke had definitely messed with your mind, because you were grinding against him whilst making out with him, and it simply wasn't enough.

you wanted more. you needed more.

your manicured nails were buried into his hair, the other clutching his shirt, skirt riding higher and higher as your gyrated your hips over his.

"i need more," he muttered, hand flitting to your garter, pulling it away from your thigh and letting it snap back into place, causing a slight sting of pleasurable pain to kiss your delicate skin.

"this is a one time thing," you warned him, before you gave him all control of the situation, knowing all too well he would satisfy your needs.

the amount of times his sexual conquests had been discussed in your friend group was too many for you to count.

"agreed," he replied, before he took you to his empty dorm room.

both of you never expected to do it again. you both assumed you merely needed to get each other out of your systems, but you were proved wrong the next time your friends left you alone.

it wasn't even one minute since their absence that the pair of you were already making out.

and then, you put a label to it.

friends with benefits.

it didn't end there. you swore to keep it a secret from the rest of your friends, but it was only a matter of time before they found out.

draco had forgotten his phone in the dorm room, and he had come in to get it, only to find the two of you in a very compromising position.

naturally, he had informed the rest of the group.

it was easy for you to contain your relationship with mattheo within the four walls of his dorm.

outside, you were friends. the benefits only came out when you were alone.

he didn't do relationships, or commitment, and you had just gotten out of a relationships; you weren't looking for anything serious.

until feelings began getting involved.

and until mattheo started behaving like a boyfriend outside the bedroom.

he would hold your hand, pull you into his lap randomly and make-out with you in public.

not that you minded.

he was so goddamn addictive.

when you started catching feelings, you tried to squash them, suppress them, but that proved to be difficult when he hung around you every waking moment of the day.

"we need to stop," you told mattheo one time, after he had pulled you into an empty classroom to slide his hand between your thighs.

"stop what? we won't get caught, doll—" he replied, fingers brushing against your panties.

"us. i can't keep doing this with you—"

and then you walked out.

he had helped you get over your ex. and though you hadn't been looking for anything serious, catching feelings for mattheo had made you realize how much you craved the feeling of being loved.

and to get your mind off mattheo, you began seeing another guy, hoping your feelings for your friend would go away.

they didn't.

you couldn't kiss him without thinking of mattheo.

mattheo was jealous. glaring at you from the distance, sitting on the table with all your friends around him.

"i think it's nice she's finally giving someone else a chance," pansy commented.

"shut the fuck up," growled mattheo.

"what's gotten your knickers in a twist?" scoffed theo. "thought you don't do commitments."

"i don't," replied mattheo. "that asshole doesn't deserve her."

"you should stop seeing him," mattheo commented later that evening, when you were left alone with him in the common room.

"yeah, like suddenly you know what's best for me," you replied dryly.

"oh, but i do," replied riddle, leaning in closer to your ear to allow his words to drip through, like venom.

"i know exactly where to touch you to make your toes curl. i know how how to pleasure you; until you're screaming my fucking name— does he know how to touch you? does he touch you like i do?" mattheo murmured, his hand sliding underneath your thigh, softly drawing circles on your thigh, fingers caressing your garter. "he doesn't know how gorgeous you look, screaming my name as i eat that sweet pussy..."

you slowly shook your head, your heart lurching.

and thus, mattheo knew exactly how to manipulate you.

the cycle began.

you kept calling things off, and he kept worming his way back into your pants, and your heart.

until you had enough.

"mattheo—stop," you told him, halting his hand from where it had begun to venture across your thigh. "i.. i can't do this anymore. please..."

catching the vulnerability in your tone, he looked into your eyes and distinguished the slightly glassy stare. "why not? what's wrong?"

"i just can't."

he didn't do relationships; telling him the truth would just make things worse.

"why not? because of the other guy? you still whoring around for him?" he scoffed, sounding completely pissed.

suddenly, a small sob cracked through your body, and you shook your head, completely hurt by his words.

"no," you replied back, your voice reflecting your hurt. "because i made the mistake of falling in love with an asshole like you."

instantly, he knew he had fucked up.

his heart stuttered with your confession, as dread slipped into his blood.

"doll—" he tried, trying to catch your wrist, but you slipped out of his grasp.

"don't doll me," you demanded. "we're over. i can't stand to be near someone who thinks of me as nothing but a whore."

he didn't apologize to you.

you stayed away from him; from everyone, in fact. you kept to your dorm room.

you couldn't face mattheo, or your friends. you couldn't deal with all their questions and sympathy stares.

your friend group was now split between you and mattheo; none of you hung together any more.

you were broken, and mattheo went back to picking up a different girl each night.

it didn't help that you were madly in love with him, heart clenching at the thought of him with any other girl.

eventually, you and mattheo had to talk. where you go back to tolerating each other's presence so your friends could hang out together.

mattheo was stubborn.

he had caught feelings for you; it was obvious. your friends knew, the teachers knew. everyone fucking knew.

he was just too fucking stupid and dumb to admit it.

every girl he brought back, he would moan your name. he would imagine you underneath him.

it was only until another guy asked you out that mattheo lost it all. he couldn't stand another guy touching you, being with you.

enough was enough.

"can we talk?" he asked one night, when your friends had thrown a party in the slytherin common room.

"no," you brushed him off, walking right past him.

"please, doll. one minute; that's all i need..." he begged, his brown eyes full of vulnerability. "i.. i know i fucked up. big time.."

"yeah," you replied, a dry scoff punctuating your words. "one minute only."

"i'm... i'm sorry for what i said," he admitted, after much difficulty. "i was.. i was jealous of the other guy; and pissed at him."

"you're the one who said you didn't do relationships," you quoted him. "so you shouldn't have gotten mad when i wanted one."

"that's the thing," mattheo breathed, raking a hand through his dark curls. "i didn't want a relationship until i met you."

your heart stopped. your eyes flickered up to meet his.

the rest of the party faded away.

the music dimmed, the faint beat of the woofer made the floor vibrate in sync with your heartbeat.

it was just you and him.

you, and mattheo.

"you— you... you drive me fucking insane," mattheo breathed. "i can't stop thinking about you— i love you—"

you didn't need to hear the rest.

your hands gripped his jaw and you crashed your lips against his.

the last thing you heard before you snuck away to mattheo's dorm room was his voice.

"i love you, doll."

"i hate you, riddle," you replied.

but you didn't.

event; profile; nav;

©nottslove 2025. do not copy, steal or claim any works/graphics as your own.

#—jas' song recs event🧁#—jas celebrates🧁#slytherin boys #mattheo riddle #slytherin boys imagines #mini fics #drabbles #writing #slytherin #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle fanfic #mattheo riddle fic #mattheo riddle fluff #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x you

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sevarchive · 9 days ago

Text

conspiracies & cleats ༄.°

a blue lock! smau miniseries part 3;

starring: isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, rin itoshi, kunigami rensuke, chigiri hyoma, mikage reo, nagi seishiro

synopsis: in which isagi finds your insane blue lock conspiracy account on twitter—gets brainwashed—and now everyone thinks he’s losing it.

a/n: mostly written texts ahead for this chapter! groupchats/twitter posts will follow afterwards tho! btw this plot was suggested from this request! part 1 here! part 2 here!

warning: crackfic, suggestive jokes, brain-rotting theories, cursing, ego slander (and thirsting), reader is a menace, voice memos with zero shame, and an alarming lack of adult supervision.

listen. i wasn’t trying to uncover a conspiracy. i wasn’t planning to question the fabric of our reality at three-seventeen in the morning.

i just had to pee

that’s it. just nature calling, like a totally normal teenage boy who drinks too much pocari sweat after dinner. i didn’t even put on shoes. just socks and shame and the blurry haze of sleep in my eyes.

the hallway is empty. too empty. and blue lock, for all its budget, apparently can’t afford dim night lights. the walls are cold. the vending machine hums like it’s dying slowly. everything echoes.

i start walking.

left turn. right hallway. the one past the weight room with the motion-activated faucet that never shuts up. the air smells like protein powder and wet rubber.

then—click.

a sound behind me. quiet enough to ignore. sharp enough to stop me cold. i freeze. one second. another. the hallway feels colder now. like something’s watching.

i turn slowly, praying it’s the vending machine. maybe it dropped a sad bag of chips.

it isn’t.

it’s ego jinpachi. staring directly at me.

my body locks up. “...oh my god.”

it slips out—a whisper-scream. a scrisper.

he doesn’t move. just stands there like an evil museum statue. black turtleneck. glasses glinting. mouth locked in judgment.

i take a step back. “w-what are you doing here?”

“restocking the vending machine.”

his voice is calm. too calm. like he isn’t giving off the exact same aura as a haunted alexa in a cursed airbnb.

restocking the vending machine.

at 3:17 in the morning.

who does that? who wakes up and thinks, “yeah, time to refill the cool ranch at the witching hour”? no sane human is out here at demon o’clock feeding doritos to a machine like it’s part of some midnight snack ritual for the undead.

my brain short-circuits. thoughts start spiraling like i’m in the middle of a netflix documentary narrated by my own anxiety.

does he even sleep? have i ever seen him blink? is he plugged into a wall somewhere? is this vending machine his life source?

i tried to laugh. it came out like a wheeze.

“restocking,” i repeat, nodding like a hostage. “yep. totally chill. chips at 3 a.m. very... real of you.”

i’m laughing now. nervously. like someone trying to bond with the ghost in the attic.

“haha. love that. love a little… snack run in the middle of the night. just... guys being dudes, right? nothing says mental stability like fritos under moonlight!”

ego doesn’t move.

no breathing. no blinking. just... staring.

1… 2… 3… no blink.

his hand is still on the glass.

like he’s communicating with it.

or downloading something.

then—beep.

i jump three feet in the air.

“oh my god he made a noise.”

i stagger back and point at him like i’ve just witnessed a crime. “that was you! you beeped.”

ego slowly turns to me—mechanical. like his neck has a limited range of motion.

“it’s the vending machine.”

i freeze.

“oh. right.” a pause. "...or is it?"

the lights flicker again—once, twice. the kind of flicker you see in horror movies right before someone gets yoinked into the ceiling.

my left eye twitches. sweat collects on the back of my neck.

ego is still standing there. not a twitch. not a blink. just... still. like he’s buffering in real life. not human. definitely not human.

i take a single step back. his shadow doesn’t move.

his shadow DIDN'T move!

“okay, well,” i mumble, hands up like i’m surrendering to a demon.

“i’m just gonna, you know. go. as one does. when one values life.”

i turn to leave. carefully. slowly. like if i move too fast, he’ll hiss and multiply.

then—clang.

i freeze. something shifts behind me, a soft scrape, just loud enough to send a jolt down my spine. slowly, i turn.

atop the cabinet, a clipboard teeters at a crooked angle. it tilts once... twice... then slips. it falls.

the air goes still. i track it in slow motion, the sharp edge slicing downward, seconds away from hitting the floor.

and then—ego moves.

without looking. without flinching. his arm extends with unnerving precision, hand snapping out midair and he catches it perfectly. no fumble. no hesitation.

he places it back exactly where it was. adjusts it slightly. like nothing ever happened.

the vending machine hums louder behind him.

i stare at ego. i stare at the clipboard. i don’t ask questions.

he finally blinks. just once.

“goodnight, isagi.”

i say nothing. i backpedal.

then i ran.

i bust through the door like the final boss of an anxiety dream.

“HE’S NOT HUMAN!!!”

three different groans explode across the room like a war just broke out.

“i swear to god—” kunigami sits up, furious, “—if this is about ego blinking weird again—”

“WHY ARE YOU YELLING,” chigiri barks from the top bunk, hair everywhere, face shoved into a pillow.

reo falls off his bed entirely. “is this an earthquake?! are we dying?!?”

“EGO—” i pant, eyes wide, socks half off like i just ran from the gates of hell. “EGO IS—HE—HE JUST—”

“bro,” bachira mumbles, still lying down, “are you possessed.”

“HE WAS THERE. AT THE VENDING MACHINE. RESTOCKING IT.”

kunigami rubs his face. “wow. so spooky. a man doing his job.”

“AT THREE-SEVENTEEN.”

“so??”

“WITHOUT BLINKING.”

rin sits up painfully slowly, the blanket falling from his shoulders like a vampire rising from the coffin. his eyes are murder. his voice is death.

“isagi,” he rasps. “if i open my eyes for this and it’s not about literal bloodshed i am legally allowed to kill you.”

“HE DIDN’T BLINK FOR EIGHT MINUTES AND THEN CAUGHT A CLIPBOARD FROM ACROSS THE ROOM.”

kunigami launches his pillow at me like a missile. “you stormed in here to say ego has reflexes?! do you want applause?! a medal?!”

“HE DIDN’T LOOK!!”

“CONGRATULATIONS HE HAS EYES IN THE BACK OF HIS SOUL NOW GET OUT.”

“it’s THREE. SEVENTEEN,” i yell, waving my phone like it’s gospel.

“THAT’S NOT A CRIME,” chigiri yells back. “THAT’S JUST A TIME.”

“YOU DON’T RESTOCK SNACKS AT DEMON O’CLOCK—”

“i—i can’t explain it. i can’t explain it right now—”

“then don’t,” chigiri groans.

“NO I WILL,” i shout, flinging my hands toward the air. “I’LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING—IN THE GROUPCHAT.”

“you better not,” reo says, reaching for his phone.

kunigami throws a pillow at me. “go to bed, you feral raccoon.”

nagi, of course, is still fully unconscious. face down. dead to the world. drooling on his hoodie.

“he’s built different,” bachira mutters.

rin’s already pulling a blanket over his head. “you’re all idiots.”

a harsh buzz crackled through every room in blue lock.

ego (overhead pa):"incorrect. my preferred snack is a peeled egg. also, you're all scheduled for 6:00 a.m. drills. lock off."

silence.

a full-body shiver swept through the facility. phones dropped. souls left bodies.

tags: @soph1sticatedly @nensi @scarlettstrawberrys @introspectiveintroverthere @p1z-d0n7jud6em3 @polish-cereal @rainychi2 @l0v3ly-st4rs @shealu @beepbopzlorp @luvynii @idexmids @x3nafix @444neapolitain @fufuriii @ohagiyoo @ranzess @n0ah-hal00 @ravenbc @byzantiumhollow

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

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the-travelling-witch · 1 year ago

Text

𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒

summary: just some small baking hcs because i couldn't help but think about these guys while doing some baking myself

pairings: all students x gn! reader (can be read as either romantic or platonic, except for ortho)

warnings: just fluff, there is no concrete trope here, just random brain worms; reader is not specified to be mc/yuu

a/n: peer reviewed by @daisystwistedgarden who woke up to me spamming our dms with these ♡

twisted wonderland masterlist

HEARTSLABYUL

Riddle would be the most attentive student ever, taking notes on the exact ratio and the time you spent mixing everything together. Please don’t give him measurements like “what feels right”, he wants to know the exact amount down to the gram. One day, he wants to bake something for you by himself, but for now he’s content with sharing what you made together over a cup of tea.

Normally, the delicious smell of pastries and cakes comes wafting out of Heartslabyul’s kitchen with Trey at the centre of it, so the first time he comes to your dorm to see you baking, he’s pleasantly surprised. Obviously, he’s liked you before but now he looks forward to swapping recipes and spending afternoons side by side in the kitchen.

Cater would be posting all over magicam how cute you are and would fill his stories with candids of you kneading dough, taking stuff out of the oven, etc. He’d try to hide how flustered he gets if you tell him you made something savoury because you remembered he’s not fond of sweets.

The Adeuce combo would loiter around your kitchen, snacking half your dough without contributing any help whatsoever (Deuce tries, Ace never had any intention to from the start). One thing’s for sure: if Ace or Deuce ever have to bake an apology tart for an unbirthday party again, they already know who they’re recruiting. It’s also a great reason to stop by your dorm more often than they already do.

He would never admit it, if you made something for him, Ace would feel his heart beat a little faster. Instead he’d poke your cheek and make a nonchalant comment about how you must be so in love with him that you couldn’t stop thinking about him but the way his delivery stutters a little and the fact he can’t quite meet your eyes gives him away. Don’t mention if his ears turn red either (or tease him about it~).

Contrary to his roommate, Deuce is adorably honest about his appreciation for your hard work. You made this for him? Just because? There are a few seconds where his brain buffers while deciding what to do, would hugging you be too forward? But wouldn’t bowing be too formal? It’s honestly very cute to watch how his face flushes a colour that’s a nice contrast to the blue mark next to his eye as he stammers out his gratitude, especially if you’re not (yet) dating or haven’t been for long.

SAVANACLAW

Leona was probably lazing around your dorm already and you woke him up from a nap with the noise of kitchen equipment and the different scents filling the air. He’d slink over to watch you work, offering unhelpful comments while leaning his entire weight on you. Because of his upbringing his palette is obnoxiously refined but he’s the one helping himself to more of what you just took out of the oven, so he’s not sly.

Ruggie can smell that you’re baking something good before even entering your dorm. Sure, most beastmen have a keen sense of smell but when it comes to food, nobody zeroes in quite as fast as the hyena. He’ll join you in the kitchen under the guise of learning a new recipe from you- and he is! It’s just that he’s also sneaking a treat or two off your baking tray.

Jack would help carry and stir stuff for you but he’d mostly keep to the background and let you do your thing, afraid to accidentally ruin the pastries or what you’re making, his nose and tail do twitch at the pleasant scent though. Since he’s an athlete, Jack makes sure to watch his diet but he’d never refuse to try what you made.

OCTAVINELLE

As the head of Mostro Lounge, Azul is always on the lookout for new items to add to the menu, so he takes quite the interest in your recipes. With a few tweaks here and there… For him to enjoy them in private though, he’ll study the recipe for different reasons. Of course he will try everything you make at least once, but the housewarden is still very conscious of his appearance, so he’ll enjoy your baking in measured amounts.

Jade, much like his childhood friend, is very intrigued by what you’re making but not out of business reasons. The eel is much more interested in how your recipes compare to his native ones and he’s already thinking of new things to try the next time around. As with everything, Jade loves to tease and fluster you, so of course he has to show you how to perfectly roll out the dough by caging you between himself and the counter.

Perhaps you should think twice about letting Floyd into your kitchen. If he asks to let him help you, chances are he’s in a good mood, which is positive for his enthusiasm but detrimental to keeping your dorm clean. Sure, the eel is quite competent when it comes to preparing food but by the time your tray is in the oven, you, him and the floor are covered in flour.

SCARABIA

The first time you offered something homemade to Kalim, he had to refuse with a begging side glance to Jamil. Afterwards, he reasoned with Jamil that if he just joined you in baking, he could be sure of everything that went into the treats and so his vice housewarden relented. Against what people might think, Kalim is not actually half bad at baking, you just have to walk him through all the steps slowly. He might never have baked something himself before but he makes up for it with enthusiasm and the will to learn, plus he makes the whole thing super fun from beginning to end.

The first time Jamil sees you baking, it’s late in the evening and he just dragged himself over to your dorm for some much needed rest. But when he sees you working around the oven, there’s a split second where all the alarm bells in his head go off to thwart impending doom, until he remembers that you probably know what you’re doing and he relaxes. Old habits and all that. After that day, he’ll join you in the kitchen from time to time, if his schedule allows it. There’s no doubt about his capabilities, so Jamil’s always welcome to join you but he also appreciates that you don’t expect him to, which makes this a nice way to wind down for him. Also gets easily flustered if you make something for him and him only.

POMEFIORE

Vil would also compliment your hard work. Sure, he might offer some constructive criticism (if he knows it won’t hurt your feelings) so you can improve even further the next time around, but he’s also not hesitating to point out everything that deserves praise. He might click his tongue if you get cream on your face but will gently wipe it away and dust the flour off your clothes with a fond smile.

Rook is just as excited and eccentric as always, raving about the beauty of baking and how lovely you are for creating something so delicious. It doesn’t matter if you’re making the simplest cookies known to man, to him it might as well be a three tier cake.

Epel would be so happy if you made something with the apples his family sent him, but he appreciates it either way. He’s also really talented when it comes to decorating -probably because of his years spent carving apples- and he feels really manly when you ask him to stir something, knead the dough or carry ingredients.

IGNIHYDE

Idia is probably running through every anime and dating sim with a baking arc he’s ever watched/ played and his hair tinges pink as you invite him over. You’re at the intimacy level already to unlock this super domestic route? He really wants to save state irl, so he can keep coming back to this, both in case he messes up and to relive this moment.

Ortho would be a sweetheart, setting timers and looking up recipes and techniques if you’re stuck. He compliments your work and laments lightheartedly that he can’t smell or taste anything, saying he’ll pester Idia into inventing olfactory and gustatory receptors, so he can get the full experience next time.

DIASOMNIA

Congrats, you now have a very curious fae prince on your hands. Not only is he studying your recipes and ingredients with great interest, Malleus is just as fascinated by baking utensils running on electricity. Do yourself a favour and invite him for tea afterwards where you can serve your treats, he will be puddy in your hands.

Watch your bowls carefully when Lilia is around while you’re baking. There is a good chance the fae will try adding a few ingredients of his own and it will not end well for anyone involved. He’ll playfully pout about you rejecting his help and deflecting from the topic but a second later he’s laughing about how cute you are for wanting to make something for him by yourself.

Silver would fall asleep when surrounded by the good smells, the warmth of the oven preheating, your lovely voice and the kitchen sounds. He can’t help it, it’s such a relaxing environment and it puts him at ease and therefore also to sleep. But, ever the charming knight, he would help you clean up afterwards and very genuinely compliment your hard work with a soft smile.

Sebek will yap up a storm on how ‘your human recipes can’t hold a candle to briar valley’s supreme cuisine’ but he’s oddly docile once he actually taste tests. If you tease him about his earlier statements, he will flush red, trying to save face but also not wanting to lie about liking your baking.

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated (also, yes, there will be second parts for the characters) ♡

➺ send in an ask to be added to or removed from my tag list

Twisted Wonderland: @savanaclaw1996 @honehbee42

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namgyunation · 3 months ago

Text

not gonna teach him how to dance (with you)

— PART ONE.

— pairing: nam-gyu x f!reader (the focus); dae-ho x f!reader (barely.) — summary: you spent the past couple months of your life successfully dodging all of nam-gyu's attempts to contact you after you two'd broken up (and for good reason). now, six months later, your luck runs out, and you come face-to-face with the same guy you promised yourself you'd never see again. luckily, your new teammate, dae-ho, is there to act as a buffer. nam-gyu's not the biggest fan of that. — w/c: 17.5k — tags: jealousy. mentions of character death. drug usage. while this first part is generally sfw, the overall fic is 18+. mdni! nam-gyu is an asshole. reader replaces jun-hee in gi-hun's team for the pentathlon. while dae-ho x reader is in the tags, pls keep in mind this is mainly nam-gyu x reader!!! // tags for part 2: brief smut. pinv. unprotected sex. oral. drug usage (reader included). usage of 'bitch' and other unkind terms by nam-gyu.

— a/n: request for dearest ☁️ anon. thank you so much for this insanely fun request. i've been having a lot of fun while writing it. also, this is split into two parts bc i desperately need to release this from my drafts before i lose my mind!!! this first part is mostly exposition, aka, THERE'S NO SMUT IN HERE YET! anywaysss, i hope this is enjoyable while i crank out part 2 :]

he's got two left feet, and he bites my moves. i'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you.

you liked to think that you had a somewhat decent childhood. a decent upbringing with decent parents and a decent foundation for your future. a decent chance at life.

you also liked to think that you had a decent taste in men, but maybe that was pushing it a bit far, given your recent circumstances.

you liked to think all of these things.

but if that were all true, how exactly did you end up here?

you brought your knees to your chest, the stiff cot beneath you doing nothing to soothe the unease rising slowly and unbidden in your chest. you pulled the blue-green sweater tighter around yourself as if it'd help you stay together, continuing to stare out blankly at the sea of people before you in the cold room.

a day earlier, you stood at the subway station, anxiety and exhaustion weighing heavily on your bones. your shift had been tiresome. boring. slow. and yet, despite the slowness of your life, there was always an invisible weight, a neverending pressure pushing down on you, looming over your head like an axe ready to fall.

nowadays, you had gotten into the habit of ignoring your bank account, terrified of what you'd find if you dared to look. nonetheless, the ghost of your debts haunted your every move. every waking thought, every shift, every purchase, every shower you took only to promptly find out that your hot water had been shut off.

you ignored a lot of things.

the dull ache in your chest when you lied to your aging parents about how you were doing, not wanting to burden them with your mistakes. the way your landlord looked at you each time you paid your rent later and later, your head hung low in silent desperation. the voicemails and texts flooding your inbox, the last remaining ones before you'd finally blocked him. the fucking reason you were in this whole mess to begin with.

most of all, you ignored the way that, despite it all, a piece of you—a big, big piece of you—still wanted the fucker. still missed him. still—months later—hesitated weakly over the ‘call’ button beneath his contact image: a photo of him grinning next to a tree. it was blurry because you were laughing when you took it, but you liked it. you couldn't bring yourself to change it.

you hated that you still thought about him. you shouldn't be thinking of him at all. but honestly, it'd been impossible not to. not when your savings were nonexistent, drained into nothing because of him. because of the stupid fucking crypto. because he'd done his best to try and convince you that it was a good idea. because you'd trusted him enough to listen when you told him not to, only to wake up one day to him pacing in the living room, all color drained from his face as he pulled on his coat and rushed to work without so much as a glance over his shoulder, despite not being scheduled that day.

you remembered the exact moment you realized what'd happened. remembered what you were wearing, what you'd eaten that day, the three minutes you'd waited in line, the bankteller's bored, uninterested expression when she told you it wasn't a mistake that you couldn't withdraw any money. you remembered sitting on the bench outside feeling cold and numb, like you'd swallowed winter, the frantic messages pouring into your phone after he ignored your first five calls.

i'll fix it, i swear. i'll get it all back. you just have to give me a bit

it'll go back up, trust me. the guy said it would

the guy. he'd bet the entirety of your savings on the words of some fucking guy.

and just like that, you watched your whole life be flushed unceremoniously down the drain. you stayed rooted to the bench for ten minutes, your butt aching from the stiff, rotten wood.

to this day, just shy of six months later, you could still feel every last minute in your bones.

now, standing at the platform, your thumb twitched over your phone screen again. you let your eyes flutter shut, forcing yourself to inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth.

"rough night?

the voice was smooth, deep, carrying an edge of practiced familiarity. you blinked, lifting your gaze.

a tall man with dark hair and dark eyes stood next to you in a crisp suit, a polite but confident smile on his face as he regarded you kindly. his posture was relaxed, yet deliberate, a sleek briefcase resting against his leg.

you nodded, polite but alarmed by the sudden intrusion on your brooding. it'd been a long time since you cared enough to tangle in small talk with a stranger.

you hadn't even noticed him approach.

"yeah, you could say that," you replied half-heartedly.

he didn't say anything for a moment, just gave you a small nod as he hummed knowingly.

then, after a pause— "tell me, have you ever played ddakji?"

there was something off about the interaction, about the way he looked at you, talked to you with that calm familiarity, like he already knew you.

but you decided to humor it.

your day-to-day life was monotonous, a string of disappointments and uncertainties as you desperately tried to claw your way back up out of the hole you found yourself in, and with every passing moment, it seemed like you just kept on sinking.

so you shrugged internally, willing yourself to open your mind to the new uncertainty standing right in front of you.

you nodded.

by the time you got back home, your palms were slick with sweat. a wad of cash weighed down both of your pockets. your heart was racing as you stumbled over the threshold and quickly clicked the door shut.

you threw yourself onto the couch, your legs suddenly feeling too weak to stand. you felt like a ghost in your own home, not sure if you were really alive, as you pulled a card from your wallet.

a circle. a triangle. a square.

and a number.

but more importantly—

a chance.

clearly, you’d made your choice.

you wrung your hands tightly in front of you, digging your nails into your skin just hard enough to hurt before quickly soothing them with firm swipes of your thumbs.

after the explanation the guards provided you all earlier and the quick flashes of footage of the others getting slapped—same as you,— something inside of you unclenched. but only slightly.

despite its size, the room was suffocating. everyone was dressed the same as you, and you couldn't help but feel uneasy amongst all the unfamiliar faces. they were clearly all as confused as you. and, from what you'd learned earlier, they were just as broke as you, too. you sucked in a breath, only feeling slightly bad about the dull comfort it brought you, knowing that you weren't the only one perched desperately at the edge of your life.

this was your chance. you had to make it count. had to.

ddakji was easy enough. how much worse could this be?

the line inched forward, and you followed, peeking around the person in front of you for a moment. they—the pink guards, were gathering forms from each player. you just wanted to sign the damn thing, play the games, get your money, and get the hell out. traces of euphoria still lingered from the night before, the cash you'd won heavy and crisp in your hands. it made you impatient.

your turn came and went. you signed the paper quickly, barely even skimming the words in front of you before you were pushing the pen forward with numb fingers and breaking off from the crowd to find and claim a good bunk. as long as the promise of money still remained, you didn't find it necessary to get too into the fine details.

there was no going back now.

you're busy walking up the stairs to claim a top bunk when you heard it. it's a distant sound, but the recognition is immediate.

for a moment, everything stopped. a block of ice froze over you, making you feel unbearably heavy. your throat went dry as you turned your head slowly, cautiously towards the source of the intrusion.

a part of you desperately didn't want to believe it, hoped that you were imagining things. a part of you that didn't want to see him.

another part of you—tiny and pulsing and unbidden—did.

your eyes zeroed in on a black head of hair. long, sleek, with layers that jutted out just past the ears. you knew it from the way he stood, the way he moved. suddenly, your pulse quickened, your heart dropping down to your toes as your suspicions were confirmed.

because of course.

of course he had to there.

why the fuck wouldn't he be?

if it weren't for the sickening pit slowly taking form in your stomach, you might've laughed.

"the amazing myung-gi from mg coin? is that you?" a low, familiar rumble. teasing. mocking. your heart jumped.

nam-gyu cut effortlessly through the sea of voices like a knife, his words ringing in your ears even with the vast space between the two of you. your head spun.

you climbed the stairs quickly, suddenly filled with urgency as you took them two at a time. you threw yourself onto the highest cot and backed yourself up against the wall, not stopping until it pressed hard into your back. you tilted your head forward, letting your hair fall over your eyes in a makeshift shield. the only thing you could think to do to obscure yourself from him. you watched him from your vantage point, hoping, praying that he hadn't seen you.

you felt sick.

you pulled your knees up to your face and watched him with bated breath. your nails dug deep into your skin yet again as you tried, desperately, to ground yourself. fuck. you had to get it together. you couldn't let this jeopardize you. the money. this was bigger than him.

it looked like he'd made a friend already. a loud guy covered in tattoos with purple hair that seemed to match his personality: obnoxious, loud, and demanding attention. his voice projected loudly, echoing off the walls of the room. in front of them was a smaller guy. you couldn't fully tell what was going on, but it wasn't hard to tell that it was far from a pleasant interaction.

suddenly, the purple-haired one grabbed him by the collar, reeling back a fist with the clear threat of violence. nam-gyu quickly defused it, smiling as he peeled his 'friend' from the smaller guy. you couldn't hear what he was saying. he rubbed his shoulders as if placating him from his previous outburst.

you snorted in spite of the unease still settling in your bones.

leave it to nam-gyu to still find a way to insert himself into these kinds of situations, to seek out the worst possible people and attach himself to them like a magnet. even in a strange place like this.

you watched his back as he walked away and disappeared into his own corner of the room. thankfully, away from you. finally, you breathed, letting some of the tension in your shoulders fall away. there was no time for distractions. you had to get it together.

soon enough, it was time for the first game.

you weren’t sure what to expect, but you still carried yourself with as much confidence as you could. the crowd moved forward in a massive wave, funneling into the hallway leading into the game arena. pink guards led the crowd, a few of them standing at attention on the sidelines to make sure everyone kept moving. they looked so serious even in their hot pink uniforms. if this was some sort of game show, they were definitely taking themselves too seriously.

you took extra care to keep your head down, shielding the sides of your face with your hair as you matched the speed of those around you, not wanting to stick out. paranoia slipped between the cracks of your mind, but you pushed it down.

soon, you found yourself staring out at the large clearing stretching before you. you weren't sure what you were expecting, but it definitely wasn't this. you scanned the crowd. you didn't see him, but it didn't comfort you. he could be anywhere.

now, in the wide, empty space, you felt exposed. you quickly found a spot behind someone taller and bigger than you, taking shelter there while you waited patiently for instructions.

"all players, please wait a moment on the field." a voice boomed over the speakers.

that's when you saw it. a massive, animatronic doll standing at the far end. mechanical eyes staring straight ahead.

a man beside you chuckled. amused and incredulous. "what the hell is that?"

you didn't have an answer for him.

it wasn’t until the game had started and you were midway through the field with your heart hammering against your ribs and your palms slick with sweat that you realized the true gravity of the situation you're in.

every moment seemed to pass by in fragments, like it wasn’t really happening. like you weren’t really there.

the man in front of the crowd did little to comfort you. if anything, his words made your head spin more.

"you'll also die if you don't make it there in time!"

his voice reached your ears just fine amidst the eerie silence, but it was hard to focus over the feeling of your heart pounding craters into your chest.

"GREEN LIGHT."

you forced yourself to move despite the way your legs wobbled and threatened to give out. your pulse slammed in your ears as you ran. the finish line seemed a lifetime away. was this really how you were going to die?

the lines of players continued to inch forward at a torturous pace. you swallowed your nerves, clenched your hands into fists to hide the way they shook.

"RED LIGHT."

you lurched to a stop. your breath shuddered.

a man in the line to the right of you was still mid-step. his eyes widened in horror just before the shot rang out. he dropped. you tried not to look, but you saw. saw the way he fell like a ragdoll. saw the way the blood pooled beneath him, slowly.

your eyes flicked away from the crime scene, searching the rest of your periphery for anything else to wash away what you just saw. that's when you finally saw him. his head is low, ducked behind the taller woman in front of him. you couldn't see his face, but you saw the way his whole body locked. he's perfectly still, barely even breathing.

"GREEN LIGHT."

you pushed forward. step by step.

time slowed down, and you got tunnel vision. the only thing that mattered right now was reaching the finish line.

nam-gyu reached it before you, but you were barely even paying attention at that point, too distracted by the panic you were just barely able to swallow down.

when it came down to being noticed by nam-gyu or eating a bullet, the decision seemed much easier for you.

lucky for you, he couldn't be damned to care, either. as soon as he crossed the finish line, he threw himself to the ground, gripping the dirt with shaky hands like it was a lover. he didn't turn around, didn't give a fuck who was still on the field. he'd made it, and fuck. that was the only thing he gave a shit about right now.

when you finally crossed the threshold, your knees buckled, and you fell unceremoniously to the ground, clenching a fist in the material of your shirt as you counted the beats of your heart.

you were alive.

the last player stumbled across the finish line just as the timer ran out. you vaguely remembered picking yourself up, forcing your body to move despite the heaviness in your bones. you didn't look back.

not at the bodies. not at the blood.

the hallway swallowed you whole, leading you and the other players back to the main dormitory. soon, the doors had been slammed shut behind you, sealing away all the lifeless bodies left on the field.

the air in the main room was suffocating. the tall rows of beds seemed to cage you all in, standing tall like silent judges. you felt cramped, somehow even moreso than earlier, despite the fact that half of the people you'd walked in with hadn't walked back out.

the thought made you shudder.

some players collapsed the second they entered. others cried. you're surprised you hadn't joined them yet. you hugged your knees to your chest as the cold floor reached through your clothes and chilled you. climbing the stairs seemed too daunting of a task, right now. goosebumps rose to your skin as you waited. for what, you weren't sure.

when the guards emerged again, you realized that you'd completely forgotten about nam-gyu.

a loud, intimidating buzzer sounded, startling you from your position. your breath caught in your throat as you scrambled to your feet and hurriedly retreated deeper into the bunks against the far wall, as did all the others.

"congratulations for making it through the first game." the guard's voice was cold, mechanic.

his words were met with silence. nobody moved.

"here are the results of the first game," the guard continued.

your eyes flicked up to the screen, mouth going dry as you watched the number drop rapidly. it could've been you.

you chanced a glance around the room, then, and it didn't take long to find him. if you looked for the splotch of purple amongst the sea of black, he'd be right there next to it. nam-gyu's eyes were wide, lips slightly parted as he gripped tightly to the step he was sitting on.

it could've been you, but it also could've been him. you felt cold.

something inside of you—something small and quiet and aching—almost made you want to get up and talk to him, to ask him if he was okay, to hear your name on his lips for the first time in months.

you wondered if it would comfort you. you wondered if it would comfort him.

your thoughts were bordering on something dangerous, something akin to desperation, egged on by the intense fear building in your chest. the smell of blood and gore hung heavily in the air as your eyes traced the sharp edges of his face, your legs twitching with the barely hidden desire to move.

lucky for you, your thoughts were forcibly cut off by the sound of other players throwing themselves down in front of the guards. you swallowed, your pulse quickening as you watched them beg for their lives. did it even matter? would the guards even listen?

a few seconds passed of that: the guards standing stiff and tall on their elevated platform, looking down at everyone as they pleaded and begged. you felt sick.

then, the man that had led the crowd through the first game stepped forward.

"clause three of the consent form! the games may be terminated upon a majority vote."

your breath caught again. yeah. maybe it would've been a good idea to read the form, after all.

there would be a vote, and maybe you could leave. your mind raced at a million miles a minute as you planned out your next move. maybe you'd finally fess up to your parents and ask for their support. maybe you'd suck it up and just take out a loan. maybe. there were options, for sure, right? there had to be. it couldn't be any worse than this.

it was then that the guard pulled out a small remote, pointing it at the ceiling before clicking a button.

the harsh, white overhead lighting shifted and melted into something warmer, almost pleasant, like the dim glow of a campfire. you tilted your head skyward, taking in the source of the light with wide eyes.

everyone watched as the golden piggy bank filled with a steady stream of cash. it almost seemed like it wouldn't ever stop, each moment punctuated with a rhythmic ding as the money climbed higher and higher.

you could feel it in real time as you watched each wad of cash drop in, the way each hypothetical plan from the past few seconds crumpled itself up into a ball before promptly being discarded into a forgotten corner of your mind.

you swallowed hard, head spinning as you took it all in, your desperation at odds with your innate desire to survive. not too long ago, you stood on a desolate field littered with dead bodies, filled with nothing but thoughts of home.

now? you felt like you were being drawn in, held down, beckoned by some unseen magnetic force. it was like your body was practically begging you to stay.

fuck. you really needed that cash.

you glanced around quickly, but it was harder to pick out nam-gyu from the crowd now that everyone was standing.

however, you didn't really need to see his reaction to know that his pathetic, sorry ass definitely needed the cash, too.

soon, the room was set up for the vote. a blue 'o' and a red 'x' marked the floor, splitting it perfectly down the middle.

you stared intently at the voting booth at the far end of the room, skin buzzing with a feeling you couldn't name. you should leave. really, you should. it was the logical thing to do after what you'd seen, but the seed of doubt had already been planted, and with every passing moment, it grew bigger and harder to ignore, warmed by the glow of the piggy bank hanging overhead.

your number wasn't too close to the beginning, nor was it right at the end, so you had plenty of time to think, to try and talk yourself out of what your body was screaming at you to do.

eventually, the guard called your number, and every muscle in your body locked up. you exhaled sharply, rubbing your thumbs over your knuckles to soothe yourself. you kept your head down as you walked up and let your hair fall over your face, desperately trying not to meet anyone's eyes. nam-gyu hadn't voted yet, thankfully, so it would be a little easier to avoid him seeing you.

it was quiet as everyone watched your back, eyes flicking between you and the screen as they waited for what you'd do.

you came to a stop at the voting booth, taking in both buttons as you worried your bottom lip. you paused for a few seconds, trying and failing to force your body to change its mind, to come to its senses last minute, but it didn't.

it was almost laughable how quickly you found your answer. you knew it before your number had been called, before you even walked up.

the bodies. the blood. the gunshots. it all flashed through your head, made your hands shake. but when you put all the delusions to the side and it really came down to it—what exactly was even waiting for you on the outside?

you slammed the button quickly, taking the blue patch from the guards and applying it frantically before you turned, awkwardly tipping your head forward to let the hair fall over your eyes again as you ducked your head, not daring to look up. you slipped seamlessly into the 'O' crowd as they cheered for you, their eyes glued to the screen as the blue vote went up by one.

you held your breath and waited in silent agony as the minutes crawled by. had he seen you? was he looking at you now? you didn't dare look, but your neck itched with the temptation.

when the vote finally ended, revealing that the games were going to continue, you didn't cheer, but something sick washed over you—relief? hope? determination?

you were a walking contradiction: terrified for what the following days would bring, of what you saw today, but still desperate enough to want to grip onto this opportunity and take whatever you posibbly could from it. what else was left for you if you didn't?

thankfully, the guards supplied all of the players with food as soon as the vote ended. it was much appreciated, considering the guilt now steadily gnawing away at your conscience.

you shoved yourself into a dark corner of the dormitory, clutching the cold tin like a lifeline as you finished it all. it wasn't the best. the rice was dry, and considering it was the only thing you had to eat today, it barely even felt like a meal, but it was what you were given, and you sure as hell weren't about to waste it.

you sat with your back against the cold metal bars of the bunk beds, knees drawn up as you finished the water bottle in just a few gulps. you wiped your mouth with the back of your sleeve as your eyes flickered across the room, cautious, searching, scanning the sea of strangers yet again as you tried to wrap your head around the situation you were in.

you'd purposefully wedged yourself into a quiet corner of the room far away from the others, from him.

a thought struck you, then. how many of these people were already working together? you took in the murmurs and hushed discussions flowing around you, suddenly feeling a bit dumb in the small corner you'd tucked yourself in.

your hands curled around the now-empty water bottle, crushing it slightly as your breathing quickened. you'd barely spoken to anyone, all your energy having gone towards avoiding nam-gyu, and in a place like this, you were certain that that was a mistake.

a commotion across the room pulled your attention. you leaned forward, trying to get a better view around the beds.

you spotted nam-gyu first. he was busy pulling the guy from earlier—mg coin—off of his purple-haired friend. you watched as nam-gyu held him back, locking him in by his arms just long enough for his friend to get some punches in. the sound of a fist connecting with his jaw echoed through the room—once, twice, and then he crumpled to the ground with a pained grunt. it made you wince.

"i lost all that money because of you, fucker." his frien'ds voice carried over to your corner, loud and angry and filled with malice.

behind him, nam-gyu rolled up his sleeves. "hey, let me get in there." he directed his attention to the man on the floor as he ran up, face twisted in a sneer. "you son of a bitch—"

your eyes widened as the scene unfolded before you, mouth curling up in a mixture of disgust, confusion, and amusement as you watched as your ex-boyfriend completely fumbled his kick, promptly losing his balance and falling to the ground right after.

you held back a laugh, the hand still holding your water bottle going up to cover your mouth as you watched his friend shove him back out of the way. what a loser.

you turned away, settling back into your corner as you held the metal tray in front of you, running your thumbs over the cold surface in an attempt to soothe yourself as you waited patiently for all of this to be over.

the night came and went. you didn't sleep well.

an announcement echoed through the vast, sterile room, rousing you from your inadequate sleep and reminding you of exactly where you were. it took a moment for you to fully process the stuffy tracksuit scratching your skin and the stiff, foreign bed pressing up beneath you. your stomach twisted as you threw your thin blanket to the side and forced yourself down the stairs. the cheerful music sounding over the speakers did nothing to comfort you. if anything, it made you feel worse.

"the next game will start momentarily. please follow the instructions from our staff."

soon, you and the other players were being led through the hallways yet again. obedient lambs being led to the slaughter. you climbed up and down the staircases without a word, forcing yourself to inhale and exhale as you took in the brightly colored interior around you, a stark contrast to the danger that was no doubt waiting for you at your destination.

a small part of you wanted the stairs to go on forever, but soon enough, the big gray doors separating you from your potential death were sliding open. the pink guards filed into the room, you and the rest of the players in tow. the mechanical voice sounded over the speakers yet again.

"players, welcome to the second game. we will begin shortly. this game will be played in teams."

in teams.

"please take the next ten minutes to divide into groups of five. i will now repeat the instructions."

a chill spread through your body.

fuck. you could barely stand group projects when you were still in school, preferring to just get everything done on your own. it was exhausting, having to depend on others and put your trust in them to do their part and pull their weight. now, standing dumbly in a foreign room surrounded by a sea of strangers, it dawned on you that you had no choice.

before, an inadequate team meant your grade was on the line, an easy fix with a quick email to your professor.

here? an inadequate team meant certain death, and unfortunately for you, technology just hadn't advanced far enough to find an easy fix for a bullet to the head.

"please divide into teams starting now."

get it together.

you weaved in and out of the crowd, searching for someone merciful enough to take you in. people were already moving, scrambling into groups like ants, their voices overlapping hurriedly in rushed whispers and negotiations.

"already full."

"try somewhere else."

"sorry, we're set."

your heart pounded faster and faster with each rejection. what would happen if you didn't have a group? it wouldn't be fair. the guards wouldn't allow that. right?

you made eye contact with a group of four men, and you opened your mouth to speak as you steered yourself in their direction, a spark of hope bubbling in your chest.

"sorry. we already have our group," one of them spoke before you could even say anything.

you paused mid-step. their body language became clear to you. the way they turned their backs to you ever so slightly, huddling closer to each other in a tight circle that clearly existed to shut you out, just enough to subtly express their clear disinterest while maintaining plausable deniability. their eyes flicked over your body, looking you up and down.

your hand went up, gesturing vaguely at their huddle. admittedly, you were growing a bit desperate.

"you have four? i thought..."

you trailed off as another man sauntered up to their group, approaching them from the side and immediately drawing their full attention.

"are you still looking for a fifth player? i'd like to join you."

two of the men grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him quickly, wordlessly into their circle, clapping him on the shoulder like they were long-lost friends.

they didn't spare you a second glance.

you shut your mouth quickly, any and all words dying on your tongue as you watched another door shut in front of you.

when you looked around again, you found that almost everyone had arranged themselves neatly. circles of five dotted the room and continued to grow.

the groups were forming fast.

too fast.

you pictured yourself again, trying to claw yourself out of a hole that just kept on sinking deeper.

the air in the room somehow felt thinner. still, you pushed forward, gripping onto hope. there had to be an open spot somewhere.

and then—

a subtle shift in the air. enough to tug at your chest with a slight feeling of unease. the prickle of something unseen.

your body reacted before your mind did. something was off. you slowed, your movements stiffening.

and then, in your peripheral vision—

you felt it. the weight of his stare boring holes into your profile.

you froze, suddenly realizing how exposed you were. a lone ant wandering frantically around the established huddles. your heart dropped to your toes. slowly, you turned your head, just a fraction.

nam-gyu stood just a few feet away, caught mid-step, his body rigid like he'd just walked straight into a nightmare.

as you expected, his eyes are locked onto you, wide with something unreadable.

and for the first time in six months, you saw him. really saw him. not from a distance, not from a memory, not from old photos or in between the spaces in your dreams.

you saw him.

and he sure as hell saw you.

your breath caught, feeling like a deer in headlights.

you noted the increased sharpness of his jaw, the thinning of his face. a stray thought hit you, and you wondered if he'd been eating well since you were gone. his eyes looked tired. his hair was longer. it had been a long time.

at first, his face didn't change. he stood still, eerily still, almost like a statue, staring at you like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. he narrowed his eyes for a moment, leaning in ever so slightly as if confirming your identity.

recognition flashed across his features, and he faltered. his friend that he'd been following rushed ahead, completely unaware of nam-gyu lagging behind him.

then, his expression shifted.

you watched as his jaw tightened, lips pressing into a thin line. his hands curled into fists at his sides.

the way he looked at you—his eyes flashing with disbelief, anger, and underneath it all, something absolutely wrecked—it made your stomach twist.

you knew that look. you knew him. it didn't take a genius to guess what was going on in his head right now. just you.

nam-gyu's mind twisted as flickers of you rose to the surface, crawling out from their hiding places beneath his overwhelming fear. a cruel replay of the slow and steady crash of what the two of you had built together. and he'd been the one to push the first domino.

he remembered it all. how he'd begged like his life depended on it, sad and desperate and pleading as he felt the rug being pulled in real-time from beneath his feet. sent texts and left voicemails that went unanswered. chased after you for months when you suddenly decided you were done—for real, this time—and scrubbed yourself cleanly from his life. he'd tracked down mutual friends for a single hint or loose end, only to find that you'd scrubbed that, too.

something possessed you the day you found out, and you made quick work of it: new number, new socials, new place, new friends. you cleaned every surface, filed away each memory, dusted every cobweb sitting in the corners of what used to be your relationship, and somehow still found the time to leave your shoes neatly at the door.

you'd become a ghost in his life, only existing in loose items between couch cushions and scattered beneath the sink, in passing questions from people that he didn't care about in conversations that he didn't want to have.

and now—now you were here. standing right in front of him.

like you'd been raised from the fucking dead.

after months of searching. months of nothing.

you backed away a fraction of a step.

he saw it.

his nostrils flared, fingers twitched. his posture went rigid like a coil about to snap, like a creature about to pounce, but he didn't move towards you. he didn't say anything. just watched.

because he wouldn't give you the satistfaction. wouldn't let you know that this did something to him. that he even gave a shit. that the very sight of you still made his heart race and hands shake.

you snapped out of it, turning fast. your chest tightened with the urge to get away.

behind you, nam-gyu watched your back in retreat, only letting his eyes rest on you for a few more seconds before he forced himself to turn, following after his friend again as he desperately tried to ignore the blood rushing in his ears.

your face was pale as you looked from side to side, legs shaking with the effort of not crumbling to the floor. then, you saw him. alone and searching amongst the crowd. a tall man with his hair done up in a ponytail. his eyes locked on to another player, someone just a few feet away.

you watched in horror as another door threatened to close before you. you didn't think, didn't hesitate, your feet barely touching the ground as you sprinted towards him.

he startled when you grabbed onto his sleeve. perhaps a bit too rough. your nails dig into the fabric of his tracksuit, clutching him like you're afraid he might run away. you're aware of how crazy you must look, looking up at him with your eyes blown wide and all color drained from your face.

his brow furrowed, mouth opened, but you spoke first.

"please."

the word came out choked, desperate. your knuckles turned white around his sleeve, your grip tight enough for him to know that this wasn't just a casual request.

"let me join your team." it didn't even dawn on you that he might not even have a team, what with the way he was wandering around alone. you didn't really care. "please," you said again.

the man looked at you, his face still laced with surprise from the suddenness of your interaction. not even a second passed before he was nodding enthusiastically, looking almost relieved.

"sure!" he said simply. a smile. "come on."

his hand came out to tap on your shoulder twice. his touch was light, respectful, barely perceptible as he led you forward, towards his team. as if sensing your unease, he let his fingers linger on your shoulder, hovering just slightly above so he was barely even touching you. still, it tethered you to him with the promise of a group.

you didn't exhale until your legs finally came to a stop before them.

"sir, sir, i found someone!" he said, fingers fanning out as he gestured to you at his side. "or, she found me." he smiled kindly at you.

you nodded shakily. "thank you," you managed to get out, now that your pulse was slowly returning to normal.

the three older men acknowledged you politely.

some of the tension released from your shoulders. you had a team.

from across the room, nam-gyu watched next to his newly formed team, his lower lip caught between his teeth as his mind filled with static. he turned away quickly, scared that you'd turn around and catch him looking.

he played anxiously with his rings, sliding them on and off of his fingers as he struggled to catch his breath. the world muffled around him for a moment before he was dragged back by a random outburst of english.

"what's up, my brother! welcome to the thanos world." he—thanos, pulled the shortest member of the newly-formed team into a hug. "you're cute. come on."

nam-gyu felt like his head might split open.

relief felt funny in a place like this. as soon as your body started to unclench, albeit just a little bit, the world made sure to remind you that this whole ordeal was far from over, and soon enough, your body started clamming right back up.

sure, you were relieved that you'd found a team, but was it even the right one?

you didn't even know what the game was going to be, didn't even know if you were going to alive within the next hour.

the thought made you shudder, so you did your best to push it down, your attention fading in and out as they conversated around you. your hands twitched nervously at your sides as you fought against the urge to scan the room, to see where he was.

despite the temptation, you weren't sure if you were mentally equipped to handle what would happen if you were to make eye contact with nam-gyu for a second time. you hadn't turned around once since you'd joined dae-ho's side. you couldn't—not when the prickle of paranoia was icing up and down your spine, telling you that he was looking at you now, a warning. not when you knew exactly what kind of expression he was wearing—something between a sneer and a scowl, like he was daring you to look back.

you kept your gaze forward and your face unreadable. the last thing you needed was any outside people getting involved in whatever was brewing between the two of you. if you had any say in it, you hoped to get through all the games without speaking to nam-gyu at all.

somewhere across the room, nam-gyu's jaw tightened as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, his posture deceptively casual. he watched your back intently, like he was still coming to terms with the fact that it was really you. a cold, aching feeling had settled in his chest at the first sight of you, and it coiled tighter and tighter with each passing moment that you didn't try to look for him. you didn't even turn your head. it was like you didn't give a shit that he was there or the fact that you hadn't seen him in six. fucking. months. nam-gyu's whole body felt hot, but he couldn't say anything. not here. not now.

his team stood in a huddle beside him, chatting amongst themselves, though it was mostly thanos that was speaking. he said something loud and off-key, likely a joke. only one person laughed. nam-gyu could hear his voice, but he couldn't make out any of the words. he wasn't listening.

after a few more moments of that, of waiting in silent agony for you to show a single sign of caring, he forced himself to turn around, to tear his eyes away from you, pretending as if the past six months hadn't been absolute hell—as if he hadn't seen you in his dreams every single night, only to wake up dazed and confused in a sweat-soaked shirt, reality setting in as he realized that his bed was too cold and too small for the two of you. it always took a few seconds for him to remember that he was alone, and each time, it hurt just as bad as the night before.

and now? now you were here, real and right in front of him, sharing the same damn air, and you wouldn't even fucking look at him.

he was silent as he regarded his new team, a sour taste forming in his mouth for more reasons than one. every second that you were out of his view was agonizing, but he would never admit that. he could walk over to you right now, if he wanted, but he couldn't. not after you'd looked at him like that—like you didn't even know him.

he refused to give you the satisfaction of turning him away yet again.

he had more important things to focus on, anyways. at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

soon enough, the timer ran out and teams were finalized. all the players were lined up on the floor within their respected circle. you stared at the track out of the corner of your eyes, noting the rainbow pattern indifferently as you rubbed slow, soothing circles into your knees.

you noticed that the rest of your team seemed somewhat acquainted as they chatted amongst themselves, likely from the first game. it made you feel a bit out of place, considering you were the last minute addition hurriedly and desperately wedged into their group.

however, their slight familiarity with each other was welcome. if anything, it meant that the team would function well. at least, you hoped it would. you breathed a silent prayer, thankful that, despite the fact that you'd basically taken a shot in the dark when you asked to join, your team seemed promising. seemed normal. it was the least you could ask for in a strange place like this. either way, there was no backing out now.

the first round of players went up, and you watched intently as they lined up and were promptly cuffed together by the guards.

after a brief discussion with your team, it was decided that you were going to play ddakji. your mind drifted back to the other day. how innocent and unassuming the game seemed that night on the platform. you pushed yourself to your knees to get a better view.

ddakji, flying stone, gonggi, spinning top, and finally, jegi.

you sucked in a breath as you took it all in, thankful for the fact that your team hadn't been called to go up first, though the apprehension still found a way to creep in. your fingers twitched in your lap, shaking with steadily rising anxiety as you watched the clock. you fisted your hands into the material of your sweatpants in an attempt to still them, a shudder tearing through your body as the man in front of you messed up flying stone yet again.

next to you, dae-ho noticed.

"hey," he said, his voice firm but still gentle. you tore your eyes away from the track for a moment to return his gaze. at that, he leaned over and placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. his touch was as light and soft as it was earlier, barely perceptible as he patted you. he pressed his lips into a thin, firm line before he nodded at you, just once. "we're gonna do just fine. don't worry too much." after a moment, he added, "plus you're with two ex-marines!" he furrowed his brows as he said it, pumping a singular fist in the air between the two of you with a solid look of determination on his face.

next to him, jung-bae leaned over, his face just as serious as he wrapped an arm around dae-ho, shaking him vigorously. "that's right! there's nothing a marine can't do."

they both looked at each other now, nodding their heads as if affirming each other's statements.

dae-ho turned back to you with a steady, unwavering gaze that you could only hope to return. his voice was confident and even as he spoke again, "you're in good hands with us, miss."

you breathed in again, giving him a small nod in lieu of a response, and for the first time that day, you almost felt like smiling.

somewhere in front of you, nam-gyu's neck was stiff with tension, struggling against the temptation to scan the faces behind him. he couldn't risk you seeing, couldn't risk you getting the outlandish idea that he gave a shit, not after you'd been so adamant about not looking at him—and yet, despite how badly he tried to focus on the track and preparing himself for spinning top, questions continued to fire mercilessly through his mind.

which track were you in? where were you sitting? which game were you going to play? would you go up first, or would he? and most importantly—who was in your team besides that guy you'd ran up to? his eye twitched, remembering. yeah. the guy with the stupid fucking ponytail.

he replayed the moment in his head over and over again, recounting that terrified, wide-eyed look that'd spread over your face at the sight of him, like seeing him again was somehow scarier than what the two of you had seen the other day.

in the time you'd been apart, he'd done a lot of thinking. about how long it'd take for you to crack and finally reach out to him. what you'd do when—not if—you saw him again. if you'd care. if you'd be happy. maybe even relieved.

it seemed like he got his answer, but he wasn't the least bit happy about it. he seethed in silent rage, nibbling anxiously at his lower lip as he desperately tried to maintain the casual slouch he was forcing himself into.

he didn't care.

really, he didn't.

next to him, thanos bobbed around to the soundtrack in his own head. nam-gyu watched him carefully out of the corners of his eyes, analyzing his face for a moment before dropping his gaze down to the cross that was no doubt dangling from his neck, hidden behind the zipper of his sweatshirt.

he'd seen it earlier—thanos hunched over on his bed as he delicately plucked a pill from his cross, tucking it away quickly the second nam-gyu'd asked about it. the image of the pills flitted across his mind, all colorful and round and tantalizing, and most importantly, swaying innocently back and forth less than a foot away.

nam-gyu swiped his tongue along the front of his teeth, temporarily broken out of his stupor by the possibility, the promise, that if he just played his cards right, he would be able to get high. would be able to drift away and get his mind off of everything. off of you. it definitely wouldn't be the first time he'd done so.

his eyes drifted back up to the big, digital clock hanging on the wall, and he watched with bated breath as it slowly wound down, each second feeling like a punch to the gut.

finally, it reached zero. neither team had made it to the end, though one of them had come tantalizingly close, all five of them standing just inches away from their life. the guards wasted no time as they stepped forward. nam-gyu knew what came next. everyone did, and yet, it didn't make it even the slightest bit easier to watch.

in an instant, the shots rang out, followed by the sickening thud of ten lifeless bodies hitting the ground.

for a second, his mind was blank, overtaken by the ice cold surge of fear taking over his system.

he clenched his hands into fists, his nails digging painfully into the meat of his palm as every cell in his body shook with unbridled fear.

it wasn't a question anymore. if the games didn't kill him, nam-gyu was certain that the anxiety fucking would. his stomach was doing somersaults, tying itself painfully into knots. he tore his eyes away from the track, from the bodies, and leaned towards thanos, a heat creeping up his neck as he grabbed him, desperate for something tangible to hold onto.

thanos barely acknowledged him, save for a curt glance and a sharp "what?"

nam-gyu swallowed his pride, forcing down the air catching in his throat as he spoke. he needed those fucking drugs, and he was going to get them.

it didn't take much convincing, thankfully. just a few words and a tug of his sleeve. the second thanos gave him that look, something akin to genuine concern—nam-gyu knew he had him.

and of course, less than a minute later, nam-gyu was eagerly crunching a bitter, chalky pill between his teeth. it was fast-acting, for sure, but the relief washed over the instant it hit his tongue. it hadn't even kicked in yet, but it didn't matter. just knowing that he had it was enough.

he'd get through this game. he'd get his damn money. then he'd get the fuck out.

once he did, he'd pay off his debt and start new, and you wouldn't even matter anymore. at least, that's what he told himself as he finally swallowed, feeling every last bit of the pill as it scratched its way down his throat.

he repeated it over and over in his mind like a mantra, as if saying it enough times would make it true. and yet, even as the drug started to settle in, even as the warmth pleasantly unfurled in his limbs, he knew, deep down, that it was bullshit.

a few more teams went up. most passed, thankfully. you tried not to think too hard about the ones that didn't.

every time you heard the ding, the signifier that a player had passed their game and could advance, you cheered, as did everyone else. the room was alive with a static kind of energy, lively and laced with an underlying apprehension. every time the players celebrated, the crowd whooped, jumping up and down and grabbing at each other wildly. next to you, dae-ho hollered, pumping his fists in the air as he cheered the next team on. he turned to look at you a few times, staring down at you with furrowed brows and that same strong sense of determination, like he was trying to convince you, and maybe even himself, that your team would be able to do just as well.

up until now, the teams had been made up of strangers, just nameless faces and fellow unfortunate souls—most of which, you'd likely never get to know.

when the next pair of teams were called up, your eyes followed the movement, watching as the next players took their place on the track. your stomach clenched when you saw him.

you noted the number on the back of nam-gyu's tracksuit, committing it to memory. 124. a morbid thought bubbled up to the forefront of your mind. no matter how you felt about him or what'd transpired between the two of you, you desperately hoped that this wouldn't be the last time you saw his number.

the air shifted just slightly, your tongue suddenly feeling too big for your mouth as you pressed yourself up on your knees, trying to get a better view, emboldened by the fact that you were hidden in the thrum of the crowd.

you watched as the guards approached, leaning down to get his team situated. the sound of their cuffs clicking into place sent a shudder through your body. based on their order, you knew that he was going to be playing spinning top.

he didn't look at you, not that he'd know where to look in the first place.

you narrowed your eyes, leaning forward as your eyes raked over him. his body appeared relaxed, almost too relaxed, but you knew better. if you knew nam-gyu at all, you were certain that there was no way he was capable of remaining completely calm in a situation like this. you continued to watch him, your eyes staring intently at his profile and at the stupid, dopey grin spreading across his face, his expression at complete odds with the situation at hand.

you balked a bit. how the hell was he smiling right now? he looked over at thanos, and you watched as they exchanged that same glossy, almost far-away look with each other before linking arms, jostling each other with the movement. nam-gyu rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, jumping up and down just slightly as a dazed laugh escaped his lips. he wobbled, and it almost looked like he was going to fall back, but he tightened his grip on thanos, pulling himself forward and correcting his balance.

thanos snapped him out of it, shaking him vigorously where their arms were linked as if trying to hype him up. "come on, bro! let's do this!" his voice was as loud as always, boisterous and confident, like there wasn't a doubt in his mind that they'd make it through the game. he had that same dopey smile on his face, one that matched nam-gyu's perfectly. you weren't sure if the sight comforted you or not.

the shorter teammate to his left struggled to stay upright in response to both of their erratic movements as they continued to jostle each other, giggling like kids. a small gasp left his lips as he tried not to fall, shifting his legs and leaning forward more to accomodate the weight of nam-gyu's arm slung across his shoulder. further down to his left, the one girl on his team rolled her eyes, shaking her head at the two of them with something you guessed was regret. the man at the far end looked more confused than anything.

you blinked. if you didn't know any better, you'd think nam-gyu was high. you'd seen him in that state more than enough times to know when he was. but... in here? how could he be?

suddenly, the gun shot sounded to signal the start of the game, interrupting your thoughts and pulling your attention back to the present. your breath caught as the five minute timer started to count down. without wasting another second, his team began to advance.

nam-gyu's first two teammates passed without a hitch.

his third teammate, mousy and skittish and uncertain, messed up gonggi once or twice, only to promptly face nam-gyu's onslaught of curses as he shook him back and forth with a vehement sneer, a display that made you wince. soon enough, he finally caught the five pieces, his palm turning up quickly to prove to the guards that he'd done it. the crowd—you included—breathed a collective sigh of relief that was followed by roaring cheers.

nam-gyu was next. the first time he went, he messed up. the top hit the ground with a snap. his throw was too rough, not the right angle, and it bounced up, coming back down with a plop as it sat motionless on the floor. you winced. every atom in your body was cheering for him, begging him to make it through.

as if getting revenge for her previous teammate, the girl reached out as soon as the top clattered pathetically to the floor, grabbing nam-gyu roughly by the collar and shaking him angrily. he didn't say anything as she cursed at him, just took it, his eyes wide as his chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths.

on his second attempt, despite the stupid way thanos was dancing next to him—an erratic purple blob invading his periphery—thank fucking god, he got it right.

the top shot out like a bullet, landed, and began to spin, smooth and quick.

a deep breath shuddered out of you as you watched him celebrate, his expression incredulous as relief washed over him. his legs shook wildly, almost buckling under his weight, and it looked like he was barely resisting the urge to jump up and down before he pulled himself back together. you felt something unclench in you at the sight.

thankfully, thanos passed his game on the first try, easily making up for the time his past two teammates had lost.

and just like that, nam-gyu's team was off the chopping block.

you watched nam-gyu's back as they walked away, emboldened by the fact that you were shielded by the crowd. if he turned around, he wouldn't be able to find you. it didn't end up mattering, though, because he disappeared into the exit without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

you sunk back down onto your knees and did your best to pretend that it didn't mean something to you.

in the dormitory, nam-gyu sat with his team, his legs pressed together, arms slung lazily across his lap, a mask of indifference plastered across his face.

he grinded his teeth behind his lips, his nails digging into the skin of his thighs over his sweatpants as he pretended like he wasn't waiting.

waiting for you.

he hadn't spoken too much since his team had passed and they'd arrived in the main room. he was too focused on not thinking about you, on not letting anyone see how much he wanted to know if you were still alive. the drugs had worn off a bit ago, bringing him back to the reality that he, unfortunately, gave a shit.

the very real possibility of the last time he ever saw you being him watching your back from a distance as you huddled closer to another man, looking up at him like he was your fucking savior, haunted him more and more with every team that passed through the door. and of course, it was every damn team but yours.

his tongue came out to swipe anxiously at his bottom lip before he caught it between his teeth, nibbling at it absent-mindedly as he fought the urge to get up and fucking scream.

and then—

the door opened its mouth yet again. he held his breath, waiting to see what it would spit out.

as if something up above had heard his silent, hesitant plea, you finally walked in a second later.

at the sight of you, his heart jumped, his whole body jolting with the instinct to move, to stand up, to go to you, to—

no.

he forced himself to relax, to exhale. his whole body locked up again as he slowly leaned back, like he hadn't just been seconds away from losing his mind.

as if to puncutate his thought process, the rest of your teammates followed, trailing behind you as they emerged from the door. nam-gyu felt his blood run cold, his whole body tightening as he watched him—that motherfucker—jog shamelessly to catch up with you. like he was your friend. like he had any business getting close to you. like he fucking knew you.

nam-gyu's eyes traced his every moment, eyes flicking between you and him. each time that his tiny ponytail bobbed, nam-gyu's rage only grew. he watched as he fell into an easy, casual step next to you, immediately grabbing your attention with a light tap to your shoulder. when you didn't shy away, didn't shrug it off, just let it rest there, nam-gyu's throat seized up. you looked up at him with relief, soft and gentle as you came down from the anxious nightmare that you'd all just walked out of. it made him sick, the way that you looked at him—this stranger, this intruder—with something almost akin to familiarity, as if he wasn't just some random guy that you'd only teamed up with because he just so happened to be the convenient choice. as if nam-gyu wasn't sitting right fucking there just across the room, basically begging you, daring you to acknowledge him.

he swallowed hard, flexing his fingers against his lap as he forced himself to exhale, to lean back like he wasn't barely resisting the urge to walk right up and rip you away from that loser.

he made sure to overcompensate. because he was fine. really, he was fine. and it had nothing to do with you, of course.

"fuck, way too many are still alive," nam-gyu huffed, forcing the sentence out as he let his head loll back lazily. he leaned further into the steps. his heart was still racing, fingers still twitching against his leg as he tried to appear casual.

but he was still watching.

out of the corner of his eye, he saw the way your shoulders were still tense, just slightly, but enough for him to catch. he saw the way you kept your gaze forward, rigid and stiff, like you didn't want to run the risk of accidentally looking at him.

and god—it pissed him off.

after he watched your back retreat into the bunks along with your team, he turned to his own teammate, min-su, the small one who'd played gonggi, pasuing for a moment before he opened his mouth to speak again.

he was fine.

and you were fine, too. like he gave a shit.

"hey. yo."

min-su's eyes snapped up to look at him as he hesitantly uncurled himself from his protective stance. he looked at him expectantly, movements uncertain and skittish.

"how many do you think are left?"

min-su blinked. "sorry?"

"i'm asking you, how many roaches do you think we have left in here?" he leaned forward, a sickly smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he pushed the words out, slow and gentle, as if he was speaking to a child.

he needed to regain his composure, needed to relax. the color was slowly returning to his face. he watched min-su bumble around, eyes searching the room as if calculating the number in his head.

across the room, your voice suddenly rose up above the rest. nam-gyu snapped to attention, mouth going slack. he pretended not to notice, pretended that he hadn't been listening for it this whole time.

he watched min-su's mouth move in response to his question, but he could barely hear him, now too busy trying to catch your words.

after a brief exchange, you'd come to know all of their names. gi-hun, jung-bae, young-il, and—the one that took you in—dae-ho. according to him, it meant "big tiger." cute.

"and you?" dae-ho asked, an expectant smile on his face that contrasted the tension permeating the room.

you said your name, and he repeated it back to you, nodding slowly as if he was committing it to memory.

"well, it's very nice to meet you. let's continue do our best," he said, a determined fist clenching in front of him as he turned to make eye contact with the whole team.

you hoped that even a fraction of his optimism would rub off on you.

during the brief conversation, you'd also learned that dae-ho was the only son for two generations and that it'd been his father's idea for him to join the marines. it felt nice, getting to know them. it made you feel a little less scared, like you had people you could rely on.

they all congratulated each other for their successful performance in the game, including you. your face flushed with the praise, a feeling of security falling over you like a blanket. you hoped it would last.

the pleasant exchange was interrupted by the sound of a loud, mechanical beep as the large door at the front of the room slid open. a group of guards stepped through, standing stiff and tall as they regarded everyone from their elevated position on the platform.

"congratulations to all of you for making it through the second game," the square guard spoke, their voice void of any emotion. "here are the results of the second game."

the guard raised an arm to the ceiling and clicked a button. the room darkened, the only light coming from the now-lit piggybank hanging from the ceiling. it cast a warm glow over the cold, sterile room, highlighting the shadows in everyone's face, the bags under their eyes. you watched with bated breath as money continued to drop in, your eyes widening as the digital jingle played in time with the numbers flashing on the main screen, the value climbing higher and higher.

"in the second game, 110 players were eliminated." the guard continued, explaining the new sum that would be split between the remaining players.

your chest tightened, something guilty and cold taking root in your heart as you processed the numbers laid out plainly for you to see. you made fists in the fabric of your sweats. it wasn't enough. not nearly enough. your mouth went dry as you listened to other players voice their anger and disbelief around you.

the square guard acknowledged their frustration, though they didn't dwell on it, pushing forward as they continue to speak, "you will now take a vote to decide whether to continue the games or not."

a hushed murmur buzzed through the crowd as everyone discussed with their respective teams and the loose alliances they'd formed over the past two days.

had it really only been two days? you felt like you'd been here for ages.

the guards wheeled out the voting booth once again. you picked at your nails, swallowed around the lump in your throat, and in an instant, just like before, you had your answer.

after a collective moment of silent deliberation, dae-ho spoke behind you, "i'm telling you. we'll get out this time." you turned to look at him, at the way he huffed in frustration, gripping the blue patch on his chest before letting it fall from his hands, staring at it like it'd personally offended him. "damn it. a marine should think strategically and know when to retreat." his voice was confident, so matter-of-fact, like nothing could change his mind.

in front of him, you felt the cold trickle of guilt run down your spine. because you knew exactly what you were going to do. you had to.

you whispered something to yourself, adding up the numbers in your head over and over again as if it'd somehow change the reality that no matter what, it just wouldn't be enough. you'd almost died twice, and it still wouldn't mean a thing if you stopped now. next to you, jung-bae did the same.

"we have to end the games here." gi-hun nodded at all of you, like he needed you all to understand. "i will help you guys out when we get out. please. trust me and support this vote." his voice was firm. a promise.

"guys, all huddle up again," dae-ho said, nodding next to you with a bright, expectant smile spread across his face. the sight made you nauseous. he stuck his arm out in the center of your circle, his eyes flicking between you and jung-bae expectantly, a determined glimmer in his eyes.

he hesitated, as did you. you saw. the two of you exchanged a look that the others didn't seem to catch, but nonetheless, you both put your hands in the circle at the same time, your mouth going dry as you failed to return dae-ho's enthusiasm.

he perked up as the final hand entered the middle of the huddle. "in 1, 2, 3..." he pushed your hands up in the air with a flourish. "victory at all costs!"

you swallowed as you let your hand fall limply to your side, staring intently at the floor. the gesture was cute, reassuring, but you knew damn well that it'd done absolutely nothing to change your mind.

unfortunately for you, you were the second one out of your team who was called up to place your vote. you followed young-il, who had voted to leave.

your whole team watched your back expectantly, as did nam-gyu. he was standing at the back of the room, waiting patiently for his turn, his whole body taut and rife with tension.

after only a moment's hestiation, you decided to just rip the bandaid off. you slammed the 'o' button quickly, as if doing it fast enough would prevent your team from seeing your betrayal.

you sucked in a breath as your face lit up with a flash of blue. you shrunk away from the voting booth in shame, retreating sheepishly towards the 'o' side. you couldn't bring yourself to look at the others.

watching you from just a few feet away, nam-gyu let out a shuddery breath, almost amused. it turned out that you hadn't been completely brainwashed by your team, after all.

his turn came and went. he hit the 'o' button without another thought, staring you down the whole time as he walked over and took his position with the others that'd voted to continue. you held his gaze for a few seconds before turning away, suddenly annoyed at the fact that whether you liked it or not, the two of you had agreed on something.

soon enough, the vote had ended.

"based on the majority vote, we'll proceed to the third game tomorrow," the guard announced.

the dormitory was quiet, the atmosphere heavier than before, weighed down by the betrayal displayed through the patch on your chest. the food in your hands didn't really help despite the hunger gnawing at your stomach. you toed at the ground with your shoe, feeling ashamed. but you couldn't go home. not with that money. it wouldn't have made a dent.

your own arguments died on your tongue as you looked up from the floor, chancing a glance over your shoulder where the others were eating. dae-ho caught your eyes. he'd already been looking at you, at jung-bae. you quickly snapped your head back into place. heat rose to your cheeks as you clenched your fists in your lap.

next to you, jung-bae cleared his throat. "you voted to stay, right?"

you nodded stiffly, flicking at a loose thread on your sweatshirt. "yeah."

he exhaled, rubbing the back of his head. "same."

no one else spoke.

you turned to steal another glance at dae-ho, but in that moment, he was already stomping over to the both of you, catching you in the act again.

he called out your names, a hint of frustration in his voice as he regarded the two of you. "hey. just come sit with us already."

"no, really, i'm fine right here," jung-bae mumbled. you could tell he wasn't.

"me too," you added weakly.

"oh, come on."

you watched as dae-ho practically hauled jung-bae to his feet, forcing him up before pushing him forward, not like he was putting up much of a fight.

then, dae-ho looked at you, his expression unreadable. you thought you saw a hint of disappointment there, and it made your chest sting.

then, there was a gentle hand at your side, tugging lightly at your sleeve and signalling you to get up.

"dae-ho," you sighed, feeling guilty for saying his name after what you did. "i'd really rather just sit right here."

jung-bae nodded quickly in agreement, but dae-ho continued to push him forward.

"then you two should've sat further away," he huffed.

dae-ho led jung-bae away, depositing him by the others roughly.

"it bugs me to see you sitting there so pathetically!" he said again, pausing for just a moment before he turned back to retrieve you.

his footsteps were softer as he approached for the second time, and your mouth was already forming an apology when he squatted down next to you.

he put up a hand, waving you off. "don't. it's okay," he sighed, as if he was already anticipating what you were going to say. he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. his touch was light as he patted you. "to be honest with you—the both of you—i, um. i get why you did it."

you let out a shaky breath, the guilt still weighing heavy in your chest.

when you didn't respond, he cleared his throat, lips tight as he stared at the ground in front of you. "the money wasn't enough for you, right?"

you nodded dumbly. "yeah."

you saw him nod back gently in your periphery. "the money isn't enough for me either, so when i went up to vote," he paused, his expression tight and laced with guilt as he put up a finger, "i did think about playing one more game."

you turned to him, finally letting yourself meet his eyes. slowly, you nodded back to him, thankful for his understanding, for his sensitivity, as he regarded you.

he stared back at you softly, and it made you feel warm, his comfort coming with a gentle ease. you gave him a smile, and he returned it, the moment passing between the two of you fondly. on your shoulder, he finally let the weight of his hand rest fully onto you. he gave you a reassuring squeeze that made your heart jump a little.

"i'm not sure what your situation is," he put his his hands up in the air at that, "and, of course, you don't have to tell me. i won't pry. but no matter what happens in the next game—or, uh, if there's any games after that—just... know that we'll be here for you to lean on. we'll all lean on each other as a team, and then we'll get through this, okay?"

you exhaled sharply through your nose, taking in the sincerity of his words before you responded, "thank you. really. thank you." something in you wanted to reach out and hug him. "thank you for understanding."

dae-ho opened his mouth to respond, to reassure you that there was nothing to thank him for, but then—

"hey!" jung-bae called from behind the two of you, his arms crossed grumpily when you both turned to look at him. "where's my comfort? i voted to continue, too, you know!"

behind him, gi-hun and young-il were huddled together, tight-lipped and faces blank as they watched the three of you. you felt yourself clam up again, the guilt creeping back in under the weight of their stare, under the knowledge that they'd taken you in so kindly, and you betrayed them.

dae-ho cleared his throat again, patting you once more as he rose to his feet. "come on," he said softly, the moment lost as he gestured for you to stand.

he held out a hand, and you took it, rising slowly to your feet as you steeled yourself to face the others. you hesitated, but then dae-ho's hand was pressing gently at the middle of your back, pushing you forward so you couldn't change your mind.

he leaned down so he was next to your ear, voice dropping to a whisper. "hey. the two of them might look mad right now, but i know they'll understand." he pressed his lips together as you finally stepped forward. "i'm here, too, okay?" he added quickly. "don't forget what i said. we're a team."

"thanks, dae-ho," you whispered back.

he smiled. "anytime."

you let dae-ho lead you to them, his hand finally dropping from your back as you came to a stop in front of the rest of your team. you regarded them with a duck of your head and quick apology.

soon, all of you were sitting next to each other again, the five of you silent as the group reestablished itself. you picked at your bread, not quite ready to eat. instead, you watched the back of dae-ho's head as he chewed, a small fondness blooming in your chest at your newfound friend.

nam-gyu watched the entire interaction from across the room, jaw clenched so tight that he might crack a tooth. his eyes were wide and unblinking, almost burning with the intensity that he was staring the two of you down with.

his fingers tapped against his knee, sharp, restless movements, a stark contrast to the relaxed slouch he was forcing himself into.

what the fuck was that?

his eyes burned as they stayed locked onto you and dae-ho. he watched you as you finally opened up your bread, chewing slowly. in front of you, dae-ho seemed to remember something before turning around and catching your attention.

he spoke. you laughed. a real laugh, not a forced one. and he saw it, the way that you leaned in just slightly, like you actually gave a shit about what he said, the way dae-ho had looked at you—was still looking at you—like you were someone he wanted to protect.

his hand on your shoulder. on your back. his face pressed right next to yours as he whispered something, low and inaudible.

it was unbearable.

it was fucking humiliating.

and yet, he couldn't tear his eyes away.

even now, you still hadn't made an attempt to search the room, to try and find him in the crowd.

she was mine.

the thought bubbled to the surface before he could stop it, before he could squish it down and pretend that this didn't matter, that you didn't matter.

he hated how pathetic the thought sounded, wincing at it even though it only existed in the privacy of his own head.

still, it wasn't wrong. you had been his. he'd been yours. maybe he still was. and now? now you were sitting next to some random guy, talking, laughing, staring down at him like nam-gyu never even existed.

and the worst part? he couldn't do shit about it.

not in front of all these people.

not when he was supposed to be acting like he didn't care.

from here, he was able to get the full view of your team. and of course, just his luck, the guy that'd shut down thanos, that'd kicked him to the ground in front of everyone—in front of you—was sitting at the very back of the group, like some kind of guard dog.

his fingers curled into fists.

"oi, nam-su," a voice interrupted.

he barely registered it at first, but then thanos clapped a hand on his shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts.

nam-gyu forced himself to glance up, schooling his face into something neutral, so lost and disoriented from the sickening display before him that he didn't even notice that thanos had fucked up his name. again. "huh?"

thanos was looking at him like he'd been talking for a while. "you even listening? i said mg coin's full of shit."

nam-gyu followed his gaze. mg coin—myung-gi—whatever, was sitting with his own team, laughing about something.

thanos sneered. "look at him. laughing like he has the right to. like he didn't fuck me over." he nodded at nam-gyu, eyes lingering on myung-gi before finally turning to him. "let's jump him," he muttered. "but not when that fucker's looking." he looked up again, gesturing with his chin across the room. nam-gyu turned, eyes landing on your corner yet again, at the old man that'd stopped them the first time they tried to get back at myung-gi.

nam-gyu just nodded absently, his mind still somewhere else.

it took a moment to realize something, his eyes drifting back down to dae-ho—this was the perfect opportunity.

if he could get thanos on his side, maybe he could get rid of dae-ho, break him down and convince him to stay the fuck away from you. he wasn't sure exactly how he'd do it, but it was a start. two people were always going to be better than one.

he straightened, his gaze darkening as he leaned forward, scooting closer to thanos.

"hey," he said, tone casual. "you know that guy in front of him? the one with the ponytail who's choking down his bread like a pig?" nam-gyu gestured with his neck, maintaining eye contact with thanos.

thanos raised a brow, eyes flicking down to nam-gyu and then back up again. "what about him?"

nam-gyu exhaled sharply, shaking his head and forcing some frustration in his voice. "he's annoying as hell. i was listening to him earlier when he was talking to his team. looks like he's all buddy-buddy with those old guys." he nibbled his lip, trying to figure out how he could spin this, how he could get thanos to hate him, too. "including the one that was giving you shit earlier." thanos narrowed his eyes at that, showing that he was listening but not exactly following. "the dude thinks he's hot shit just because he was in the fucking marines, or whatever."

thanos hummed in acknowledgement, unimpressed. "yeah? so?"

nam-gyu floundered, wires crossing in his brain. he was losing him. he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so the others couldn't hear, a last ditch effort. "i don't trust him. he's always trying to act all high and mighty, all noble and shit, like he's better than us. like he's not just as fucked as we are."

thanos didn't look convinced. he shrugged, leaning back against the bed rail. in that moment, nam-gyu knew he lost him.

"he's just some guy. who cares?" thanos turned his head in dismissal, his gaze straying to myung-gi yet again. nam-gyu watched his face shift into something hateful and mean.

the sentiment was right, but it was aimed at the wrong target.

nam-gyu grit his teeth, fingers twitching against his knee.

he wanted thanos to fucking care.

wanted thanos to hate dae-ho as much as he suddenly, violently, and irrationally did.

but thanos wasn't biting.

his focus was elsewhere—on myung-gi, on his own anger, his own grudges. sure, nam-gyu was pissed at myung-gi, too, hated him, even, but at least myung-gi wasn't out here whispering in your ear, staring at you all sweet and kind, acting like he had the right to touch you. the thought made his blood boil all over again.

one last attempt rose from his lips like a signal flare. it sounded stupid in his head, but he had to try.

"he said your hair was stupid," nam-gyu blurted out. his voice was at a normal volume this time, and the rest of his team looked over, confused.

at that, thanos's head snapped back, his eyebrows going up again. "he did?"

nam-gyu nodded wildly. "yeah, yeah, he did. he was laughing with that old dude, and everything." after a pause, he quickly added, "when you weren't listening, i heard it. they were all making fun of you, that guy especially. i would've said something, but—"

thanos silenced him with a hand, and for a moment, it just hung in the air. nam-gyu held his breath. then, both of his hands came up to frame both sides of his hair, fingers going up to shape the purple strands back up into place, like little horns.

"no one," he started, a little frown coming to tug at his lips, "makes fun of thanos the great's hair."

holy shit.

nam-gyu bit back a smile, trying not to seem as excited as he was. "yeah, i agree." he gestured with his head again, his hair whipping around his face with the wild, sudden movement. "wanna jump him, too?"

thanos brushed him off, still fixing his hair. maybe he'd pushed just a bit too far just a bit too soon.

"relax, nam-su." he was still watching myung-gi out of the corner of his eye, neck flexing tight with tension once again at the mere sight of him. "i've got some other shit to worry about, right now."

"nam-gyu," he muttered.

it looked like he had no choice but to drop it. for now.

but his mind was already racing, already plotting.

he didn't know how yet, didn't know when—but he was gonna get you away from dae-ho. one way or another.

the men's bathroom was full, accompanied by the expected din of streams hitting porcelain, stall doors slamming shut, and toilets flushing. a little pocket of normalcy amidst the chaos.

myung-gi stared down, concentrated on his task. then, he felt it.

a presence.

three, actually.

he barely had time to register the movement before thanos and nam-gyu stepped in on either side of him, boxing him in at the urinal. behind him, gyeong-su stood with his arms at his sides, silent and uncertain, but still present.

myung-gi pressed his lips together tightly, the air suddenly turning suffocating.

it didn't take much guessing to know where this interaction was going to go. there was an exchange of words, of uncomfortable stares, of barely disguised aggression—mostly on thanos's part—and then, finally, in a sudden burst of anger, thanos was slamming myung-gi against the tile, his other arm reeled back and ready to go.

"you son of a bitch. got a death wish?"

nam-gyu watched it happen from a distance, a little bit of his earlier frustration slipping away at the sight of myung-gi getting tormented.

then, as if on cue, the entrance to the bathroom opened, and—of fucking course. he was there.

a tiny little ponytail bobbed into view, perched perfectly at the top of his head.

nam-gyu's eye twitched.

"i didn't even eat anything, so why..." jung-bae trailed off, young-il and dae-ho following behind him.

thanos stopped, eyes instantly locking with young-il's. the latter regarded him sternly. a silent challenge. thanos was an absolute moron, sure, but he knew when to call it quits.

he stood there for a few moments, gripping myung-gi with a tightness that said this wasn't over, eyes glaring daggers into his face one last time before shoving him back. his body jerked, but he held thanos's gaze, chest heaving as he watched him turn away.

"i'm watching you," thanos muttered in english, lips tight with anger.

nam-gyu lingered for a moment as he watched the exchange, unwilling to move just yet.

his eyes flitted right to dae-ho, to the way he was staring at him and thanos, like they were beneath him. like they were scum. like he was gonna fucking do something about it.

thanos took a few casual step forward, retreating. then, he paused, eyes landing on dae-ho. his mind buffered for a moment, as if recalling something.

there was a flash of recognition as his peanut brain grasped at a memory, at what nam-gyu had said less than thirty minutes ago. at that, he leaned backwards just slightly, giving himself enough space to size dae-ho up with a lazy flick of his eyes. their heights were matched, perfectly at eye level with each other.

in front of him, dae-ho straightened, standing up just a little taller, as if anticipating a fight. jung-bae and young-il watched, eyes narrowed and muscles taut, unsure of what to expect in the coming moments.

then—

"tch," thanos clicked his tongue, cutting through the tension. he regarded dae-ho with a flippant look as he tilted his head, unimpressed. "so. you're the one whose got some shit to say about my hair, huh?"

dae-ho balked, confusion leaking into his expression. the others looked just as confused, save for nam-gyu. whatever they all thought thanos was going to say, it definitely wasn't that.

the silence stretched for a few beats too long, and it struck dae-ho that it was his turn to speak, but he wasn't sure what the hell he was supposed to say to that.

his voice came out awkward, the tension that'd been simmering in his muscles just moments before fizzling out with nowhere to go. "um... no?"

"you think you can switch up the story now that i'm standing right in front of you?" thanos shook his head, his jaw tight and indignant as he pointed over to nam-gyu and gyeong-su. at that, nam-gyu tensed, exchanging a look with dae-ho for the first time ever. caught in a lie. he hadn't expected thanos to supply dae-ho with a source. "my bro told me everything, so don't even try it." he scoffed. "do you know who i am, man?" he pressed closer into dae-ho's space, but dae-ho didn't tense, just glanced between them incredulously, like they'd suddenly grown an extra head.

to nam-gyu's left, gyeong-su decided to speak for the first time in this whole bathroom exchange, answering the question for dae-ho. "he's thanos, the rapper!" his voice went up a few octaves at the opportunity, almost excited as he moved his hands and started to rap for the second time that day. "i'm gonna kill half of humanity with my raps—"

nam-gyu quickly silenced him—again—with a quick tap to the shoulder.

thanos paid them no mind, just shook his head as he narrowed his eyes at dae-ho, judging him. his hand came up to quickly flick at a flyaway strand of hair by dae-ho's brow, making him flinch just slightly, though it was out of surprise rather than fear.

"sloppy," thanos said in english. "worry about yourself before you say anything about me." then, after a a moment, he pointed at him, a ringed finger waggling just inches away from his face. "i'm watching you, too."

then, without another word, he pushed his way through the door.

nam-gyu watched him go. it was his cue to leave, too. he walked over, forcing his back up straighter, trying to appear bigger and taller than he really was. he locked eyes with dae-ho, a sneer plastered across his face, a clear display of his hatred. there was no hiding it now, anyways, what with the way thanos had outed him as a liar that made shit up for his own gain.

dae-ho narrowed his eyes in confusion, opened his mouth as if to speak, to question where the hell this was all coming from.

nam-gyu hated it, the way he was looking at him, the way he'd been looking at you, and most of all, fuck, he hated that stupid. fucking. ponytail.

he bet that dae-ho thought it was cute, too, thought he was so fucking different.

big fucking deal.

he wasn't special. nam-gyu's hair was long enough to put into a ponytail, too. not like you'd ever fucking asked him to. but he would. all you had to do was ask.

but you were too busy drooling over dae-ho to do so.

and somehow, despite it all, despite all the things that'd been piling up throughout the day, simmering just beneath the surface and boiling his blood, that was the thought that really sent him over the edge. it was irrational, stupid, pathetic, really, just how jealous he was over absolutely nothing.

just before dae-ho could speak, nam-gyu made sure to shove into him—hard.

the impact was enough to send dae-ho stumbling, his back hitting the wall with an audible thump.

for a moment, the bathroom went completely still.

dae-ho blinked, his expression shocked, like he wasnt' sure if that really just happened.

nam-gyu didn't stop to look back.

he just walked out, feeling a sick, burning satisfaction settling deep in his chest. gyeong-su trailed quickly after him, eager to catch up to thanos, a confused, shocked expression on his face that mirrored dae-ho's perfectly.

dae-ho stayed against the wall for a second, like he was still processing it. the weight of nam-gyu's deliberate shove lingered on his chest, not physically painful but unmistakably intentional.

and earlier—thanos had accused dae-ho of insulting him, said he'd heard it from his 'bro.' based on nam-gyu and gyeong-su's body language, it was pretty easy for him to deduce who thanos had been referring to.

but... why?

next to him, jung-bae frowned. "what the hell was that about?"

dae-ho shook his head, straightening up as he brushed himself off. his fingers flexed at his sides, like he was working through the instinct to retaliate. "i don't know," he muttered. "guess he just doesn't like me."

myung-gi, still standing in front of them, watched the door where nam-gyu and thanos disappeared, though he didn't say anything.

"are those guys still bullying you?" jung-bae asked.

"hey," dae-ho started, pushing forward so he was right in front of myung-gi. "if those guys keep doing that, you can ask us for our help." clearly, they'd even decided to start bullying him, too.

"i'm fine," he replied, eyebrows going up before he turned away.

and just like that, it ended, the former excitement simmering down slowly. the crowd slowly dispersed, and soon the normal bathroom activites continued, acclimating around the sudden interruption.

dae-ho stood at a urinal, mind still reeling from confusion, from frustration. what the hell had he done to those guys? he knew he should let it go—ignore it, not let them get under his skin. but the way nam-gyu had clearly lied to thanos to stir something up, the way he'd looked at him before shoving him with nothing but sheer bitterness in his eyes—it was too much for him to pass off as random.

it was personal.

and dae-ho had no idea why.

meanwhile, nam-gyu walked ahead of gyeong-su, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, fingers curling and uncurling around nothing as he made his way back to the rest of their team.

he glanced over to your corner for just a second.

you saw him. he saw you.

his lips twitched just a fraction before he sat down, forcing himself to look at the ground.

when dae-ho emerged from the bathroom, his mind was still reeling with unresolved tension. he walked up to you and gi-hun, young-il and jung-bae in tow.

he was still thinking about it.

you looked up at him with a polite smile. "hey."

"hey," he returned, sounding far away.

you blinked, confused by his sudden shift in demeanor. "you okay?"

he sighed, running a hand through his hair as he brushed back a strand—the same strand that thanos had flicked just moments earlier.

"actually," he started, turning to look at nam-gyu. he leaned towards you, taking his seat before dropping his voice to a whisper. "that guy, right there."

dae-ho pointed gingerly, careful not to be too obvious. your eyes traced the path of his finger, breath catching as you realized who he was referring to.

your stomach clenched. what did he do?

he waited for your acknowledgement. when it didn't come, he continued, "uh, the guy with the long hair, mean face, 124 on his shirt—"

"yeah," you mumbled, waving him along. "i see him."

dae-ho nodded, though you didn't see, too focused on nam-gyu. he was slouched over by his team, arms crossed casually as he leaned back against the steps.

"i think he's got something against me." he gestured with his chin, his voice wary. "his friend, too. the rapper guy."

"uh-huh."

dae-ho shook his head, throwing his hands up in frustration. "i've never even talked to them. i don't know what the hell i did to make them hate me." he turned to you. "124... do you know his name?"

"nam-gyu." his name instantly fell from your lips before you could stop it, before you could feign ignorance. you quickly recovered. "or. that's... what i've heard," you mumbled. "i'm pretty sure that's his name, though."

dae-ho nodded. if he noticed your sudden unease, he didn't say anything. "nam-gyu," he repeated, eyes narrowing as he stared at him.

you cleared your throat, trying to sound casual, like you were just curious. nothing more. you brought a hand up to your face, covering your mouth before you spoke. "so, uh. what'd he do?"

"he shoved me. for no reason! i didn't even say anything." dae-ho shook his head, remembering. he continued, "and apparently he told his friend that i made fun of his hair." you raised an eyebrow at that. "i would never make fun of his hair. i mean, my older sister colored hers purple two years ago." dae-ho clicked his tongue, brows furrowing as he pouted. "i thought it looked cool."

you were thankful for the hand covering your mouth, because as soon as he finished, you were struggling to bite back a laugh.

despite how well he seemed to hide it, how well he seemed to pretend that he didn't care, nam-gyu was watching you. watching him. sitting there, stewing in silent anger, even if he wouldn't let it show.

even after all this time.

what a petty asshole.

and the fact that a small part of you liked it—knowing that he still cared enough about you to do childish shit like this? oh, it made you sick.

the room eventually settled into an uneasy quiet as the guards ordered the players to prepare for sleep.

soon enough, the overhead lights dimmed, leaving a faint, eerie glow behind.

time passed. minutes stretched into an hour.

you stared up at the bottom of the bed, exhaustion weighing heavy on your bones, but sleep still didn't come easy. gi-hun had insisted all of you sleep this way, beneath a bed and behind a fortress of mattresses. someone always had to be keeping watch.

you were busy thinking about how silly it seemed when it suddenly struck you—you really, really needed to pee.

lucky you.

you shifted uncomfortably, trying to will the feeling away.

when you failed to do so, you let out a sigh of defeat before pushing yourself up by your elbows. you peered over from under your bed. it was dae-ho’s turn to watch. you still didn’t understand why it was necessary, but you decided not to question it.

you quietly got up, gently tapping dae-ho on the shoulder so as not to startle him.

he looked up at you, a bit surprised. the sharpness of his cheekbones highlighted by the dim glow of the piggy bank.

“going to the bathroom,” you whispered, mouthing the words more than anything.

“oh, uh, let me accompany you—“ dae-ho made a move to stand up, but you stopped him.

“no, it’s okay.” you smiled. “thank you, though.” you didn’t want to bother him.

he paused, searching your face with uncertainty, like he was debating whether or not it was really 'okay'. “are you sure? it could be dangerous walking around alone right now. i don't think it's safe for you to go alone.”

“please, don't worry. i’m sure." you were certain you could, at the very least, handle a trip to the bathroom, though you definitely appreciated the gesture.

after a pause, he nodded, albeit still hesitant. "okay. be careful."

you laughed lightly. "sure. i'll try not to drown in the toilet."

that earned you a soft, sheepish smile, but after a moment, dae-ho furrowed his brows, showing you that he still meant it. "come on, i'm serious. gi-hun seemed serious about all of this." he gestured around at the mattresses boxing your team in.

you waved him off. "i'll be careful."

he finally let you go. slowly, you made your way to the door, not wanting to disturb the other players.

you knocked gently on the door. when no response came, you knocked again, more forceful this time, though you winced with each sound.

finally, you came face-to-face with a guard.

“i need to go to the bathroom.”

the black mask stared wordlessly back at you. as the silence stretched on for too long, you felt a prickle of anxiety.

there was no way they weren’t going to let you go to the bathroom, right?

your question was promptly answered with a smooth click as the guard slid the peephole shut. you stood there, mouth agape and eyes wide with indignance. a beat or two passed, just enough time for your anger to build. all discretions gone, you exhaled sharply and banged on the door, no longer wincing with every loud sound that echoed through the dormitory.

you could’ve died twice.

you weren't about to let them bully you into fucking pissing yourself.

“hey, what the hell?” your voice rose, tinged with anger and disbelief. “are you just gonna leave me out here?” once again, the only answer to your disdain was an oppressive silence. “fuck.” you hissed under your breath, your body shaking with barely contained anger. “fine. if you won’t let me go to the bathroom, i guess I’ll just do it out here—“

when the door suddenly slid open, you flinched, stunned for a moment as the blinding light flooded your vision. it seemed that your comment had gotten to the guard, after all. you recovered quickly and smiled at the expressionless black mask staring back at you, feeling more than a little triumphant. you moved quickly, feet crossing the threshold with your nose in the air.

you climbed the stairs quickly, desperate to get in and out.

the entrance to the women's bathroom came into view, and you let out an audible sigh as you pushed through.

you were barely through the door when you felt it—a sudden rush of contact at your back as you were practically shoved inside. you stumbled, gasping as a cold hand gripped at the back of your tracksuit.

your heart raced, sweat prickling the back of your neck as panic bloomed in your chest. you had been careful not to piss anyone off. you hadn’t talked to anyone outside of your team, really. there was no one who had a reason to be shoving you like this, to be following you. no one except—

you whipped around quickly, jerking out of the person’s hold and stumbling a bit as you struggled to keep your balance in light of the sudden unease overtaking your system.

you opened your mouth to speak, to yell, but everything you might’ve thought to say immediately died on your tongue.

nam-gyu’s eyes were intense, filled with a swirl of emotions as he fixed you with a hardened stare. his breathing was measured and even, hands hanging casually at his sides.

“hey.”

his voice was rough, gravelly. deep. a sound that cut right through you and settled into your bones. and for the first time in forever, his words were directed at you. not overheard from a distance or relayed through a third party. it was just you and him in this shitty bathroom in the middle of god knows where.

your mind went blank, your tongue suddenly feeling too big for your mouth as you stared at him, lips slightly parted as you struggled to form thoughts.

“what?” his mouth twitched. almost a smirk, almost a sneer, but he kept his face neutral, not wanting to betray his emotions just yet. “not gonna say hi?” you saw his fingers curl and uncurl around nothing at his sides. he'd never been good at staying still for too long.

he was right, though.

you weren’t gonna fucking say ‘hi.’

ao3 link, if you’d prefer to read it over there

a/n: part two coming (hopefully) soon. as always my inbox is open for any thoughts, comments, rqs, etc.!!!! also, i was going nuts watching episode 4 and 5 over and over again so i could get the canon interactions and dialogue right LMAO. also. in-ho is referred to as young-il in this fic and will continue to be, bc he's just not really relevant to the plot and ik y'all know who he really is ok....

#nam-gyu x reader #namgyu x reader #nam gyu x reader #player 124 x reader #squid game x reader #my fic #lilyposting

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