#but when it becomes credited to someone else

[redeemingvillains]

the apothecary's rebel - mattheo riddle

summary: hogwarts' bad boy can't seem to find a way to stay out of the infirmary where you're working to become a healer, but as the stakes get higher, you struggle to understand if you're simply a means to an end, or something much more.

word count: 4k

warnings: mentions of severe injury, broken bones, blood, etc.

a/n: this is so tropey and i'm not sorry about it! credit as always to the lovely @pizzaapeteer who has definitively determined that mattheo's favorite quidditch team is the falmouth falcons, which i will faithfully honor in every fic that i write.

The first time you met Mattheo Riddle, he had rivulets of blood pouring from his nose, crimson and amber; it stained his white collared shirt and seeped into his emerald tie and dark robes but despite it, he was smiling, laughing actually as his eyes glinted at Professor McGonagall who was dragging him alongside her into the infirmary.

"Please, Professor" he implored, "I can't help myself when someone runs their mouth like that, I can't, it's like a curse or something, my fist just flew to his face, what was I supposed to do?!" He was smirking as he looked at her, but she ignored his gaze as she yanked him before you.

"Enough, Mr. Riddle!" she said shrilly.

He tugged his arm out of her grasp. "I don't need the infirmary, m'fine" he huffed, rolling his eyes.

"You're dripping blood on my floor" she retorted, pointing to the maroon spots at his feet.

He glanced down and then wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing the blood further across his face.

"Ms. YLN!" McGonagall said, making it clear that he was your problem now as she squeezed her eyes shut in aggravation then spun on her heels and left.

You stood from your desk at once startled and awed by the situation, but Mattheo's gaze followed McGonagall out of the room.

"M'fine, I don't need anything" he repeated as he continued to swipe at the blood that wouldn't stop running.

You begged to differ as you took in the gash on the bridge of his nose, and the early signs of a black eye. You handed him a cloth which he stuffed under his nose halfheartedly, barely glancing at you, and before you could do anything else, he jogged back to the doorway, peered around the corner and disappeared.

Your week went by without anything nearly as exciting occurring beyond the normal bumps, bruises, and burns from spells and potions gone awry before you saw him again, this time of his own volition.

He caught your eye as his large framed graced the doorway. He was dressed for quidditch, still in his shoulder pads and Slytherin practice jersey. His dark curls were windblown and his cheeks were flush with exertion; sweat glistened on his brow and you thought fleetingly to yourself that no one had the right to look that sweaty and that good at the same time.

You stood from your desk to approach him, eyebrow quirked when he held up his hand by way of explanation, where two of his fingers were bent the wrong way, clearly broken. You motioned wordlessly for him to sit on the nearest cot.

He sat and immediately focused his attention out the window, peering like he was hoping to see the quidditch pitch from his vantage point.

You gathered a few supplies and approached him and he thrust out his hand, eyes never leaving the window.

"Go on then, get it over with" he said shortly. "I wanna get back to practice."

Unbeknownst to you, he was no stranger to broken bones, nor the sharp, relentless pain that came with the healing process and he was doing everything he could to steel himself for it.

Your touch was warm and tender as your fingers gently examined his hand.

"What position do you play?" you asked.

"Beater" he said simply.

You handed him a dose of healing and numbing potion, which he chugged in one go, thinking briefly that it tasted much better than he remembered.

"Are you any good?" you continued as you took the vial back from him and continued your work on his fingers.

"Are you joking?" he asked, laughing humorlessly.

You shrugged innocently, a sly smile on your lips, though you never broke your focus.

"Yeah, I'm good" he said. "Best Slytherin has seen in a while. We might actually have a chance at the cup this year if Flynt can keep his head straight and Goyle can stay sober long enough to sit on his broom."

"A daunting task" you teased.

He laughed genuinely this time, your humor enough to garner his attention and break his gaze from the window as his eyes fell on you instead, and you could feel yourself flush under his notice.

"Harpies or Cannons?" you asked, trying to guess his favorite team.

"Falcons" he said, smirking at your knowledge of quidditch.

"My brothers root for Ballycastle, but I'm partial to the Magpies" you replied.

Now he was flat out impressed and had about a million questions for you, but just as he opened his mouth to ask them, you step back and smiled.

"You're all set!"

He thought you were joking until he looked down at his carefully bandaged fingers.

"You should be able to grip your broom just fine. Put some ice on it after practice if you can, otherwise it will hurt like hell when the potion wears off."

You were gathering your supplies as he wiggled his fingers with trepidation. He felt a dull ache, but nothing more, and he could easily grasp his broom despite his mended fingers with the unique way you'd wrapped them; it'd felt better than any mending he'd had before and whether it was your talent or the deft way you'd distracted him, he couldn't stop himself from muttering "S'bloody brilliant."

"Thanks" you said genuinely, feeling the heat return to your cheeks as you shot him a playful smirk of your own. "Best Ravenclaw's seen in a while" you teased, echoing his words from earlier before you walked back to your desk.

The rest of the afternoon you found your thoughts wandering between the books you were trying to study and the boy with dark curls and a smirky grin who seemed magnetized to mischief, how even the brush of your fingers against his strong, calloused hands had had you struggling to focus on healing, the very thing that came most naturally to you.

You were both happy and disappointed that you didn't see him soon thereafter, glad perhaps that he was keeping himself out of trouble and in one piece. You caught glimpses of him occasionally in the busy corridor between classes or in the Great Hall surrounded by his raucous group of friends, but you tried your level best not to stare, in turn missing his equally ardent attempts to catch your eye.

It was perhaps three weeks later that you awoke late on a Saturday night to a muffled pounding on your bedroom door. Bright moonlight shone through your curtained window as you struggled to get your bearings and the pounding relented, heavy and urgent.

Occasionally, Madam Pomfrey summoned you in an emergency and your heart trilled as you pulled a large sweater over your lace and silk pajamas. You moved quickly to open the door, only to find Mattheo slumped and leaning against your doorway.

He swung his head to look at you with noticeable effort and you couldn't hold in your gasp as you took in his face, scraped and dirty with a large cut on his eyebrow that you were already calculating would need stitches, and a smaller but sizable cut to match on his lip. His mouth was bloodied and the gash on the bridge of his nose was back.

"Gods, Mattheo" you whispered as you reached for him. "Let's get you down to the infirmary."

"S'four inthe mornin' m'not gonna explain to them why I looklike this" he said, his speech slurring as he moved to brush past you into your room.

"Can'tyou fix me n'here?" he asked, as he swayed and you moved to support his weight.

"I-I don't have what I need, I don't have any numbing potion..." you tried to say.

"Can't hurt more'n it already does" he huffed as he sat on your bed.

The sight of him there, rumpling your sheets caught every last word in your throat and you busied yourself grabbing what you could to buy time to still your racing heart.

"What happened?" you asked, finally.

"Me'n the boys got into one" he said, not offering more in the way of an explanation as he glanced around your room, making you feel exposed.

"And where are they?" you asked, glancing for a moment back at the door like they might follow him in.

"I wasn'about to drag five ofus n'here" he said with a smirk.

I wanted you all to myself he thought as he tried with significant effort to focus on you as you came to stand between his spread legs. Your sweater was falling off of your shoulder to reveal thin, silk pajamas that covered next to nothing; your hair was rumpled and wavy with sleep, giving you a relaxed and tousled look that had his mind racing with the image of you tangled in your sheets.

You held his chin softly in your hand, turning his head slowly to the right and to the left. You could smell firewhiskey on him, and could see the pupils of his eyes blown wide as they looked unwavering at you in a way that made your legs feel like jelly.

"You might have a concussion" you said quietly, focusing on the facts instead of the fantasy in front of you.

"Probably" he agreed, his voice thick and raspy.

Your eyes shifted from his strong gaze to focus on his hands, attentively wiping away the dirt, gravel and blood from his knuckles, your fingers running down his palms. His eyes fluttered, thinking you had no right to make him feel this good by touching his hands, and then immediately he thought about your touch anywhere, everywhere else.

You leaned further into him to attend to the cut on his eyebrow, softly whispering the spell to mend it, close enough that he could feel your breath against his skin and he closed his eyes in earnest, letting your words wash over him, calming him from what had been an intense and violent night; they didn't flutter open again until you gently touched his lip.

"Sorry, did that hurt?" you asked.

"S'other ways you could make it feel better" he said, smiling widely in way that set a twinkle in his eye.

"Very funny" you said, redoubling your efforts, without realizing that for once he wasn't joking.

He reached out a hand to grab your waist, attempting to pull you into him, but you mistook it for an effort to steady himself and set a hand on his shoulder.

With the amount of alcohol in his system you thought, there is little to no chance he remembers any of this.

Mattheo woke with a throbbing headache and for the life of him he couldn't piece together why his friends visibly looked like they'd lost a brawl, while he looked...fine; his hands and face were clean and his split lip and eyebrow were reduced to small cuts and scrapes, nearly healed.

He had a foggy memory, like a dream, of you tracing your fingers over his lip, a touch he retraced now like he could feel you on his skin, could feel your warmth from being pulled out of bed, and then he remembered how good you'd smelled, like vanilla and amber... Had he really gone to your room in the middle of the night? He would almost be embarrassed if he didn't feel so fucking smitten about it.

The group dragged themselves to breakfast, hoods drawn; Theo even sported an oversized pair of sunglasses, whether to cover his black eye or to abade his hangover, no one was sure. They were talking in rasp whispers about the night before when Mattheo caught sight of you leaving the Great Hall with a few of your friends, his feet moving on autopilot towards you before he knew what he was doing, breaking rank to his friends' bewilderment.

"Hey" he said, catching your attention. "I-uhh, thanks for last night, I guess" he smiled, even as he carded his hand through his hair, a bit abashed.

"I am genuinely surprised you remember any of it" you said, laughing.

"F'course I do" he said confidently.

"So, you'll keep your promise then?" you retorted as you cocked your head expectantly.

Promise? What fucking promise?

"Yeah, of course I will" he said, even as his mind drew a complete blank on what you were referring to.

Your eyebrows shot up as a wide smile graced your lips and you crossed your arms, ready to challenge him before you were interupted.

"—Wait, is this her?" Theo barged in, pushing Mattheo aside, the others following closely behind.

"Can she look at my nose?" Draco tried. "I think that fucker broke—"

"—No. Stop, stop it." Mattheo said, dragging them away from you gruffly as you laughed, waving to Enzo who was waving eagerly to you despite Mattheo's efforts to contain him.

Your cheeks were crimson. He'd told his friends about you.

That giddiness carried you throughout your day. You felt like you were floating from class to class, like a fifth house ghost, your spirits high even as you resigned yourself to the infirmary that evening while the rest of the school made their way to the quidditch pitch for the final game of the season, the House Cup: Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

A dark storm had settled over the mountains and the last of the sun disappeared behind large, black clouds that brought with them torrential wind and rain that you watched cascade in sheets against the windows. You were disappointed to be missing the game, missing the chance to watch Mattheo play, but you were also happy to be inside, dry and warm.

You settled into your book, trying your best to enjoy it, but you found yourself reading and re-reading the same sentence over and over again, unable to clear your mind from the night before, the way Mattheo settled effortlessly on your bed in a way that even now had your stomach clenching, the way his dark eyes followed you in the white moonlight, the way he smiled under caked blood and the warmth and softness of his skin and his lips under your fingertips; and finally the way he'd grabbed you, perhaps stronger than he'd intended, fingers pressing into the thin silk that covered you, leaving imprints on your skin. Your heart was racing and you felt warm at the memory as you set your book down and exhaled shakily.

It wasn't a moment later that you heard a commotion in the corridor, loud voices and shuffling feet before a large group burst through the doors, professors and students crowding around two quidditch players, the sight making your heart constrict in your chest, until you noticed a red jersey on one and the flash of Draco Malfoy's bright blonde hair on the other. You scurried to help guide him to a cot as he groaned, his eyes squeezing in pain as a gash on his forehead dripped blood down the side of his face.

"What the hell happened?!" you asked Professor Sinistra who had a deep frown set on her face.

"The storm is making it impossible to see anything, they should have cancelled the damn match" she said. "These two collided and there's another one coming - he tried to grab Malfoy and took a bludger straight to the knee before falling 60 feet to the ground."

Draco continued to writhe in pain in front of you and Professor Sinistra was still talking but she sounded distant, almost underwater, because dread and fear had settled over you. Somehow you knew before you turned around that the third player was Mattheo, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him being supported between Theo and Blaise.

He was limping on one leg as the other dragged uselessly beneath him. He was soaked through, his hair stuck to his forehead and his jersey stuck to his skin. He was covered in mud and his face was like stone, marble white as he stared sternly at a spot on the ground, jaw clenched.

You dropped what you had been doing, rudely brushing past Professor Sinistra and rushed to his side.

"Here, put him here" you said to Theo and Blaise, leading them to an empty cot.

"Nahh - fuck - get someone else" Mattheo said sharply in a way so cutting and raw that you froze, like his words had struck you like a charm.

"W-What?" you said as the boys lowered him to the bed, exchanging glances.

"You heard me YLN. Get someone else!" he said angrily, almost yelling.

You turned to face the rest of the infirmary which was in a state of utter chaos between the nurses, students and professors running back and forth; the raging storm outside cracked and boomed, setting you further on edge.

Tears welled in your eyes at how overwhelmed you were and how angry Mattheo was. Your head was spinning. Clearly he didn't care about you at all, you had been a convenience, a means to an end, someone who could patch him up when he was too drunk to go to the infirmary, and he'd used his good looks and charm on you like he did everyone else to get what he wanted. You had been an utter fool. Now his injuries were serious and he wanted someone with experience, not some girl to exchange flirty banter with.

Your eyes scanned the room again and you swiped angrily at your cheeks as several tears escaped.

"Well, there isn't anyone else, Mattheo" you said, the realization hitting you simultaneously that you were responsible for him.

He groaned in annoyance and threw his head back on his pillow, which Theo and Blaise thankfully took as their cue to go. You drew the curtains behind them, struggling to calm yourself, to get a semblance of control.

"You took a bludger to the knee?" you asked. "What else, where does it hurt?"

He was silent, face grimaced, refusing to make eye contact with you.

"Suppose I'll just have to undress you and find out for myself then?" you tried. But even that didn't work as he remained quiet and shame and embarrassment set over you.

You took a steadying breath and quickly wiped another errant tear away before approaching him cautiously, moving to unlace his boots as gently as you could, but even that caused him to tense. Delicately, you began to cut his trousers from the bottom and within three snips could you see a sicky swelling letting you know that this was bad....very bad. He'd well shattered his knee and likely broke his fibula and tibia too, his entire leg was a disaster. You had no idea how he'd remained so calm despite it all and you were worried that this might be too complex for you to mend.

You mixed him a strong healing and numbing potion and he took it from you wordlessly, gruffly. Gone was his bashful smile from this morning, the twinkle in his eye, it was like he wanted nothing to do with you, downing the potion in one go, still refusing to meet your gaze.

"Mattheo, I can't imagine how painful this must be, but I'll fix it, I-I promise" you said.

His eyes shifted darkly to you for only a moment, anger and distain clear in his gaze before he looked away again, never saying a word.

You applied just about everything you'd ever learned about mending bones, tendons, muscles and sinew and within moments of taking the potion, Mattheo had fallen into a deep sleep, allowing you to work without fear of hurting him further. It took the better part of two hours, by which time the rest of the infirmary had settled and Madam Pomfrey came to check on you. She was difficult to please, but she scrutinized your work with a sharp eye before complimenting you thoroughly, you had done it.

You were depleted, exhausted, both physically and emotionally but you didn't stop as you wiped the caked mud from Mattheo's cheeks and gingerly cut away the rest of his wet clothing, fearful he'd catch a chill, thinking you deserved some sort of medal for your level of professionalism as your fingers traced his strong muscles, veined arms and faded scars. You pulled a blanket over him, charmed to stay warm before you finally slumped into a chair at his side.

Your entire body was tense, and your muscles were sore. You let yourself catch your breath as your emotions finally caught up with you and you bit your lip to keep from crying at how foolish you felt.

Madam Pomfrey poked her head through the curtain. "You're free to go" she said quietly.

You glanced back at Mattheo before turning to her. "I think I'll stay...just in case" you whispered.

She pursed her lips knowingly before nodding curtly and walking back to her station at the far end of the room.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but eventually you fell into a fitful sleep riddled with nightmares of falling into deep darkness with nothing and no one to catch you.

Mattheo came to in a haze, enveloped in a soft warmth that brought a smile to his lips; for some reason, it reminded him of you, and it smelled like you, like warm vanilla and amber spice. As if in a dream, a memory came rushing back to him, of another time he was engulfed by you, of feeling your gentle touch on his lips in a way that made them tingle even now.

"How'sthis" he said. "I promise if I'm ever this'fucked again, and you haveta take care o'me, I'll take you ona date?" Your eyes shot to his, shining against the moonlight streaming into your bedroom and he clocked the twitch of your lip, the rose of your cheeks, Gods how he loved to make you blush. "Yeah?" you said jokingly. "Yeah" he said, feeling confident. You refocused your attention on his lip, your touch soaking through him like sunlight. "Well, for your sake, I hope that doesn't happen, you're a mess" you chided. Then, quietly, "But for mine, I look forward to it."

His heart soared and he reached for you only to come back with empty hands. He continued to grasp for you until his eyes fluttered open and he realized where he was. The memory of the game came rushing back to him, the flash of thunder and lighting, the fear of seeing his best mate falling off his broom as he raced to grab him, and then the crunch and splitting pain of his knee shattering, the scream he'd let out that was drowned by the storm.

His stomach roiled as he relived the way his friends had dragged him back to the castle, how every bump of his foot felt like torture. He tensed now, waiting for the pain, nearly nauseating himself with the memories, but he felt...nothing. A dull ached radiated from his knee and it felt stiff, but the sharpness was gone, replaced with a pulsing warmth.

His eyes blinked in the low candlelight, coming to rest on you, curled uncomfortably in a chair next to his bed, and he realized he should have known, should have recognized that you were the constant peace on the other side of his pain.

You were asleep, but your face was scrunched in discomfort, in concern and he clocked the smudge of your eye makeup, the loose strands of your hair falling on your face, and the fact that you were wearing the same clothes from earlier this morning, when he'd made you smile. Now, you looked distraught, upset and his stomach clenched as he remembered the way he'd spoken to you.

He had been in so much pain and pain is weakness he could hear in his head over and over again as he'd tried unsuccessfully to fight it. She's going to think you're weak, pathetic. He didn't want to be weak in front of you, he didn't want you to see him that way. He was proud when you mended his busted knuckles, his split lip, or even his smashed fingers, you didn't need a weak, crying git. But then he remembered the crushed look on your face as he'd yelled at you, and he realized he'd been a git all the same.

"Hey" he said, his voice coming out quieter than he'd intended, scratchy with sleep.

"Hey" he tried again.

You woke, startled. "Are you alright?" you asked, bolting upright in your chair, setting a hand on his arm. "Here, let me check your—"

"—I'm fine" he said, laughing. "More than, actually."

"Oh" you said, settling back down. "Good."

A moment of tepid silence passed between you.

"Look, m'sorry about earlier" he said, his sleep ridden voice coaxing your eyes to meet his as he opened his hand on the bed beside him, stretching it out for yours.

You hesitated, pursing your lips, and he could tell you were hurt.

"Can you keep a secret?" he tried.

You nodded.

"That fucking hurt, a lot" he exhaled as he let his vulnerability show.

"That's not really a secret. You shattered your knee, fibula and tibia, Mattheo, and you also have three bruised ribs and two more broken fingers" you said, pointing to his other hand.

"Well, would you look at that" he said smartly, twiddling his fingers back and forth.

"Draco cried harder over a hairline fracture, you'd have thought he was dying" you laughed quietly as you rolled your eyes.

Mattheo let out an earnest laugh at that before he grabbed his side.

"Do not tell him I said that—"

"—I am absolutely telling him you said that!" he said cockily as you both laughed until you fell into silence again.

He opened his palm again and you moved closer, setting your hand in his, which he enveloped in his warm grasp, gently rubbing a thumb over your fingers.

"I didn't want you to think I'm weak" he said finally, the truth settling over both of you like a blanket.

"Pain isn't weakness, Mattheo" you said simply, and the fact that in one instant you had understood exactly what he had meant had his dark chocolate eyes locked on yours.

"And anyway" you continued, "you don't have a weak bone in your body, your pain tolerance must be through the roof."

He didn't have the heart to tell you he hurt just like everyone else, he'd just had more practice with it, so he shrugged.

"Well all things considered, I feel great... thank you" he said, twirling your fingers together before tugging them gently, pulling you to sit on the bed beside him, close enough to feel the warmth between you. "I do have a couple of complaints though."

Your eyebrow quirked, suddenly serious.

"You got me nearly naked here before I could take you on that date I promised, hardly seems fair" he smirked.

You blushed, opening your mouth to defend yourself. So he did remember after all you thought.

"I'm kidding" he said lightly. "But start thinking about where I can take you. A promise is a promise."

You couldn't hide the smile on your face even as you tried, glancing into your lap, your cheeks Mattheo's favorite shade of blushed red.

"And what else?" you asked, trying to deflect.

"You missed something. I think I fucked my lip up, real bad" he said.

Your eyes twinkled as they looked at him, glancing briefly at his perfect lips, free from any mark or mar.

"I don't know, I don't see anything" you said, jokingly, taking his face in your hand, pretending to examine him.

"C'mon, c'mere you've got to get closer" he teased, pulling you into him, so your noses were nearly touching, your heart pounding in your chest.

He paused, relishing the moment, letting his fingers trace a line from your cheek to your jaw, letting your lips hover a breath away from his before he cupped your face and closed the distance between you.

He kissed you tentatively, softly, with a tenderness that made every inch of you feel like melted honey but it was only a breath before his restraint broke, intoxicated by you and every moment he'd daydreamed about the way you'd feel against him, the way you'd taste as he cupped both sides of your face and pulled you further into him. You grasped for purchase as the blanket between you slipped revealing his bare chest and you wound your arms around his bare shoulders, tangling your fingers into his hair, eliciting a muffled moan from deep within him. You nibbled his lip playfully before you pulled back, and he grasped you harder, fighting the distance.

"How's that?" you asked, breathlessly.

"Still unbearably painful, gorgeous, keep trying" he smiled against your lips before kissing you again.

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[papasbaseball]

The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl) | Chapter 11

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Mature (Rating to Increase)

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Violence

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,438 of 29,558

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Frottica has no friendly faces to offer us, only howling wind and bitter cold. If the air was thin in Wittica it's threads of ice this far up in the mountain range. It's good and I like it that way. As each arctic gust blows my black peacoat open and stabs me with a chilled knife, I feel the tether of reality to my situation.

I moved back into the sleeping cabin after we left Wittica, and to the Wizard's respectable credit, he hadn't brought up how I had shut down after the meeting with Morrible. Madame Morrible, actually. They were so familiar that when I asked him if we would see her again at Rouncible, he gave me a queer look as if I had addressed her by some childish nickname. She was a woman of great accomplishments and Headmistress of Shiz University. It would be a great faux pas if I were to ever address her as anything other than Madame Morrible.

The possibility of accidentally insulting someone else once we get to the safe house has been eating at me since that moment. All of this, the war and secrecy, was so foreign and new. What I had experienced back in the Emerald City between the Wizard and Ambassador Humak was shallow compared to the depths of the political web of Oz that we were now swimming in, groping for any sort of lifeline.

Once in the train station, we make our way up to the counter and the Wizard asks for any correspondence for and Oscar Diggs or Engine 1701.

"Mail's running late," the concierge says, "but there is a letter that came yesterday for Engine 1701." He fishes out a mint green envelope from one of the back cubbies and gives it to the Wizard.

"It's for you," the Wizard says, almost astonished. He hands me the envelope, and I can see that it’s from Bruno back in the Emerald City.

"How?" I ask, smoothing my thumb over my name, trying to see if the ink is real. "The city is under siege."

"He must've snuck it out," the Wizard says. "Come on, let's get some lunch."

We walk to the diner, and I glide my finger underneath the seal, trying not to tear the delicate paper. I’d have to find a safe place to put it once we got back on the train. "This means he's alive," I say as we sit down.

"It means that he was alive when he sent it," the Wizard corrects. "I haven't gotten news of death tolls yet... Hopefully, we'll get some today. I'm sure they're still... counting bodies.

I pull the letter from the envelope. The top right corner of the paper was addressed two days prior.

"We made it through the night," I recite. "Prince Fiyero has escaped, and we're still looking for the Grimmerie, but we have rid the palace of any Winkies. The ambassador probably stashed it somewhere in the palace thinking he'd be able to come back and get it.

"I checked on Fileah this morning. She's alright. A little shaken, but alright. I'm making sure that the kids there have enough food and heat. That place is like an ice box. It isn't right. Kids with no coats and the fires are nothing but coals. Fileah wanted to know where you were. I tried to explain it to her without talking about the ongoing investigation, but I don’t think it made much sense. She asked when she could see you again. I told her that it would hopefully be soon.

"We haven't gotten a good count of the dead yet, but it's good you got out when you did. A few bystanders were killed in the attack. The Gale Force is looking into identifying them so their families can be informed, but they've been stretched thin with spy efforts lately.

"It's a huge risk putting all of this into a letter, but I'm doing my best to get it smuggled out of here and away from enemy hands. I've got a friend in one of the amnesty medic units, but even that is not guaranteed safe. Don’t expect further correspondence from me.

"Tell the Wizard that we're working around the clock to find ways to break through the roadblocks and get the city restored. We'll succeed or die trying.

"-Bruno."

We sit in silence together, letting the verbal ghost of Bruno linger. The Wizard stares at the letter, tapping his index finger against the table.

"That's it?" he asks.

I flip the letter over; nothing is on the back. "That's it," I reply.

He drags his hand over the lower half of his face, leaning back into the booth. "They haven't even counted the dead yet," he says to no one in particular.

Those words linger over the meal as we half-heartedly eat our bacon sandwiches and drink watery burnt coffee. Every bite feels like a herculean effort, knowing that my own sister is being kept in a freezer and that Bruno alone is seeing to her being fed while also fighting a siege. If I was ever going to see her again, I would have to find a way to slip away from the Wizard, before we got on that train to Rouncible.

We head back to the concierge to find that mail has arrived with two envelopes for Oscar Diggs in care of Engine 1701. If I pretend I have a question to ask the conductor once we get back to the train, I think, then I can get away and have time to hide.

"Anything good?" I ask him. I have to act normal.

"Death tolls," he says quietly, eyes glued to the one paper. We slip away from the counter where people might hear us and onto a wooden bench meant for passengers heading back to Wittica. This far up into the Pertha hills, there are hardly any trains that continue north. There were a few smaller villages up north and the hunting lodges for the particularly wealthy, but they were so few and far between that the board for departures going north only showed one time of departure for seven o'clock this evening.

"How bad?" I ask, placing a reassuring hand on his forearm. He turns from the paper, briefly glancing to where I have touched him, and then looks me in the eye.

"Hundred of the palace guards. Half the Emerald Guard. Some party guests," he says.

I squeeze his arm, trying to let him know that everything will be okay. "We can come back from it. There's always the backup of Gillikin."

He doesn't say anything to that, simply moving on to the next letter. This one is from Governor Thropp. Good news that makes me breathe a sigh of relief. A favor repaid was exactly what the Wizard needed. He tears the letter open and as he reads it his face darkens into a grave expression.

"Thropp isn't coming," he says.

There are no good words to say to that. It's impossible. I know nothing of the man, but everything of the Wizard. You did not refuse the Wizard of Oz. Whatever power he had, he had earned the name Oz the Great and Terrible. He was the Wonderful Wizard of Oz and all of the benevolence that came with the title. Maybe he didn't get everything he wanted, but it would be unthinkable to refuse him. To be in direct rebellion would be a sign of wickedness of the heart.

The Wizard gets up from the wooden bench and walks silently toward the exit for the train platform. I follow after him, my pathetic boots clicking on the tile floor to match his long strides.

"Morrible said she was going to talk to the Lord-Mayor," I offer, trying to bring some ray of shining hope back into the situation.

He doesn't respond to that.

"A thousand guards is more than enough to replace what we lost," I offer. We are back to the train car and he turns on me.

"I don't want to hear it!" he snaps, startling me. "I am good as dead without Thropp's help. I have no way of forcing him to help if all of my troops are locked in an Emerald Box. Do you get that? Everything…. Everything that I have built for the past fifty years is about to be rocks. It’s going to be rubble. Just..." He shuts his eyes and inhales deeply, hands held up to silence. "I need time to think. I- I need to be alone."

I can feel my bottom lip trembling as he steps into the passenger car and shuts the door behind him. This is what I wanted, right? To be left unsupervised so that I could slip off? There are a few strangers milling about the train station – bums, really, with the holes in their clothes and shoes worn fabric-thin – but I need to be alone. I need privacy. My hand reaches for the passenger car handle but shies away from it. The train station seems like exactly the wrong place, so I hop down onto the tracks, hoping to find some engine heading back to Wittica. As I step around engine 1701,  I peer into the cab, hoping that the conductor has stepped away for a bit.

Unfortunately, when I get to the doorway, I can see a man in a sooty gray uniform – probably a railway worker – sweeping coal dust out from the cab floor of the engine. I try to slip away without notice but he calls out to me.

"Oy! Miss! You can't be running around the tracks!" he shouts. "You're going to get run over."

"I'm sorry," I say, feeling my cheeks burn as if I were a child scolded. Near the engine component, the smell of smoke and ash is unavoidable. It makes it impossible to think about anything else besides wanting to hold your nose. There is a creeping fear that if you breathe too deeply you'll die hacking up a lung.

"Well then get off alright?" he says. "I'm pulling this engine out in ten minutes and I don't want anything gumming up the works."

I hurry back around the train, wishing that I could punch him for ruining my plans. I have ten minutes to disappear before the Wizard comes out to get me.

Once back up on the platform, I walk down it quickly enough to put some distance between me and the train. I need to be careful not to walk too fast so that anyone looking might make note of me and report which direction I went to the Wizard if he came looking. Frottica is almost identical to Settica and I smile for a moment thinking how funny it is that the two towns form drab slices of bread for the colorful sandwich of Wittica. There are some plain-looking shops just ahead: a tailor, a bakery, a bank. Those will be the first places he looks. I make a right turn down the cobblestone street, pulling my coat tighter around me from the biting wind. Wherever I'm going, I need to get there soon, before I get frostbite.

I scan the shops, trying to swallow the fresh memory of the Wizard tearing into me. It really was my fault for setting him off like that. Why couldn't I have just kept my big mouth shut? It was so obvious that things had gone from bad to worse with the lack of support from Munchkinland. A thousand guards would not be anywhere near enough if his estimates of a 5000-strong Winkie host were true. Optimism only got you so far, and even I knew that. Why else would I be running away to save my sister by myself? Whatever magic he holds would do no good if she ended up dead.

I turn the corner, thanking the Unnamed God that I am finally doing what's right. If I had stayed on that train I might as well have signed her death certificate. I would need to come back here and find the railway worker someday to thank him. If he hadn't told me that the train was pulling out in ten minutes-

I stop, trying to put two and two together. Maybe it had been the awful choking smoke or the biting cold, but the man who was in the cab of the engine looked nothing like the barrel-chested and balding man from the boiler room.

I grab my head, trying to focus. I need to keep going, to get out of here before someone comes looking for me. And yet, here I am worrying about some stupid train conductor… or was he a railway worker? My feet refuse to budge any further down the cobblestone street.

Something is wrong. I don't know how long I've been gone, but if I can warn him, maybe he'll listen. If something really is wrong he can fix it and I’ll find another way to get away while he’s fixing it. My hand grips the ten dollars in my pocket as I race back to the train. It's a promise: a promise that after this, it'll be the last time I see him.

I'm wheezing when I get back to the platform, the thin and icy air stabbing my lungs with its crystalline fingers, but I can't help smiling. The train is still there. I made it in time. Ten yards away from the platform, the train blows its whistle and slowly the smile drops from my face. My legs are still running, but I know I won't be able to get off if I get on. Smoke has already started to billow up from the stack.

The thought about optimism from earlier occurs to me. He wasn't guaranteed to save my sister, only I could do that. But if there was something wrong with the train conductor, who would warn him? Who was there to save him?

The wheels creak forward and I push my legs harder and faster into the ground, diverting my course toward the moving train. I reach the door and heave it open to find the Wizard standing there. He pulls me in and shuts the door.

"I felt the train start moving and I- I didn't realize we were leaving so soon." His eyes roam over me, taking in my wind-reddened face and the way I'm gasping for air. "I'm sorry that I said that stuff earlier. It's just that-"

"Something's wrong," I cut him off, wheezing. "The train... Something's wrong."

[almosthonest]

Luther and Metal Music

was inspired by @desmon1995 's post on derailed so if you have not looked at that please check it out! they had a very great explanation about luther and the connection to rock and roll and i am here to expand on that (which is very on brand for me considering that this is a heavy metal blog).

although rock n' roll was started by POC (as is almost any other genre) most people want to put a white face on it. this has been happening since the sixties (like with the beatles and i think frankie lymon, i will fix this if it's wrong, elvis presley and chuck berry, etc). but this is more about heavy metal. black sabbath is considered one of the bands to be associated with the first to do it (them and deep purple, might i'd add) and they're credited for the new wave of british heavy metal (nwobhm) movement.

metal, especially within the eighties have become not only a male dominated genre, but a white, male dominated genre. they're the ones often doing most of the gatekeeping, the "name three songs" type. anyone who is a poc can probably name an instance where this has happened to them. and a lot of people will call poc "whitewashed" because they listen to alternative genres, when that is simply not the case. we simply created those genres and like everything else, we have been pushed out of them.

now, i wanna talk about going down specifically. if anyone has done their homework (or is a big metal junkie like i am) you will notice that the song sounds a lot like toxicity by nu metal band system of a down. and i honestly don't think this is on accident. i think lmm had something cooking when he did this. (edit : eisa actually had the heavy metal idea i just am sleep deprived/forgot, but you got the point. she was cooking with this idea).

system of a down is an armenian band, all of their members are armenian and they have been out and proud against the armenian genocide and have always been so political about something like this. the fact that luther is a guy with beliefs that contradict that is such a genius move. he wants to watch the world burn and system of a down wants the complete opposite of that. and i know system of a down doesn't come out until the nineties and it absolutely might be a stretch but that's what i think every single time i listen to going down. i think it still stands that luther listens to metal without when realizing to context of what some of it says. metal is also sometimes political and most of it leans left, especially in the eighties.

also metal is interpreted to be "angry-sounding". luther could've been angry at a multitude of things. like cyrus wanting to form an alliance against cops (and i actually stand by the theory that victor is luther's father, thanks @sopaprimordialy ). which once again, contradicts many of the beliefs of the metal genre and the metalhead subculture.

in conclusion, but sorry luther, you're kind of a poser. all jokes aside though. luther is once again the established white face. he is someone who camouflages into the subculture and can do it very well because of its known aggressiveness (and even some metalheads today unfortunately would have the same beliefs as luther. i blame pantera, specifically phil anselmo, their lead singer. dumbass). it is just that easy to be a metalhead and be angry at the wrong things at hand.

[pencap]

.

[the-crooked-library]

opened tiktok (mistake number one, i know) and immediately saw someone saying that Thomas Hutter subverts the "disbelieving husband" trope which... listen i love a thoroughly pathetic mess of a man myself and i get that Ellen's other option is a 400yo evil corpse, but can we please not give him credit for things he didn't do?..

the literal inciting incident of the story is that Thomas DOESN'T listen to Ellen. he doesn't believe her. she tells him that she's got a bad feeling about this trip, begs him not to go, tells him about her nightmare - and what does he do? he calls it a childish fantasy, tells her to stop worrying, and implies that she would benefit from talking to a doctor. saying shit softly doesn't make it any less dismissive or insulting, like i'm sorry but this is peak Disbelieving Husband in a Horror Movie behaviour. he only changed his mind once Orlok put him through the horrors himself, which is also a perfectly standard thing for a Disbelieving Husband to do in the second act. furthermore, from the beginning of the film, he neglects Ellen's emotional needs, is uncomfortable with her abnormalities, and doesn't even really know what sort of gifts she likes - and again, these are all standard flaws for a Disbelieving Husband to exhibit. they're indicative of a disconnect between him and his wife that he continuously refuses to bridge.

caring for someone doesn't mean you can't neglect or harm them, and that applies to everyone - including Normal People like Thomas, like Harding, like Sievers, like the viewer; and that's the point of the film

[bonefall]

The really sad thing about the narrative of DOTCs is I can legit see Bumble and Grey Wing becoming Friends. Instead the authors put Grey against her because in the distance future Firestar has to be the special lil guy and break the kittypet bloodline weakness curse or something (still love ya Fire.)

I'm not sure... I think the Gray Wing they wrote is so nasty and spiteful that he was always going to hate Bumble, because she "took" his romantic interest from him. I think to like Gray Wing, you have to like a completely new character.

He isn't wise, at all. He's actually completely oblivious. To Clear Sky, to his partners, to his adopted children's feelings. He has a couple nice interactions with Pebble Heart and that's about it.

His emotions are constantly clouding his judgement. Spite towards Bumble, adoration for Clear Sky, frustration at Turtle Tail coming down from heaven because she can't stay (???)

Complete misogynist. Judges female characters much more harshly than male characters around him, even going so far as to feel happy that Wind Runner has no ambition while she's nursing her kittens.

Tried to "comfort" her when her baby passed away by telling her "we can't save everyone and maybe it's for the best it died. Anyway it would be easier for you if you believed in Jesus."

This isn't even getting into the constant ridiculing of fat people and Chelford cats.

He's everything that sucks about male WC protags in a little bundle. Sad boy who has to get rewarded for all his "romantic suffering" with a womb to incubate his 'real' children after being a moron at best and a jackass at worst for 6 books.

I just can't see the character they wrote maintaining a friendship with Bumble. He seems like he'd come up with some stupid reason to dislike her and smugly cap it off with, "and that's that!" like he did when he was berating Turtle Tail for even thinking about going to live with her. And then the writers make everyone clap.

[lbhslefttiddie]

Could you talk a bit about how you plan out your longer fanfics? I’ve have a long fic I’ve been wanting to write, but I’m not sure how to plan/outline it, and I’d love to hear what your process is!!!

Mouse and the Thorn and Into This Wild Abyss had some very different things going on in the planning stage—it really came down to what kind of story i was telling and what was important for executing that!

(longish sowwy)

ITWA, from the moment i conceived it, revolved around sqq going through a largely preordained plot, and so i created a longass bullet list of all the major plot points and moved them around into the general order i felt it was best for them to happen. I generally kept the points brief and without flavour, lest it mess with the writing of the scene itself or I get bored of it before i even start. There was some variance in the writing stage, partially because i (cough) forgot to add several plot points in the originally planned spaces (see: xin mo), and partially because that's just sort of how it goes when you're actually feeling out a chapter, but the outline was like a guide that i would be able to pull back towards if i strayed too far, and allowed me to keep the end destination in mind, and keep track of important details. All told, the core aspects laid out in the outline didn't change much in the finished product. Frankly, it was huge relief to have that outline!! It definitely saved my ass many times. Truly a revelatory experience for me.

MotT, on the other hand, doesn't so much have a hard plot—lbh is currently 13 years old, before even the beginning of scum villain, so even the plot that comes built into this universe is a very distant thing. We basically just have a core cast of a few inextricably connected characters who are constantly influencing each other, and the "plot" is really just who is going through what character arc at this particular point in time.

Trying to create an outline would, to me, feel horribly rigid, when a lot of flexibility is necessary for something like this. Instead, i have a handful of cool scenes in my head, a general sense for where each character is at and where they're going, and it's just a matter of passing the mic around in a way that feels balanced for whatever arc we're in.

............It's worth mentioning that the way i've written/am writing MotT, while i think is for the best for this project, is also way fucking harder than how ITWA was planned and written. I've mentioned this before in passing i think, but on multiple occasions, i'll have written entire scenes out, and then need to push them back or move them around way more than anticipated because Something Else Needs To Happen First. (this also reflects in my art; the files are listed by date rather than chapter, and so some clusters of art are actually in backwards order--i did the art for what became ch 16 before 15, and 15 before 14)

It's not necessarily a problem, and I'm certainly enjoying myself, but this messy and fluid way of putting a story together straight up would not be possible if i did not already have a solid sense for pacing and balancing emotional elements. I'm absolutely certain that even a few years ago i would not have had the skill to write this fic without writing myself into a corner or rushing everything in a forced way or losing something important to the core of the story; i would go so far as to say this story is only possible because I wrote ITWA first.

I definitely would not recommend this strategy for your first longfic, personally. obviously, do what feels right for yourself, etc, and at the end of the day you should never let concerns of skill or experience stop you from writing the stories you want, but i think this process could, uh. Cause headaches. If you're out of your depth

[readwritealldayallnight]

I would love a take on boyfriend Ghost coming home to surprise you, but he finds your bed empty and doesn't realize that you are in his room in his bed. Thanks.

The placebo effect, was what he kept trying to convince you it had to be, no matter how many times you rolled your eyes and told him he was wrong

How else could one explain your insistence that Simon’s bed smelled so much like him, becoming your safe space when he was away on long deployments, when he only ever slept with you in your bed most nights to begin with

Hard to believe it was nearly three years ago now that you’d told your friend since childhood, Johnny, about how your search for a new flat was going miserably. You remember how he’d perked up and recounted with a mischievous glint in his eye about how his Lieutenant was apparently searching for a flat mate at the moment, someone who’d be looking after the place while he was away for work

Unsure about living with a strange man you’d never met before, but trusting Johnny’s judgement (though the way he seemed just a bit too eager about this meeting did kind of throw you off-) you had reluctantly agreed to meet with him and at least give the flat a glance before you simply turned him down

It wasn’t until you were knocking at the door of the address Johnny had written down for you, that you’d realized he’d never even given you the man’s goddamn name, only ever referring to him at Lieutenant or LT

Johnny apparently also failed to mention the absolute SIZE of the guy, his huge frame blocking nearly all of the light from behind him as he had swung the door open and stood in the doorway before you

In a slight panic, thrown off by the massive man before you and the way the butterflies in your stomach suddenly began to flutter at the sight of him, you had greeted him for the first time with a squeaky, unsure voice saying ‘Um, hi, are you the Mr Lieutenant?’ (something he has never let you live down since)

He knew then and there that you would be the one

Not just his flatmate (though what a generous flatmate he was when he offered insisted on moving all your boxes out of your old place and into his that very same day), but the one, something he reluctantly had to give Soap credit for, seeing as he was the one who wouldn’t stop talking his ear off about you

You would be his other half, his better half

And all these years later, the two bedroom flat truly only acted as a one bedroom, considering that from the start Simon was always falling into your bed with you at the end of each night, limbs tangled together under the warmth of a lovers embrace a thousand times more comforting than an actual comforter

Still though, that first time Simon had to be gone for work longer than a few weeks, you found the lingering odor of him clinging to his bedsheets to be one of the few things keeping you sane in his absence, taking to sleeping in his room for the time being, imagining that the pillow you cling to your front was a strong muscular arm instead, littered in scars and tattoos you feel confident you could recognize from touch alone

And when his long awaited flight back home to you landed a few hours earlier than expected, tires touching down in the dark, stillness of late night hour, he decided he’d surprise you and come straight home, rather than calling you to meet him at the base like you’d insisted, not wanting to wake you

Barely able to contain himself, he decided the elevator ride up to the seventh floor would take too long, take away precious seconds that brought him closer to you, and so up the flight of stairs he went, taking them two or three at a time, rushing to see the face etched behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes, to hear the voice that haunted his dreams each night

Quietly as a man his size could, he crept into the flat, snuck his way into your room, expecting to see your sweet, sleeping form cuddled up amongst the blankets and pillows. But his heart dropped when he noticed the bed was still perfectly made, not a thread out of place.

Trying to remain calm, though his mind was instantly swarming with every possible scenario that could have taken place, he knew he saw your shoes and jacket by the door, you couldn’t have gone far… but where were you?

He glanced into the living room, wondering if he missed you sleeping on the couch after a long day, he poked his head into the bathroom, even went so far as to check the small balcony, but finally there was only one door left to open.

And there you were, safe and sound, a tiny ball curled up into the center of his huge bed, clinging to one of his old masks and holding it close to your chest as though it were a security blanket (you’d been sleeping in his bed so much you needed something that still smelled strongly of him, you were getting desperate)

Stripping himself down to only his boxers, he tiptoed towards the side of the bed, his mind finally feeling more at peace than he ever had, gently pulling the sheets back just enough for him to slip in behind you, his strong arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you into his muscular chest

Though it should be alarming to suddenly feel a pair of hands roaming over your skin, a body holding you firmly against their own, it’s as though your body knows who it is before your mind does

Any tension you were still holding onto during his absence instantly melts away, your own hands coming to land over top of his, giving a slight squeeze of acknowledgment, not yet willing to fully leave your half asleep state, but needing to touch him, to confirm he really is here

“Hmm,” You hum, voice groggy with sleep and a smile slowly stretching across your lips, snuggling further into his embrace. “You’re home.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, breathing you in, wishing he could bottle up the scent of your shampoo and lotions and perfumes, if only to have something to hold onto while he’s away, understanding now why he found you in this bed rather than your own

“I am.” He whispers into your hair, sensing that you’re already drifting back into dream land, safe in his arms and his bed, knowing he’ll be there when you wake. He feels his chest tighten when he knows that you weren’t talking about the fact that he’s physically home, in the flat, but something more, something much more, because he means the same thing when he tells you, “You’re my home too, love.”

[tojisun]

the apple that rolled over to the tree

!! fluff; f!reader; parenthood!!; simon-centric hehe >:3 // divider by @/plutism!

there is a… kid attached to your hip when simon returns home from a mission, his exhausted body stumbling into the kitchen where he finds you and it.

“what—”

he can’t even fathom the emotion coursing through him at the moment, what with shock triumphing over everything. still, you’d probably need to give him credit for not losing his goddamn mind at seeing a whole child — he couldn’t have been more than two years old with how he’s only three apples tall — clinging to you like a baby koala.

“oh my god, you’re back!” you squeal, unfazed at how dumbfounded your fiance has become, before shuffling close to embrace him.

simon reciprocates the hug anyway.

you step back, your lips still wobbling in your tears as you stare up at him, all awed like you couldn’t believe that he was back and simon wishes he can press his promises to your lips because he will always find a way to come back, he swears on his life, but also—

the child.

“sweetheart?” he begins, soft as to not spook you or the kid. “who’s, uh, who’s that?”

the child shifts, turning his little face from where it was burrowed onto your neck at the sound of simon’s voice. he rests his head on your clavicle, smooshing his already chubby cheek, before the biggest brown eyes that simon’s ever seen stare up at him, all doe-eyed and jarringly innocent, and simon, he—

well, not even babysitting tommy’s kids prepared him for this.

“this is yasha,” you murmur, pulling simon’s attention back to you. “or yakov, or james if he would want an english name.”

the boy reacts to you calling his name, and simon watches as those curious eyes tip up at you in question. you swipe your finger over his nose, the little thing scrunching up at the ticklish feeling, and simon becomes breathless at seeing the unadulterated joy in your face.

it is all parts soft and tender, but also anxious and worried, and simon begins to puzzle out the pieces.

“he’s my foster child. or ours, i guess, now that you’re here.” your voice is so fragile as you reply to him, your hand now beginning to rub soothing nothings on the boy’s back. simon wonders if it’s more to calm yourself down than it is to comfort the boy.

your lips purse, hesitating, and simon waits because while he he’s pieced out what you want to ask, he knows that this is something you would want to truly talk to him about. it is something he knows you have mustered up the courage to bring up so he gives it to you, open and ready, and he hopes that his face and his gait show that whatever it is you would want to say, simon will always support you no matter what.

“si?” you begin, looking heart-wrenchingly small in your worry. “i think i wanna adopt him.”

simon hums, stepping close but also being careful not to crowd yasha, before he curls his arms around you two — his family — and nuzzles his face on your other shoulder. “i’d love that.”

he offers you a smile, and squeezes your arm in comfort, then he watches as the tears come, easily springing up from your eyes. yasha startles, whirling to look up at his mother in worry. simon’s throat constricts at the thought of you being a mother and him, a father; how, now, there is someone else for simon to come home to. someone to fight for.

jesus. he’d need to tell the lads and maybe get wasted as a celebration.

“owies?” yasha asks, chubby fist balling your shirt.

“they’re happy tears, sweetie pie,” you reply, crooning. “i’m just so, so happy.”

yasha hums, nodding, probably already distracted, and simon takes that time to straighten back up. he pushes your hair away from your face, before he pitches forward to press a kiss on your forehead.

yeah, he’s happy too.

.

yasha gets spoiled, not that simon’s complaining given that he’s been the one doing all the spoiling.

“really, si? a new toly?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest in your exasperation.

toly or anatoly, or tory because yasha still can’t speak properly, is the name that yasha gave to all of his new stuffed toys. it all started with a dog plush that simon bought from the supermarket on a whim and gave to the boy. it was laughably quick how yasha had abandoned his blocks to make grabby hands to the toy, before squealing out that name.

the next stuffed toy that yasha received, which was just the softest and roundest penguin plush toy that simon’s ever seen, was also named toly. so was that teddy bear you bought for him. or that reindeer he got for christmas. somehow, every single one had been named toly.

the only thing you and simon can find about toly was that anatoly means sunrise. simon was so sure it was the russian word for animal, because why else would yasha repeat it, but who would have thought that their little fish is so imaginative?

like, of course he’s going to name all of his toys toly because they are as warm as sunrises. see? smart kid.

but this one, this new toly, set off world records. it was a camel plush that simon saw at the airport when he was out, pretending to be a civilian.

(garrick had been assigned with him for that mission, and was quick to spot and mention simon’s on-duty purchase.

“it’s for my boy,” he grunted in reply, forgetting the fact that he’s yet to truly break the news to his squad. garrick had never looked as surprised, and next thing simon knew, the news made its way to their group chat.

price was amiable about the whole thing. mactavish? not so much.

he just about begged to see a picture of yasha — “and yer girl again, if you wouldn’t mind.” — or even visit him. then he invited garrick to come and price invited himself too, so now the guys are going to swing by some time soon.)

when simon gave it to yasha, their boy had stared at it for a solid minute — simon counted — before screaming and then running to snatch the toy from simon’s hold. he hugged the camel close to his person, his little head nuzzling against the plush face of the camel, all the while absolutely vibrating in unabashed excitement.

he picked up thundering footsteps and turned around just enough to see you literally slide into the room. yasha continued to hug the camel, ignorant of the distress he caused, while you looked on in your panic, buzzing with worry because you just heard your boy scream, damn it!

“he’s fine, bub,” simon said before you could ask, and he watched as you came down from your frenzy, your breathing slowing down at the rationalization that if simon was not panicked, then everything’s alright.

then, your eyes landed on the new stuff toy.

“really?” you asked.

in his defence, yasha adores camel-toly.

in your defence, yasha’s room is running out of space for his tolys.

…well, simon does have all that military money. gonna have to spend it on something else, right?

.

[charlie foxtrot]

sriley: link

john2: ????

sriley: new address.

garry: oh? congratulations.

sriley: thanks.

johnp: 👍

.

yasha was shy when saying hi to price, then outright cried when he saw mactavish, which made simon bark out loud in laughter. yasha only stopped sniffling when he saw kyle. in no time, yasha absolutely adored garrick to the point that he would not even let him go.

dinner was prepared and while you called them all to eat, simon ambled out of the kitchen, where he had been helping you, and walked towards kyle and yasha to pick up his son and seat him on his high chair. but yasha had only looked at him, his head tilted in question, before ignoring simon and clinging onto kyle.

hell, he had even let go of camel-toly so that he could use two chubby fists to hold onto kyle. surprised, simon didn’t even know how to react and watched as his sergeant offered him an apologetic smile before carrying his son to the dining room. kyle rounded the table and sat yasha on his high chair, only, yasha made a scene when kyle did so, and he released a lungful of screams and cries, breaking everyone’s eardrums and their hearts.

kyle stood there, worried and confused, and hovered because he did not know what to do. hell, none of them did, and then you walked out of the kitchen, rushing to yasha, and hummed songs to comfort your son.

you crooned when he made grabby hands to be picked up and you did so with no hesitation, your touch soothing the boy into quiet sniffles. but even then, yasha wouldn’t settle down as he wriggled in your arms, short limbs reaching for—

simon glowered.

yasha was reaching for kyle. you were quick to giggle, asking kyle if it was alright that yasha would eat with him, and simon had glared at his sergeant, daring him to deny their son of anything, before reluctantly nodding his approval at kyle’s happy trill of, “of course, ma’am!”

yasha had finally calmed down when you sat him on kyle’s lap, and his boy was even polite enough to actually eat his soft veggies every time kyle beckoned him to open his mouth for a new spoonful.

simon did not startle, but it was close, when your hand landed on his thigh.

“you okay, baby?” you asked, eyes furrowed in your worry.

“yeah,” he remembers replying with, his throat all choked-up because he knows yasha must be excited to have new people to play with, but still, there was something that stung when his boy chose garrick over him.

not that it was kyle’s fault because he is a dear for even doing all that he did for yasha, but simon had hoped that he would always be yasha’s favourite.

too lost in his thoughts, simon had almost missed yasha’s call.

“-ddy? daddy?” yasha asked, startling simon.

it was not the first time yasha called him that, but every time he did, it never fails to make simon melt.

“yeah? what’s up, buddy?”

simon pretended that no one was watching the interaction.

yasha giggled, hiding his food-smeared lips behind his little palms, before turning to use garrick’s front to hide from simon. you snorted, murmuring to kyle how you swear you would wash his shirt before they go, but it’s all buzz to simon because his son — his darling boy — wanted to play with him during dinner.

yasha peeked at him again, before giggling once more when he caught simon’s eyes. this continued on until dinner ended, with simon occasionally miming growling monsters to induce more hearty giggles from his son, and being rewarded with the happiest laughter ever.

simon turned to you, with his heart on his throat, and beamed.

“aww,” mactavish sang from somewhere beside him. “ain’t that adorable— argh!”

simon had swung his arm out and thumped his fist on johnny’s stomach. thank god, yasha had chosen that time to hide his face again on kyle’s stomach.

.

“unca’ john?” yasha asks in a stage-whisper because everyone within earshot just heard him even with his attempt to be quiet. it’s only their training that stopped simon from acting like he’s noticed.

“yeah, bubsy?” john replies, sounding so utterly soft that this version of him is so foreign to simon.

“this tory,” yasha says and simon discreetly peeks to see which toly is being introduced to uncle john — it’s the elephant one.

price gasps theatrically like he hadn’t seen yasha drool all over this elephant toy before, and puffs out, “how cute!”

“mhmm,” yasha says, nodding, then smacks the face of the toy on john’s face. the trunk smooshes against john’s nose, and thank god that elephant-tory is soft because that aim would have been lethal if it wasn’t.

“jesus—” price gasps out.

“language!” simon hisses, and ducks his head back down just before yasha could catch him peeking.

.

yasha is now four and he still gets teary eyed when he sees johnny. simon placates his friend and says it’ll pass soon. maybe.

basically, i wanted to write a fic wherein simon’s reaction to being presented with a child is “what— oh okay, sure why not” and (literally in 20 minutes) “i will kill everything for this child” and so here we are

a simon spinoff - it takes a rampage (to be a dad)

[motorsportbarbie13]

A Package Deal - Part 3

In which things are made official.

Warnings: smut in the middle. lando being jealous. Pairing: Lando x SingleMom!Reader Word Count: 4.6k words

(a note: happy new year loves!!! hope you enjoy part three!!)

- A Package Deal - A Package Deal - Part 2 - Master List

yourusername (private) posted

yourusername testing testing... BFFSarah so jealous! >>>yourusername miss you! ❤️ landonorris stalker >>>yourusername 😘 >>>BFFSarah 👀

"I'm funnier than Greg, right?" Lando grumbles, not even bothering to take his eyes off of you.

"Mate, what?" Oscar replies, eyes narrowed, totally mystified as to what the hell his teammate is talking about. "Like, Greg, the guy on the strategy team Greg?"

"Yeah, him." Lando raises his chin towards where you stand opposite of said strategy Greg, laughing (even louder this time) at something he's said. Lando knuckles go white on the counter he's standing when Greg leans in just a bit too close for his comfort.

It was the first day of testing in Bahrain and Lando had just come in from his first test stint of the 2025 season. When he'd walked into the garage a few minutes earlier, he'd instantly clocked where you stood near the back of the garage staring up at a few computer monitors beside his newest nemesis, Greg. At first he hadn't thought anything of it but then he heard you laugh, a sound that was quickly becoming one of his favorite things, and he had stopped what he was doing to stare.

"I don't think I know Greg's sense of humor well enough to be the judge of that." Oscar responds, still confused as to why Lando was asking him such a random question. When Oscar follows Lando's line of sight though, everything clicks into place and starts to make a lot more sense.

"Oh..." He mutters, unable to quell the smirk that surfaces.

"'Oh' what?" Lando snaps, still attempting to assassinate Greg with a glare.

"You're jealous." Oscar practically giggles. He might be the quieter one of the driver duo, but that quiet demeanor meant that he noticed a lot more than other people gave him credit for and Oscar had caught onto Lando's crush after the first time he had stumbled into your office and disappeared on him for hours.

Lando finally tears his eyes away from where you're standing, still staring up in rapt attention to Greg. "I most certainly am not." He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest in a move that is very reminiscent of a Stella temper tantrum.

"You two aren't even together, are you?" Oscar reasons, doing next to nothing to reassure Lando that he has nothing to be worried about.

Lando narrows his eyes at the Australian as he fights a pout. "I mean, no. Not technically, I guess."

And that was the problem, wasn't it? You two had been on a few dates and he'd been coming over to your house to hang with you and Stella more and more but a serious discussion of what was happening? He'd been too scared to have that kind of talk with you so quick. You made him nervous but being rejected by you sounded even worse.

"Maybe you should like, talk to her about it then? If that's what you want? I mean, I've never seen the sight of a girl talking to someone else send you into orbit like this before. You really like her, don't you?"

Oscar had worked hard to keep his opinion of you and Lando together to himself. He hated when people commented on his relationship with Lily, which was a big reason why they were so quiet together, so he had made it a point not to press when it came to you. He'd spent most of the morning with you though, while Lando was in the car and he could see why Lando was so attached to you already. You were wicked smart and the program that you had been writing for the team was impressive. He knew there were other people in Lando's life that didn't think the driver could handle being with someone like you but the more Oscar got to know you, the more he could see why you two got on so well.

Lando's gaze slides back to you then. "I do, yeah." He murmurs, a sudden sense of determination settling over him. Before he has the chance to chicken out once again, he pats Oscar on the back and starts off towards where you and Greg are still huddled together in front of a computer screen.

"Greg, can I steal her away from you real quick?" Lando says by way of greeting, his tone needlessly possessive. "Will and I wanted to go through last sessions data with you before lunch." He lies.

You hadn't noticed the way Lando had been staring daggers at you and Greg up until that very moment but the feral look he's giving you takes you by surprise. Greg had approached you as Lando's session had wound down and your new program was stretching its legs on your laptop. He wanted to talk about the inputs you were adding in for this year and give you some feedback on the initial data capture of this morning's session. It was totally innocent and when Lando had slid up next to you practically breathing fire, you had been a bit caught off guard.

"I'll see you at the cocktail party later tonight, Greg." You give him a smile before turning back to Lando. "Where do you want to go, the debrief room?"

"Sure." Lando huffs, giving Greg a fake smile before grabbing your elbow and leading you towards an empty conference room. Like hell you were going to see Gregory at any point for the rest of the day.

You're totally confused at the way he's practically dragging you down the hallway and even more perplexed when Lando nearly slams the door closed behind him and you find the debrief room completely empty. "Where's Will?"

"What?" Lando frowns.

"You said you and Will wanted to go over some data after your session." Annoyance moves through you. What in the world was going on?

"Oh, yeah no. I lied." Lando glares at you like you're the insane one, frown deepening.

"Lando!" You sputter, resisting the urge to chuck the nearest laptop at his head. "I was in the middle of a conversation with Greg."

When he rolls his eyes, you swear you see red. "Yeah, I know. We all saw how endlessly entertaining the conversation was."

The pout that finds it's way onto his face is what unlocks everything for you though. Sudden understanding washes over you as it all finally clicks.

"You're jealous!" You gasp, desperately trying not to burst into a fit of giggles.

Lando at least as the decency to look a bit ashamed of his behavior but attempts to deny it. "I am not."

You arch an eyebrow at the man standing across from you as if he's not the easiest book in the world to read. "Lando Norris, you were jealous of a man who was telling me all about how his boyfriend took him on a trip to the Bahamas over the holidays and got bitten by a wild swimming pig."

The way Lando's cheeks go scarlet as he crosses his arms over his chest nearly has you doubled over with laughter.

"Oh."

"Oh is right, you muppet." You chuckle, using the term of endearment he's become famous for. In a few strides, your within arms length of him, tugging at the waist of his half unzipped race suit. Lando takes a step forward as you pull him closer.

"Jealously looks good on you, Norris." You smirk before giving him a quick peck on the cheek, mindful of the fact that you're still at work.

Lando settles his hands on your hips, drawing you even closer to him, seemingly forgetting that he's still at work. He grins down at you, a flirty glint sparking in his eyes.

"Yeah, well. What can I say? The sight of some idiot flirting with my girlfriend kind of set me off."

Your hands slip around Lando's waist. Heart hammering so fast you're amazed Lando can't hear it, you beam up at him. You'd never experienced the kind of contentment and safety you felt whenever you were with Lando before. He frequently caught you off balance like this and had you feeling like you were a teenager again, still believing in fairy tales and happy endings.

"Girlfriend, huh?"

"That's right." He whispers. The rasp in his voice has you pressing your hips into his, seeking friction from his body.

"Well, since I'm your girlfriend then I guess you’ll be needing this for later tonight." Reaching into the back pocket of your jeans, your fingers find the thin plastic card you'd stashed there to slip into Lando's hand sometime this afternoon.

Anticipation sparks between your bodies as Lando figures out what you've just pressed into his palm. All this time he'd been building up this big conversation that he thought had to be had and nervously putting so much pressure on himself to do this all the right way. It had only taken a matter of seconds though and you had reminded him that it like most everything that happened between you and him, this was easy too. There's a silent understanding that passes between you two then that maybe this was how it was supposed to be from the beginning and that sometimes wires get crossed and we meet people later than the universe intended.

"I have to get back to work and you should really find Will and actually debrief but I think I'd like to skip tonights cocktail hour if that's okay with you."

Lando reluctantly lets go and nods, swallowing around the thick lump of emotion stuck in his throat.

"Yeah." He croaks before reaching back out to bring your face to his, kissing you so intensely your knees buckle. "I'll see you tonight."

Not even five minutes after Lando responds to your text, you hear the beeping of the lock to your hotel room door and it swings open moments later. Anxiety flows through you despite the flirty text you'd just sent. This kind of thing was totally out of your wheel house, with most of your adult life spent focusing on your daughter and not dating. It had been Sarah's suggestion to send that risky text but after your conversation with Lando earlier, you were briefly confident that it would be well received. And judging by his response, you were right. That didn't do much to calm your nerves though so the knock on your door sends the butterflies in your belly flying around in what feels like a category five tornado.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Lando groans when he sees you kneeling on the bed waiting for him. Every thought tumbles straight out of his head at the sight of you waiting for him in nothing but black bits of lace. If he had known this was what had been waiting for him all night, he certainly wouldn't have gone to dinner with some of the team.

"You like it then?" You ask, barely resisting the urge to dive under the covers you feel so exposed under his gaze. Lando can't stop staring and it's starting to make you nervous, the way he's dragging his eyes up and down your body without making an attempt to move from where he stands just inside your hotel room.

"Like it? Baby, are you fucking kidding me? I don't think I've ever seen a prettier sight in my entire life." The rasp in his voice drags down your skin like sandpaper.

"Then stop staring and get over here."

Lando obeys immediately, toeing off his shoes before joining you on the bed. His hands find your hips and before you can make a sound, he's pulling you into his lap and attaching his lips to your neck.

"I think everyone got the impression I was about to be sick or something, I got up from that table so fucking fast." He mumbles against you. "Also, give me some warning next time you're going to send me that kind of thing, Osc nearly got an eye full of something that is for my eyes only."

Lando had been attempting to show Oscar something on his phone when your text had come through and the moment he'd swapped over to his iMessage app he was glad that Andrea had picked that exact second to call Oscar's name. He had shut down the message app so fast, all of his blood rushing straight from his head to below his belt.

"Oops." You giggle. "Sorry."

"You're not one bit sorry, don't lie."

All you do is shrug as you preen under his attention. He eyes drag lazy lines up and down your body, stalling when they fall on the black lace barely hiding your most intimate parts. The heat of his gaze has fire stoking deep in your belly and for the first time in years, you feel desired and wanted. It's an unfamiliar feeling that you're still getting used to but with Lando, it feels safe. You feel cared for and it's unlike anything you've ever experienced with anyone you've slept with before. Which, to be totally honest, wasn't a lot. You haven't been in a serious relationship since Stella's dad, the only dates you've gone on in the last six years usually ending in casual flings that don't end up meaning much outside of the bedroom.

This though? This feels different and you know Lando feels the same.

Lando's hands grip at your hips as he moves you off his lap briefly and stands up. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head when he unbuckles his belt with one hand, tugging it off in one smooth motion, the leather slapping against itself and echoing throughout the otherwise silent room. 

“Jesus.” You breathe and desperately try to catch your breath as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. You've known that Lando has a sinfully good body for a while, his entire career is centered around his body afterall so naturally, he is in amazing shape. There’s a reason that women will do next to anything to get any of the drivers in their bed. Nothing prepared you for the hard planes of his chest and the insane cut of his abs though. The way his waist nips in to show off a deep V cut of his torso makes your mouth water. With both his jeans and shirt now discarded, he stands in front of you in just a pair of gray boxers that do absolutely nothing to hide how rock hard he is.

Fuck. 

Before you can stop yourself, you rise up on your knees and move towards him, needing to get your hands on his body. On your knees before him while he’s standing, you only come up to his collar bones but that’s enough. You drop kisses on his heated flesh and relish the way his breath hitches in his throat when your lips make contact. He allows you to continue kissing him for several moments, his hands roaming all over your body. You don’t know how long it is but after his hands have taken full a full tour of your skin, he pulls back and looks at you with a primal glint in his eyes. “Lay down." He orders "I need my tongue on you. Now.” 

You obey and crawl back, watching him prowl after you. Your head rests on the pile of pillows as he covers you with his body and suddenly, the insecurity and anxiety from earlier flashes through your mind. You've never been with anyone who seemed to want to do anything but fuck you and then be done with it. This reverence for your body is completely foreign and the reality of what is about to happen crashes through the haze of lust that clouds your mind.

You must stiffen a bit because a frown appears on Lando's face as his arms cage you in and he hovers over you. “Baby?” 

You shake your head, refusing to let your insecurity ruin the night. Your eyes close and you take a deep breath to steady yourself.

“I’m fine.” You whisper but Lando doesn’t believe you. He drops back onto his knees and straddles you, drawing back so he can see your entire face. 

“What’s wrong? We don’t have to do this tonight if you’re not ready.” 

Your face heats, but from embarrassment this time. Fuck. You do not want to ruin this.

“No. It’s okay. I just…I’m just not used to this kind of attention.” You don’t tell him how your're used to being used for your body, for whatever pleasure your partner can get out of me and nothing more. You don’t tell him how insecure it makes you to think that he could do the same thing to you too, despite how safe and good he makes you feel no matter what. Sometimes, habits are hard to break. Especially habits that are born out of trauma. You can't tell him any of that though because you think it might break his heart. 

Lando tilts his head and seemingly understands what you're saying. “I don’t know what the fuck the guys in your life were thinking, having you in their bed and not treating you properly, but baby, I am not them. This is not about me, this is about you.” His fingers trace long, lazy lines from your shoulder down over your bra and continue down your body as you shudder with pleasure.

“That’s it." He coos. "I know you’re scared but I swear to you, you are safe with me.” His voice is barely a whisper but you can hear the sincerity in it. Your heart thunders in your chest as you hover between wanting to stop and throwing every bit of caution away and allowing him to do whatever he wants to you. 

“I know I am. I always have been.” You hum.

“Do you want to stop? You just have to say the word and we will. This is yours to control.” 

Your eyes search his for any trace of anger and when you find nothing but honesty in his face, you shake your head. “Please don’t stop.”

You desperately do not want him to stop. 

Once he’s sure you're okay, he crashes his mouth on yours once again and you melt into him. His body is so heavy on top of you but it feels oh so good. You never want it to end. You never want tonight to end. Lando presses kisses into your skin all down your body, starting at your jaw, moving slowly downwards. Kisses on that dip between your neck and shoulders, lower to your sternum, even lower to just above where your bra still sits. He stops then and snakes a hand behind you, lifting you up momentarily, and unclasps the back with surprising ease.

“Okay, that was way too easy for you.” You accuse, laughter bubbling up as he tosses the bra across the room. 

His eyes find yours and he shrugs casually, “What?” He feigns innocence, “Lucky first try?” 

“Oh, whatever. Get back to work.” You order, laughter teasing at the edge of your voice. 

Lando shakes his head again, dropping his head back where he had left off and turns his attention to one of your nipples, taking it fully in his mouth. You inhale a sharp breath at the sensation coursing through you. It feels like your skin is on fire, all leading down to a single throb between your legs. He hums in satisfaction when your back arches off the bed. A moan escapes your lips when he scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, the pain sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. After what feels like an eternity, he turns his attention to the other nipple, already pebbled and hard, aching for the same attention. Your mind goes blank as you focus on the jolts of electricity coursing through your body. Your hands tangle in his curls, gripping at the tangles of brown hair, needing something to latch onto. 

“Lan.” His name is a whispered prayer on your lips. 

“Fuck. Baby.” He comes up for air briefly to look at you again and you almost can’t stand to look at him, he looks so good. His lips are swollen from kissing you for so long and he's got this heavy lidded, lustful hazy gaze in his eyes that you've never seen from him before.

“You taste so good.” He rasps before shifting back up to land kisses on your lips. You're so focused on what his lips are doing that you completely miss his fingers digging into your hips. You let out a startled cry when the sound of ripping fabric cuts through the breathy sighs that have filled the room. 

“Lando!” You whine, “I liked those!” You look at the torn bits of black lace that he’s dropped next to him on the bed and sigh dramatically.

“They were in my way. I’ll buy you fifty more tomorrow.” Without waiting for a response, his hand dips down towards your pussy and anticipation climbs in you. You gasp when he sinks not one, but two fingers into the heat between your legs.  Your entire body aches off the bed towards his hand. “Christ. Baby. You are fucking soaked for me, aren’t you?” 

It’s all you can do to just nod an affirmation as he swirls his fingers in achingly slow circles. His thick fingers inch closer to your clit but manage to avoid it and you know he’s doing it on purpose. You wiggle your hips in search of that friction you crave so badly but every time you get close, he moves his fingers out of the way. By the fourth time this happens, you're a whimpering mess underneath him and Lando is clearly enjoying it. “Lando.” You whimper. “Touch me.” 

“I am touching you.” He drops another hot kiss on your jaw and traces his tongue down your neck. You swear you're going to explode from the sensations coursing through your body. 

“You know exactly what I fucking mean.” You snap and move your hips again, only to find his fingers just short of the destination you want them in yet again. 

An evil chuckle tickles your skin. “I like you like this. A pretty little mess underneath me. My girl is so wet for me, isn’t she?” 

His girl. The emotions crash through you at his words and every other thought beyond those two words leaves your brain. 

His girl. 

His girl. 

Your brain chants the all consuming phrase. 

Just when you think you can’t take it any more and you feel that familiar tug at the base of your spine and Lando finally gives you what you've been aching for. The pad of his thumb brushes against your clit and your hips fly off the bed towards his fingers. A cry escapes your lips as you claw at his back. He keeps up the same pace and you can feel yourself barreling towards a delicious release.

“Please. Don’t. Stop.” You pant, breath coming in short gasps as you rock your hips against his hand. Thankfully, he keeps his hand exactly where it is and allows you to grind against it, knowing that this is exactly what you need from him. His lips come down on yours again and when he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, you fly over the cliff.

Sweet release shatters your entire body and you stiffen against him. Your nails dig into his back, leaving little half moons embedded in his flesh. He’ll have red welts there for days and he couldn’t be happier about it. You don’t know how many times you cry out his name but he keeps completely still, allowing you to get the relief that you desperately need against him. 

When your orgasm subsides, you practically melt into the bed, mind too muddled with pleasure to talk. You open your eyes and grin lazily at Lando, who has shifted so he’s lying next to you on the bed. He’s grinning right back and tracing shiver-inducing lines up and down your naked skin.

“Fuck. Lando. That…” You are completely lost for words so it takes you a moment to form a complete sentence, “That was the first time anyones been able to make me come with just their fingers.” 

“Well, I’m glad I could be your first.” He smirks, dropping a kiss on your temple as he pulls you closer to him.

You turn to face him and you're struck at how handsome he is. His curly hair is messy from when you pulled at it while he was getting you off, his eyes glassy with satisfaction even though he hasn’t even come himself yet. He seems to get off just watching you and that is a completely foreign concept.

You reach out and feel the light stubble that covers his jaw, enjoying the rough feel against your fingers. You idly wonder what that stubble would feel like against your thighs and decide that you're just going to have to find out exactly what it feels like soon. That one single thought sends heat flooding through your veins once again and you're surprised. You've never considered myself to be one of those girls that could go several rounds. Usually you were finished after one orgasm, most of the time it was faked anyway. But with Lando laying next to you, you feel like you could do this for the rest of the night. A mischievous grin slips across your face as you reach over and push him back into the pillows.

Before you allow yourself to think about what you're doing, you straddle him and relish in the feeling of his dick that is now nudging against your ass. “I think I need you inside me now.” You tell him and squeal when his pupils blow and he flips you onto your back without warning. 

Hours later, you fall into such a deep sleep you don't notice Lando slip out of bed to get a drink of water from the bathroom. You'd spent the better part of the evening underneath him as he gradually worked you over so good you had lost count of how many times he had made you come.

The mattress dips when he joins you back in bed and Lando is surprised to find that he doesn't want to leave you. Up until meeting you, Lando had been more of a one night stand, never sleep over, kind of person when it came to sex. Getting back into bed with you and pulling you close so he could fall asleep with you tucked next to him was something he never thought he'd want but now that he had it, he knew he'd never be able to live without it again.

When Lando pulls you towards him, you stir a bit, enjoying the way the heat of his body warms your naked skin. You're so fucked out from everything Lando did to your body, your brain is a little sluggish but you turn into him, burying your head deep into his chest.

"You left me." You whine sleepily.

Lando slots his leg between yours, hitching your top leg up over his waist. "I'm sorry, baby." He whispers against your hair. "I needed a drink but I'm not going anywhere."

"I thought you left." In your sleepy haze, the words you probably would've tamped down slip out. "Please don't leave me."

Lando knows you're more than half asleep and probably don't realize what you're saying but something in your words has him feeling you don't just mean for the night. "I'm not going anywhere, sweet girl. Not ever." He whispers, listening to the soft cooing sound you make in response before you drift right back off to sleep.

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[gotta-winwin]

OT13 Reaction -- the aha moment

or...how they realize they're in love with you

seungcheol doesn't get that aha moment, falling in love isn't something that happens within seconds for him. it's like he's slowly drifting into love, not even realizing you've become the focal point of his entire existence. when it finally hits him, it's a quiet, simple moment. he's watching you make him breakfast in the morning, admiring you quietly from the kitchen counter. he zones out for a moment, blinking suddenly and realizing damn. that's my woman. and he knows he's ruined for life.

it's kind of silly, how jeonghan realizes he's in love with you. he's just returned home from a busy day at work, entering the house to find it empty. searching the place top to bottom, he's about to call you when - BOO - you jump out from one of the closets and scares the soul out of him. he's clutching his chest, watching as you collapse onto the ground in a fit of giggles. he can't help but laugh along, realizing through the chaos that he's found his soulmate, and he'd be damned not to admit he's in love with you.

joshua's a simple man by nature. he's easily happy in life, only needing his members, his job, his lifestyle, and of course, you. it doesn't take long into your relationship before he realizes he's in love, as the two of you take a stroll along the Han River after a long day. he's watching the setting sun reflect against your figure, taking his phone out to snap a few pictures. it's when he notices his camera roll is full of pictures of you does he think well, that's it. i'm in love.

upon meeting his family, jun notices how much work you've put into it. you're doing your best to speak his town's dialect, communicating with his parents in a language that made them most comfortable. his heart swells when he sees you amidst his childhood home, trading stories and eating with the people who raised him. it's when he notes that you look so perfect here that he realizes you just fit. he's in love.

as if everything else is with soonyoung, his aha moment is full of fireworks and pizzazz. having just finished the most record breaking performance of his life, he finds himself with one thought only: i want to go home. usually, it's because he's tired. but now, ever since you stumbled into his life, he finds himself wanting, needing, to go home so he can hold you and recite everything that happened today. he's practically thrumming with energy to rush home, and everyone around him sees what is so painfully obvious. he's so in love.

wonwoo's always credited himself to be a loner. not a lot of people can fit with his quiet personality, so when you offer the idea of "parallel play" he's a little confused. his heart warms when you explain that you don't mind doing separate things as long as you're in the same area, understanding that he needs more time to himself than others might. it's when you tell him you love him enough to compromise does he think im so in love with this girl right now.

woozi's used to writing songs dedicated to his fans and members. he sits down for another writing session, brainstorming ideas and the thought of you pops into his mind. he shrugs, thinking it might be nice to mix it up a bit, sitting down to write something about you. it's when he reads his own words back does he realize he's irrevocably screwed and so in love with you. thought about settling down, buying her a house and saying screw the music. yeah, he's in love.

having always been a realist, minghao doesn't necessary believe in true love, or love at first sight. he understands there's going to be someone out there for him, but he's skeptical that that someone is going to be perfect. all his beliefs go out the window the moment he sees you - it's like you're surrounded by a golden glow - and he realizes maybe love at first sight can be real.

seokmin loves and gives as easy as breathing. he's always been a generous guy, and it's when you sit him down and kindly remind him to leave some for himself does he stare at you and realize ok i've found the one. you've become that steadiness in his life that used to be just his members, and you love and give to him like it's as simple as breathing too.

having always been the resident cook, mingyu's eyeing your food creation like it's some kind of poison or drug. he had insisted you didn't need to cook for him, he's always been the cook and doesn't mind it, but you were stubborn and he relented. it's when the first bite blows him away does he realize he kinda misses having someone cook for him too. if you're this good at cooking i might just have to marry you, he says, ignoring how you blush, going back for another bite.

seungkwan's always been the entertainer. he doesn't mind it, he enjoys the fact it's his job to make everyone laugh. but when times get tough and he's in no mood to be the entertainer, you're right there to support him. it's when he gets home to you after a particularly rough day and you welcome him in with open arms, murmuring how he's done well and doesn't need to do more. it's when he realizes he can just be seungkwan - not seungkwan the entertainer, but just seungkwan - and he loves you for that.

vernon never really thought about finding the one. he always just assumed that they would find him. and that's exactly what happens, when you bump into each other at the movie theatre - both there alone just cause. it's when you're enthusiastically going band for band with vernon about movies that he's forced with the realization that shit. maybe i have found the one.

chan's always known he was in love with you. he doesn't like to admit it cause he thinks it makes him sound sappy, but he truly never questioned his love for you. it was a simple thing in his mind - this person makes me so fucking happy - i must be in love. and how could it not be simple for him? he's staring at you quipping about some joke to his friends and he's thinking i love you. he's watching you just wake up from a nap and he's thinking i love you. he sees a text from you on his phone mid-dance practice. i love you. he's always been in love with you because he loves everything to do with you.

[simpjaes]

(not) strictly business.

Jay walks, talks, and fucks in business mode. anon request: could you do Jay and the reader in the back of his limousine?? wc: 1.7k A/N: probs not that good considering i'm basically brain fried from finals but ayyye! not proof read. MDNI.

The plush seats are no where near as plush as Jay's lips when he puts them against you. Bruising, so brash and rough compared to what you expected from him.

He looked so...expensive just hours ago, but look at him now. Acting like a starving man in need of something. Acting as if you paid for this limousine to bring him back to after a chance meeting. Leaving his wallet with all of those heavy weighted credit cards tossed to the side as if you'd never think to steal them. For a moment in the club, you thought his passing glances were coincidence. After all, you're not the prettiest or most flashy girl here tonight. In fact, you only got in because your boss put your name on the list. "Stay professional" has been the thought on your mind all night too. After five or so drinks though, professional becomes something else. It becomes flirting with your boss. Flirting with your boss' sister, flirting with the bar tender, with the bouncer, with anyone walking up to the table since it's not professional to go out and dance. When Jay approached, an upper management dick, or whatever, from your company's competitor, you remember drinking the paid for drink by him as if it was an insult. Like it didn't taste like fucking heaven. You endured your boss shit talking him, and the whole company he works for. You endured the fuzzy feelings in your gut when more drinks kept coming with his name attached through a whisper from the waiter. It was for the whole table just once, now multiple times, only for you. And where did that professional persona go when you looked your boss in the eye as Jay walked you out of the club? Where did it go when Jay's lips formed a smirk at your boss' more pursed expression, with narrowed eyes solely because you laughed?

That smirk now. So, so soft compared to that fake ass company-man voice used to speak through them. He's saying sweet words now. No more work-related terms, only praise, only wants, only needs. Curiosities. Oh god. "Ever fuck your boss?" Jay had mumbled against your neck, kissing along your pulse points and making damn sure you shiver. You lend him a giggle and a shake of your head. "Fuck no." You laugh out, drunkenly and slurred just like him. "Good." He had said back, while simultaneously pushing his fingers into you through the deep make out session with both your lips and your neck. You didn't quite pick up on the possessiveness there, nor did you really care. "Heard he wasn't of much use," Jay continues to mumble against you, angling his fingers up, down, forward, trying to learn your body and become an expert at it in record time. "Seeing how he let you walk right out with me, I'd argue the rumors may be true." You moan before you pause, wrapping your legs around him and feeling the leather against your shoulders. His fingers are working magic despite the tight space he's created on top of you like this, but still, you pause. He notes the slight confusion, or perhaps you're just as curious as he is. The response to your pause is a breathy laugh and a lick to your jaw before he whispers again, right against the shell of your ear. "Just shocked he hasn't tried anything with you yet." Oh, so those other rumors are true. You've heard your boss may be a bit of a playboy. A fucking asshole about it too. You didn't really pay much mind to those rumors though, after all...someone who runs an entire department usually has some enemies. "Oh, you think he'd fuck me?" "Who wouldn't?" Jay chuckles again, shutting you up efficiently this time when his fingers hit the spot he had been looking for. The soft, spongy surface planted on your upper walls. His mouth falls open when yours does, mimicking your expression before that slack mouth turns to a wide and sparkling toothed grin. "Right there?" Your arms and legs both squeeze at him as you nod aggressively, eyes closing tightly when you let out another moan, this time more broken. "Yes!" You choke out, chasing his fingers with your body as if to invite him to hit the spot harder, harder, harder. That's all Jay needed though. To find it with his fingers, watch you fall apart, and then leave you with nothing. He shakes his head at you when he pulls his fingers out, placating anything you want to argue by sliding his fingers past your lips and giving you a look that, somehow, silently tells you to "wait." You do, watching as his other hand makes itself useful by means of shoving his tight pants down in one go. He grimaces at the harsh feeling at first, the stiff waistband dragging past his pulsing cock all at once, almost making him shiver even through the pain. "Yeah?” He asks for confirmation through a slur, eyes drowsy but dark and piercing. 

You nod instantly, feeling your pussy throb at the need for it. You can’t even see it but fuck, fuck, yes. You want it.

You want it right now.  He mimics you again, nodding along with you as he gives you that same smile, with those plush lips. Then you feel it. The head of his cock feels average at the first prod of it. He’s tapping your clit, gently pressing against your hole, sliding up and down. You can’t truly pinpoint his size through this, nor does it really matter because you feel good regardless. You could do all this and not ever have a single glimpse of it as long as he knows how to use it. The slide inside of you is bigger than you had been prepared for though, and he is well aware based on your expression. The head alone, thick and dribbling with precum fills you beyond expectation. Your mouth falls open again, to that of the look he seems to enjoy the most out of you. He leans closer to your face now, inhaling your small, open-mouthed whimpers at the way he doesn’t stop.

He keeps sliding in, all the way, until he feels that tight hole pulse around him as if it’s struggling to fit the last inch of his girth. In all fairness, you are struggling, but your legs don’t loosen, your grip around his shoulders tighten, and you finally blink up at him with glassy, drowsy eyes. 

“Fuck–” He moans at you, watching the way you endure it, the way you let him give it to you however he pleases. And, well, he takes that thought and runs with it. Slamming into you hard to fit that last inch, holding himself there for a moment to feel your tight heat struggle, then he pulls out, and then slams back in. Over and over again, up until you relax and release that held breath of yours for him to swallow up. 

And you know, this limousine is quite spacious but Jay manages to make it feel as cramped as any shitty little car. He’s so crowded up to you, so tightly packed into you, you can't help but hold your breath out of fear you’d steal all the oxygen in this space. 

Still, the leather seats are comforting, slicking up the more the straps of your shirt nudge down. The sweat offers a slide similar to that of Jay’s cock inside of you. You move easily under him, and he uses it to his advantage for a moment. Lifting up and looking down at you, watching the way your entire body slides up with each harsh thrust into you.  The image is more delicious than any expensive drink he could buy right now, and goddamn do you look good in a space that probably costs more than your home. He can’t help but feel like you’d look even better attached to his arm, at his company, with his friends. 

“Quit your job.” Jay suddenly blurts mid-groan, his gut bubbling with arousal and pausing his thrust at the sheer arousal of it. Financial domination, financial bribery. You’ll take it just like you take his cock, he knows you will. 

You’d scoff at the mid-fuck bribe if it weren’t for the fact that you’re well aware of what even the lower level employees make at that company. You had sent your resume to them long before you considered the company you currently work for. He’ll probably think he’s done some dirty-tactic in the business world at getting you to quit, but to be quite honest…you don’t really care.

“Okay.” You respond in a broken way, a tone and pitch to your voice that Jay clings to. 

“Yeah? Gonna stay right here for me?” Jay continues, slowly urging the conversation back to that of fucking you, repeatedly. “Gonna do as I say from now on?”

“Yes.” You nod aggressively, wondering if having Jay’s cock in you right now means a higher pay later when you inevitably pack your shit and are given a new office, in a new building, in a much nicer part of town. 

“Fuck–yeah, that’s right.”

And, well. You’re both kind of right.  ・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

That night in the limousine ended with you in his bed. The mattress in his loft was just as plush as his lips, and his cock repeatedly proved to you over and over again just how much worth the decision would end up being for you. 

“Name your price–” He had mumbled against you at one point, as if slightly questioning that you’re just telling him what he wants to hear. 

“You don’t have to pay me to fuck me, you know.” You had responded to him, sick of the work talk by that point. “I’m not a prostitute.” 

“I know.” He had responded, solidifying in your head that the confidence he has is for good reason, and the fucking asshole is genuinely negotiating pay with you while his cock is lodged in your uterus. 

Well.  “Give me the highest paying job I qualify for.” 

Wife, is what Jay would suggest if he lets himself think with his dick, but he holds that one back. He’s not ready for that shit yet anyway. 

“Assistant.” He mumbled in a moan, gripping your tit tightly before shutting himself up with your perked up nipple. 

You hummed in response, brushing his hair with your fingers. Assistant to him, you assume. And considering he is a big wig in the company, you can only imagine that soon, your apartment, car, and wardrobe will appear far better than it is now. 

He’ll make sure of it. 

[wqnsho]

resurface | kang dae-ho x gn! reader

*.✧ synopsis: after years of heartbreak and betrayal, you’ve learned to bury your emotions to survive. but when your high school sweetheart, kang dae-ho, unexpectedly appears in the deadly game you're also in, the walls you built around your heart begin to crack. As past and present collide, survival becomes about more than just staying alive *.✧ word count: 10.1k (yeah) *.✧ warnings: squidgame season 2 spoilers, violence, death, trauma, toxic relationships, cursing, fluff, angst. your number is 389. *.✧ note: dae-ho won against in-ho by just .2%! thank you all so much for the support. my in-ho fanfic reached 1K notes already, while 1k+ of you participated in my poll! I'm very thankful for the support :> i was in the middle of editing in-ho's fic when the polls finished, when i saw how close the votes were i laughed. luckily i only needed to tweak a bit in this fic for it to be done. enjoy reading!! >:) dae-ho is such a cutiee!! long italicized texts are flashbacks. masterlist | request here

“Shit, I just moved didn’t I?” Player 196 asked in a lighthearted tone after swatting the bee that landed on her. Before anyone could answer, she dropped dead to the ground, a bullet from god knows where piercing through her skull.

The area erupted in chaos as players realized the horrific truth: to be eliminated meant death. Others tried to make a desperate run for it, while some froze, paralyzed from fear, and you were one of them. 

Your eyes trailed down to the corpse laying a few feet in front of you. Your heart dropped. That could’ve been you.

You should've trusted your gut. You should’ve known that whatever bullshit that shady man in a suit said was too good to be true. But here you were, paying the price of your stupid decisions.

The air was thick with panic as a bloody massacre unfolded before your eyes. People who ran got shot left and right, while those who stayed survived. Once it cleared those who moved, the mechanical doll turned around, its eerie voice rising in song. The players were too stunned to move. Only one person had the courage to act—Player 456. With unwavering resolve, they ran ahead and instructed you all to hide behind someone bigger than you.

The rest of you followed suit, moving quickly. You ended up behind Player 230—Thanos, a rapper drowning in 1.19 billion won of debt. You didn’t trust him, and your instincts proved right. As the game progressed, he shoved people ahead of him, ending their lives without hesitation. Yet, you had to give him some credit: the man could hold a pose.

One by one, players crossed the finish line. As the timer reached 0, the hellish game finally ended. You were shaking, your body trembling with the aftershock, but at least you were still alive. The guards escorted everyone back to the main area, where the survivors collapsed to their knees, begging for mercy, begging to go home. You could hear them, desperate, pleading. It was almost unbearable.

“There must’ve been a misunderstanding,” the square guard’s voice rang out, cutting through the despair. His tone was flat and devoid of emotion. “We are not trying to harm you. We are presenting you with an opportunity.”

His words did little to reassure anyone. Your eyes rolled at their response. Misunderstanding my ass! The chance of survival, of escape, felt more like a cruel joke than anything else. But before the guard could continue, a voice rose above the rest, sharp and commanding.

“Clause three of the consent form!” Player 456 called out, his voice filled with defiance.

Everyone turned to look at him, some surprised, others hopeful. You were no different. You hadn’t expected anyone to stand up in this situation. You didn’t even know what clause three was, you skipped that part and immediately signed the form, but there was something in the way he spoke that made you believe he knew more than the rest of you.

“The games may be terminated upon a majority vote, correct?” he demanded, his eyes never leaving the guard.

The square guard responded without missing a beat, his tone unchanged. “That is correct.”

“Then let us take a vote right now,” Player 456 pressed, his voice firm and unyielding.

There was a brief silence before the guard spoke again, acknowledging the request with a chilling calmness. “Of course, we respect your right to freedom of choice.” He paused, and in that moment, you could feel the hope that had been buried deep inside everyone start to stir. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “But first, let me announce the prize amount that has been accumulated.”

With the press of a button, the room shifted. The cold, sterile space took on a strange new color, bathed in a soft, eerie glow. A massive piggy bank, almost comically large, descended from the ceiling, its mechanical limbs creaking with the weight. The sound of bills filling it echoed through the room, a surreal sound that only added to the strangeness of the moment. It felt like something out of a twisted casino, a game that didn’t care about the lives it destroyed, only the money it could accumulate.

“The number of players eliminated in the first game is 91,” the guard continued, as the money filled the piggy bank at a steady pace. “Therefore, a total of 9.1 billion won has been accumulated. If you choose to quit the games now, the 365 remaining players can equally divide the 9.1 billion won and leave with your share.”

“How much is that?” Player 100 asked.

“Each person’s share would be 24,931,500 won,” the guard answered flatly, almost as if it was an insignificant amount.

You could hear the gasps of disbelief that rippled through the crowd. It was hard to wrap your mind around it. You almost died for that? The amount seemed insignificant compared to the terror you’d experienced. You could hear others murmuring, their frustration and disbelief growing louder. What good was 24 million won when you had been pushed to the brink of death, when you had witnessed so much suffering?

“Twenty million? You said 45.6 billion!” Player 230 shouted, his voice filled with outrage.

The guard’s response was cold, calculated. “The rule was that a hundred million won would be accumulated for each eliminated player. If you choose to play the next game, and more players are eliminated, the prize amount will increase accordingly.”

The answer felt hollow, like an empty promise that was meant to keep you on the hook.

“Then how much will it be if you survive until the very end?” someone asked, their voice tinged with desperation.

“As I already told you, the total prize money for all 456 players is 45.6 billion won. Those who make it through all six games will equally divide the 45.6 billion won.”

A hush fell over the room, as the reality of the prize set in. 45.6 billion won. It was an obscene amount of money. The sum felt impossible, unreal. But at the same time, it was exactly what so many of you needed. The temptation of that massive prize loomed in the air, a beacon in the darkness. Could you really leave with only 24 million? Was that all your life was worth?

“So, if you’re the only one to survive, you get 45.6 billion won?” Player 230 asked, as if the question needed to be confirmed, just to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood.

“That is correct,” the guard answered, his voice detached, like it was just another part of the game.

For a brief moment, the room seemed to breathe in unison. The weight of the prize, the gravity of the situation, pressed down on everyone. People began to murmur among themselves, the excitement in their voices unmistakable. The idea of that unimaginable sum of money—more than they had ever seen in their lives—became a tangible thing in the air. People who had been trembling in fear moments before now looked around, their eyes glinting with a new kind of hunger. The atmosphere shifted, the air thick with the scent of greed and desperation.

“So we can take a vote again and decide to leave after the next game?” someone asked, voice laced with uncertainty, but also with a flicker of hope.

“As promised in the consent form, you can take a vote after each game and decide to leave with the prize money accumulated up to that point,” the guard confirmed. “We always prioritize your voluntary actions.”

The voting began, and the room filled with tension once again. Player 456  was the first one to vote. He stepped forward, pressing X without hesitation. Others followed, some pressing X, others O. When your turn came, you felt your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t hesitate. You stepped forward, pressing O with a sense of finality, the sound of the button clicking louder in your ears than it should have been. You placed the patch on your jacket, marking your decision, and walked back to your side of the room.

You didn’t look back.

You weren’t sure when you had made up your mind, but the choice was clear. Despite everything, despite the fear gnawing at the edges of your resolve, you knew you couldn’t walk away now. 

Out there, in the real world, the debt that had dragged you into this nightmare would still be waiting. The vultures would circle, just as they always had, but now you could fight back. You could take a step toward something better. The thought of going back to the crushing weight of your debts, to the life that had led you to this point, filled you with dread. There was nothing for you out there anymore.

The prize, the money, the possibility of escaping this endless cycle—this was the only chance you had left. There was no turning back now.

As much as you sympathized with those who wanted to leave, You just couldn’t. Here, at least, there was hope. A sliver of it. And if you survived, you could finally break free. You could pay it all off. You could start over. For the first time in what felt like forever, you had a chance—one that you couldn’t let slip through your fingers.

Your gaze wandered to the others, watching as they made their decisions. Some pressed X with shaking hands, their faces filled with desperation to leave and go home. Others pressed O with grim determination, their eyes locked on the future, no matter how uncertain. And yet, the overwhelming weight of it all crashed down on you again, heavy and suffocating.

You looked up at the piggy bank hanging high above, its golden glow mocking you with promises of salvation. If you made it—if you became the lone survivor—you’d earn it all. 45.6 billion won. Enough to erase every debt. Enough to silence the loan sharks who haunted your dreams. Enough to leave it all behind and disappear.

But as you stared at it, bile rose in your throat. Was this all your life had become—fighting for money, sacrificing everything just to survive? Your stomach twisted as your fists clenched, nails digging into your palms.

Reaching for your necklace, you clutched it tightly, the familiar weight grounding you for a moment. Its warmth offered a flicker of comfort, but even that couldn’t silence the emptiness creeping in. Here, hope felt like a dangerous thing to hold onto.

Out there, you had nothing. No one. Over time, everyone had given up on you. Your friends had drifted away, unwilling to carry the weight of your problems. Your family had turned their backs, tired of the chaos and the shame. And then there was... him.

He left without a word. No explanation, no goodbye. Just gone, as if you had never mattered at all.

When he disappeared, it felt like the last thread holding you together unraveled. You tried to move on, to make sense of it, but the truth was simple: no one stayed. Out there, you were invisible—a burden no one wanted to carry.

But here? Here, you had a purpose. As twisted and brutal as it was, the games gave you something to hold onto. Every step forward felt like proof that you could still fight, still matter, even if it was only to yourself.

You tore your gaze from the piggy bank and stared down at your shoes. It used to be white— pure. Now it’s scuffed and worn, much like you. Each scratch and stain told a story of a life lived in survival mode, clinging to scraps of hope. You couldn’t help but wonder—if you walked away now, what would be waiting for you? Nothing but the same endless cycle of despair.

At least here, you had a chance. A sick, twisted, blood-soaked chance.

And that was more than the outside world had ever given you.

In the midst of your inner turmoil, you didn’t notice someone standing beside you. They were looking at you, as if they wanted to make small talk yet didn't know how.

There was something bugging Dae-ho and he didn't know what it was. He couldn't stay still, couldn't think properly, couldn’t stay calm. He desperately needs a distraction, and he needs it now. But what could he possibly do? He can't just slap himself or shout. No way, that's too embarrassing. 

The male thought deeply before an idea popped up in his head. Eureka! He could try and talk to someone! His excitement died down as fast as it came. Yeah, he could try and talk to someone but who? His eyes scanned the crowd. To his dismay, most of the people surrounding him were scary oldies, and he was not willing to take the risk. He looked to his left, spotting a full head of hair. 

His gaze landed on you. You're young, he thinks— the white spots in your hair were less than those around him. He felt a little nervous, unsure of how to approach you, but he had no choice. This was his chance.

He coughed lightly, a test to see if you would notice him. 

No response. 

He tried again, this time a bit louder. 

Still nothing.

He began to get irritated, were you deaf or something? Shaking his irrational thoughts, Dae-ho got ready to fake cough again.

Then, out of nowhere, an old man in front of him turned and glared, sending a shiver down his spine. The male stopped, his face flushing. He needed to stop being a coward. He steeled himself, like the marine he was before doing it the right way.

He then stared at your unresponsive figure with intense, wide, and bulging eyes hoping that you would feel his intense stare and finally look at him. When that didn’t work, he began chanting “Hey! Look at me!” in his head just in case you were a mind reader. 

To nobody's surprise, his ‘plan’ flunked. Letting out an audible sigh, Dae-ho shook his head. He stopped being a wuss and garnered courage like a true marine. He should just approach you the right way, a single tap on the shoulder wouldn't hurt anybody right? Right.

As soon as his hand touched your shoulder, you ducked down and sneezed—an odd timing. He froze, unsure whether this was a sign to stop or if you were actually a mind reader and was avoiding him. But before he could pull his hand away, you reverted back to your original position— bumping into his outstretched hand.

He jumped back, startled. His cheeks flushed again as he realized he’d intruded on your space. In a sudden burst of nervous energy, he bowed deeply— a perfect ninety degrees, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I’m really sorry! I didn’t mean to... you see, I was feeling a little bored and wanted to talk to someone. Between you and me, I don’t want to talk to some old gray-haired people in debt. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, you’re free to slap me and ignore me!”

He spoke in one long breath, the words tumbling out faster than he could control. Then, he froze, bracing himself—waiting for a slap, a harsh word, anything to tell him he had crossed a line. Or maybe, just maybe, he was waiting for you to give him a sign that it was all okay. The silence that followed was suffocating, hanging between you like a heavyweight, neither of you dared to break.

When you didn’t respond, he began to doubt himself. Was this a joke? Was he imagining everything? Had he pushed too far?

And then—

“…Dae-ho…?”

The silence that was there from the beginning stretched even further as Dae-ho froze, his heart pounding. He could feel his chest tightening with every breath, his thoughts spinning in circles. Was this really happening?

He slowly lifted his head, praying, hoping that what he was thinking wasn’t true. His eyes scanned your face, searching for any sign that this was just some cruel illusion. He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision, but it didn’t help. You were still there, staring back at him, just as real as the cold walls of the room around him.

“[Name]...”

How could this be real? The years apart, the silence, the pain—it had all carved its place deep inside you, wounds that never fully healed. And yet, here he was, standing before you like a ghost dragged from the past to haunt you. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair.

You stared at him, unable to look away, yet every second felt like a fresh wound. How could he just stand there, shaking and silent, as if you weren’t the one left to pick up the shattered pieces of your life when he walked away? Your chest tightened, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

He looked so different, yet so heartbreakingly familiar. Those same eyes that used to meet yours with warmth now avoided your gaze like a coward. The same hands that once held yours trembled at his sides, as if they carried the weight of something unsaid.

You wanted to scream at him, to demand answers to the questions that had haunted you for years. Why did he leave? Why didn’t he say goodbye? The questions burned in your chest, but no words came. The silence between you was louder than any explanation he could give—louder than the ache of the years he left you to carry alone.

And yet, some small part of you hated yourself for hoping, for wanting him to say something that would make it all make sense. But as his lips parted and nothing came, his silence was louder than any excuse could ever be.

Cheers suddenly filled the room as the two of you looked away from each other. Looking at the scoreboard, you released a sigh of relief as O won, meaning the games would still proceed. 

Following the guards orders to disperse, you walked away as fast as you could. You needed to run away for a while, away from everyone, away from him. You weaved through the sea of players, ignoring the chaotic mix of relief and despair filling the room. Every step felt heavier, your mind still reeling from the sight of him. Why here? Why now?

Your chest ached. The large room offered little solace, the murmur of restless voices and distant footsteps a constant reminder of where you were. You sought refuge in the thin, scratchy blanket of your assigned bed, pulling it over yourself as if it could shield you from the weight pressing down on your chest.

Laying in a fetal position, you tried to steady your breathing, to stop the trembling in your hands. But his face—his eyes—kept flashing in your mind, a painful reminder of everything you thought you’d buried.

Anger simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. You clenched your fists, an attempt to stop the tears from flowing. But no amount of control could erase the gnawing ache in your chest.

“[Name]...”

The voice froze you in place. 

“Can we… talk?” His voice was quiet, almost pleading.

Under the covers, you exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to keep your tone steady. “What’s there to talk about, Dae-ho?”

His jaw tightened, and he took a cautious step closer to your bed. “I… I didn’t think I’d see you here. I didn’t think I’d see you again at all.”

“Neither did I,” you replied curtly. “And yet, here we are.”

He flinched at your words, guilt flashing in his eyes not that you could see it. “I know I owe you an explanation.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “An explanation? After all these years? After you disappeared without a word? You think I need that now, here of all places?”

His lips parted as if to argue, but he stopped himself. Instead, he looked down, his hands gripping the fabric of his jumpsuit. “I wanted to explain. I really did. But I didn’t know how.”

“You didn’t know how?” you repeated, incredulous. “You didn’t know how to tell me you were leaving? That you were giving up on us? That you—”

Your voice cracked, and you stopped, swallowing the lump in your throat. You refused to let him hear you cry. Not here. Not now.

“I didn’t give up on you,” he said softly.

His words hung in the air, but they did nothing to soothe the ache inside you. You shook your head once more, your voice trembling. “You left me alone, Dae-ho. You walked away without a word, and you left me to deal with everything by myself. Don’t tell me you didn’t give up.”

Silence followed, thick and suffocating. You could feel his eyes on your figure under the covers, before hearing footsteps walk away. You didn’t expect much, knowing that all he does is run from his responsibilities. But why did it still hurt? 

As you went to collect your dinner, you couldn’t help but overhear familiar laughter. Laughter that you used to love listening to. Silently gazing at Dae-ho’s figure, you watch in silence as he makes small talk with a group of men in the corner of the room. A small smile crept up your face, even after all those years he still has his charming laugh. You moved your gaze to the guard as they handed you your food, with a small bow you thanked them before going back to your bed. 

Looking at him one more time, your eyes widened in surprise as a set of eyes clashed with yours. Thankfully, it wasn’t Dae-ho. It was 001. There was something in his stare that made you scared. Maybe Dae-ho told them about your history and now they were angry at you, either way, who were you to care? You broke eye contact first, setting your gaze elsewhere as you retreated back to your assigned bed. Little did you know Dae-ho was doing the same, looking at you with longing eyes every time you had your back turned from him.

The next day came quickly, the game even quicker. You convinced a group to let you join their team with your gonggi skills. They were reluctant at first but had no choice but to let you in as the timer was nearing its end. Your team went through the games with ease, everyone was a pro on the games— you included. 

As the guard placed the table in front of you, you and your team squatted, the familiar weight of the stones in your hands grounding you. It reminded you of something, something far simpler, back when you were young.

“The slowest will have to buy the winner dinner, deal?” you said with a playful grin, your voice filled with mischievous confidence as you laid out the challenge.

Dae-ho’s eyes widened, shaking his head dramatically. “That’s unfair! You only say that because you’re a pro at gonggi!” he shot back, his voice half-laughing and half-complaining, clearly trying to defend himself.

Currently, the two of you, still in your high school uniforms, are sprawled on the floor of your room, surrounded by an amusing mess of half-done activities. The afternoon had been a carefree escape from schoolwork and responsibilities, as you had decided to skip school for the day. Your parents were away, so you had the house all to yourselves.

The floor was scattered with papers, a few textbooks left open, and snacks you’d absentmindedly snacked on while getting lost in your own little world. Dae-ho’s hair was a chaotic mess of clips, ties, and failed attempts at creating something resembling style. 

Meanwhile, your face was painted with makeup. Your eyes were covered in uneven eyeshadow, and your lipstick had smudged onto your cheeks in a way that had you wondering if you'd even be able to wash it off later. It was ridiculous, but it was also perfect. There was no need for perfection when you were together, just moments of unfiltered fun. You didn’t mind looking silly—it was a shared experience, after all.

You leaned back on the floor, hands resting behind your head, watching him with an amused expression. He had always been competitive, and you knew he wouldn’t let this challenge slide without giving it his all. But you also knew he wouldn’t back down.

"You're just mad because I'm about to beat you,” you teased, raising an eyebrow and holding the gonggi stones in your hand. “I’ve got this in the bag."

Dae-ho let out an exaggerated sigh, pretending to be defeated, but his eyes betrayed him—the challenge was on. “Fine. The loser buys the winner dinner.” he said, as the fire in his eyes burned brightly.

You smiled, leaning closer and placing the stones carefully in front of both of you. “You’re on,” you replied, your voice light but determined.

The game, which was just supposed to be a simple way to pass the time, had suddenly become a full-blown competition, complete with stakes. Dae-ho didn’t like losing, and you knew that meant he would give everything he had to win, but you weren’t going to make it easy for him.

With that, the tension between you both shifted. You could feel the energy change as you both focused on the stones in front of you, your hands hovering over them, ready to begin the game. The silly banter was still there, but now it was mixed with a more serious undercurrent—a challenge that was both fun and a little bit intense.

Dae-ho glanced at you once more, his expression playful but competitive, and you could see the slight smirk forming on his lips. “Get ready to buy me that dinner,” he said with mock confidence, ready to show you he was the better player.

You laughed, shaking your head. “We’ll see about that, Dae-ho.”

And with that, the game began, the stones flying through the air as you both competed to see who could win the challenge, the promise of dinner hanging in the balance.

After breezing through the first rounds, you placed all the stones on top of your hand, heart racing. You nervously exhaled, forcing yourself to focus.

“I’m honestly jealous of your gonggi skills,” you admitted, leaning back in your chair as you sat beside Dae-ho at your favorite hotpot place, a small smile playing on your lips as you stirred your bowl of soup.

Dae-ho, who had just taken a sip from his drink, blinked at you in mock surprise. “You? Jealous of me? You’re the one who won!” he said with a playful glare, his tone lighthearted.

You laughed softly, shaking your head at him. “Not that part, silly! I always notice that you always catch all five stones with ease. Even if I’m fast, I still mess up once in a while.” You looked down at your half-eaten bowl, the warmth from the hotpot filling your chest, but it wasn’t just from the food—it was the company that made everything feel so right.

Dae-ho’s expression softened as he put down his chopsticks, giving you his full attention. He nodded thoughtfully, then smiled, and for a moment, you felt as if the world outside didn’t exist, just the two of you, sharing this simple, quiet moment together.

“Well, my lovely [nickname],” he said, his voice taking on that playful, teasing tone you knew so well. “I can always tell you a trick,” he continued, raising an eyebrow mischievously. “But it’ll cost you. My secrets aren’t free, you know.”

Your curiosity piqued, you tilted your head, giving him a playful. “Go on, then.”

Dae-ho’s smile widened as he turned his cheek toward you, tilting his head just enough to make it clear what he wanted. You giggled, rolling your eyes but giving in, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on his left cheek.

He grinned, the sparkle in his eyes making your heart skip a beat, and without missing a beat, he pointed to the other side, silently asking for more. You couldn’t help but smile, kissing his right cheek just as lightly.

Then, Dae-ho tilted his head again, offering his forehead with that trademark mischievous smile. “And this one?” he asked, his eyes glinting with excitement.

You didn’t even hesitate, leaning in to plant a soft kiss on his forehead, your heart fluttering in the simple affection. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and the more you kissed him, the more the world around you faded away.

He stretched his hand out next, offering the back of his left hand with an expectant grin. You chuckled at how silly this game was becoming, but you still kissed it gently, your heart swelling with warmth. His grin only grew wider, and before you knew it, he was extending his right hand, offering it up for another kiss.

You kissed it too, your heart fluttering again at how effortlessly he could make everything feel so special. Each little moment, each silly gesture, you loved it all.

Finally, with that signature grin of his, Dae-ho turned fully toward you, his eyes sparkling with playfulness. “And this one?” he asked, tilting his face toward yours, the question hanging in the air like an invitation.

Without even thinking, you closed the space between you and kissed his lips, a soft, lingering kiss that felt full of promise and affection. The moment was so pure, so simple, that it left you breathless in the best way. Nothing mattered but the two of you, sharing this quiet, tender connection.

Dae-ho smiled against your lips, his arms subtly drawing you closer as he pulled back just slightly, a lovestruck expression on his face. “You’re the best, [nickname].” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear as he nuzzled you gently. His voice was soft and full of affection, and you couldn’t help but smile back, your heart swelling with warmth.

You leaned in, your voice teasing. “So? What’s the trick?”

Dae-ho let out a dramatic sigh, pretending to be exasperated but still smiling. “Can’t I have a lovely moment with you?” he asked, his tone light and affectionate.

“Dae-ho.” you said with a small laugh, nudging him playfully.

“Fine, fine! You’re a party pooper!” he joked, giving you a nudge back before getting serious. He shifted slightly, sitting up straighter and showing you a more focused expression. “Alright, listen carefully.” He mimicked the motions as he spoke. “What I do is first calm myself down. Inhale... and exhale.” He demonstrated the breathing technique, his chest rising and falling slowly. 

He paused before looking at you expectantly. Rolling your eyes, you copied his movement. Inhale and exhale.

Satisfied, he continued. “Once you find your peace, you put all your might in your palm so the stones don’t fall. Strong foundation.”

You nodded, watching him carefully. “Got it,” you said, your gaze fixed on his hands as he continued with his instructions.

He smiled, clearly pleased by your attention. “Then you throw your hand upwards—just right. Not too low, not too high,” he said, raising one hand and showing you the perfect motion. “Count one...” He paused dramatically, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Count one,” you repeated, laughing softly at how serious he was being, yet how cute he looked while teaching you.

“Then catch!” 

You threw your hand up. It felt natural. It felt right. The stones landed, and you caught them all in one smooth motion.

“Hey! I caught it on the first try!” You grinned, excitement rushing through you. You looked up, expecting to see Dae-ho’s proud smile, the one that always made your heart race.

But instead, you met the cold, expressionless face of a guard. Reality hit like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t Dae-ho. This wasn’t your favorite hotpot place.

Your heart twisted, the warmth you replaced by the emptiness of this place. You tried to smile, but it felt hollow. The distant cheers of your teammates did nothing to drown out the silence in your mind.

You couldn’t shake the memory, his teasing smile, his quiet words, the way his lips brushed against yours. Those were moments you could never go back to. As you moved on to the next station, the sting of that memory lingered, sharp and painful. The sweetness was gone. It was just you, alone in this game, with no place for memories of simpler times.

Everything was a blur after that, your mind occupied by what happened during the second game. Gonggi was something you always bonded over, and that game brought unwanted memories back. It got to a point wherein the way you’d always made decisions, small or big, was by playing gonggi. Where to eat? Play gonggi. Who’s paying the bill? Gonggi. 

But now, as you lay at your bed, staring at the ceiling, it wasn’t the same. Your mind wandered back to that moment, remembering his smile, the way his eyes would soften when he looked at you. That warmth, that sense of belonging, was gone. The past felt distant, like a dream you couldn’t hold onto anymore.

You closed your eyes, trying to push the memory away. Suddenly, the light went out. 

The light went out? That wasn’t right.

You opened one eye and saw Dae-ho standing above you, looking down at you with that nervous, familiar expression.

“Congrats, [Name]. I knew you could do it.” he said softly.

You looked up at him, emotions swirling in your chest. “Congrats also, Dae-ho.” you replied quietly. 

You stared at him as the weight of everything hung heavy in the air between you. You had so many emotions running through your veins—hurt, betrayal, confusion, anger—and yet, here he was, standing in front of you, trying to explain himself, trying to make sense of everything.

“[Name]... Please, talk to me.” he repeated, his voice soft but desperate.

You didn’t move at first. The space between you, filled with so many unspoken words. Finally, you stood up, leading him to a quiet corner between the bed frames, away from the chaos. The moment felt strangely intimate, but so far removed from anything you could have ever imagined.

Dae-ho was the first to break the silence, his voice shaking with the weight of his confession. “I didn’t want to leave, [Name]. I didn’t... but I had no choice.” He paused, his face twisted with guilt as he rubbed his hands together nervously.

“My father...” His voice cracked as he spoke, his words thick with regret. “He was... always trying to control me. Pushing me into things I didn’t want. He never let me make my own decisions. But when it came to you... he saw how much I cared. He saw how soft I was because of you, and he hated it. He thought I wasn’t strong enough to survive—how I wasn't becoming a real man, so he sent me away. He made me join the Marines. He didn’t even let me choose. I tried to fight him. I tried to say no, but he didn’t care.”

You felt your heart break all over again. “But... Why didn’t you fight harder for us? Why didn’t you try harder to stay? To... tell me?” The words were out before you could stop them, and they stung more than you’d expected.

“I... I couldn’t,” he whispered. “He had me. I thought if I left, if I did what he said, it would all be over. That he’d leave me alone. But when I came back, you were gone. I couldn’t find you. I looked for you everywhere, [Name], but you and your family were gone. And I thought... I thought I lost you forever. And I couldn’t fix it.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from crying. “But you didn’t even try to find me, Dae-ho. You just... disappeared. I waited for you. I thought I was worth waiting for, but you made me feel the  opposite. You just left, and I had to pick up the pieces of my life without you.”

“Please don’t say that. You are worth fighting for [Name].”

His eyes filled with sorrow, and he reached out for you, but you pulled back slightly, not ready for his touch just yet. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never wanted to hurt you. I thought I could make it right when I came back, but... it wasn’t the same. And now I’m afraid I’ve lost you for good.”

Your chest tightened, and you fought to keep your emotions in check. “You didn’t lose me, Dae-ho. If anything, I still think about you. Every street I walk, every place I visit. I always tried to find any sign of you. You just… you never gave me a chance to be part of your life anymore. I can’t just go back to how things were. I can’t pretend everything’s okay, because it’s not.”

“I understand,” Dae-ho said quietly, his voice laced with sincerity. “I know you’ve been through so much. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you before, but I’m here now. Let me make it right. Please…”

He paused, swallowing hard before speaking again, as if the weight of his words was too heavy to bear. “If you just vote to go home, we can leave all this behind. We don’t have to keep playing. We can go back to the way things were. We can be free. We can live together.”

His words hit you like a punch to the stomach, leaving you breathless. You couldn’t wrap your mind around what he was asking. He wanted you to vote to go home? That’s all it took? To end this nightmare?

You took a step back, your heart hammering in your chest. The sudden flood of emotions was overwhelming—confusion, anger, hurt, all rolled into one. “Is that what you think this is about, Dae-ho? You think you can just tell me to vote to go home and everything will magically go back to normal? That we’ll just go back to living in some fairy tale together?”

His face faltered with guilt, but you couldn’t stop yourself. The words were already tumbling out, and the anger was building with each second. “You have no idea what it’s like for me out there. I don’t have anything left. No family. No safety. No way out. If I leave without the money, I’ll be dead before I even make it out of the game. The people who own me—they’ll come for me. They’ll end me.”

You couldn’t stop the rise of panic and fury in your voice. “You think voting to go home is going to fix everything? Do you think that’ll save me from what’s out there? You think that’s going to protect me?”

You were shaking now, your words louder, sharper with each passing second. “I’m not here by choice. I didn’t sign up for this game to have some fun. I’m here because I have no other option. I need the money. I have to win. I don’t have the luxury of walking away. If I don’t make it, I’m dead. They’ll take everything I have left. They’ll take my life. And you want me to just throw that away?”

His face went pale, his hands trembling as he reached out, but you stepped back, your emotions running too high. You were drowning in your own fear, your own anger, and he was standing there, asking for something you couldn’t give. Not now. Not when your very existence was on the line.

“I’m not going to die for you to feel like you’ve done something good,” you spat, your voice cold and full of finality. “I’ll keep playing. I’ll keep fighting. I’ll keep voting O if that’s what it takes to stay alive. Because I don’t have the luxury to just quit. I don’t have the luxury to go home. If I die here, then I die here. But at least I had a chance. A chance to keep living.”

You could see the regret flooding his face now, the guilt in his eyes clear as day. But it didn’t matter. You had already crossed the line, said everything you needed to say. The wound had already been made, and nothing would heal it now.

“They took everything from me,” you whispered, voice cracking with the weight of the confession. “I don’t have anything left. This game, this nightmare is all I have. If I leave without any money, without anything... they’ll take me. They’ll take my life.”

His expression was full of pain now. The words hit him hard, and you saw the guilt swirling inside him. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came. You saw the regret in his eyes, the apology he couldn’t voice—but it was too little, too late.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered finally, his voice thick with regret. “I never meant to hurt you. I just… I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was this bad. I didn’t know you were fighting for your life.”

You shook your head slowly, stepping back from him. “You didn’t know? You never bothered to ask. You didn’t care enough to understand what I was going through. You just assumed everything would be fine, that we could go back to normal. But you didn’t ask, Dae-ho. You didn’t care.”

His face crumpled with the realization of what you were saying, and the weight of your words hit him like a ton of bricks. But you didn’t care. Not now. Not when you were holding on to the one thing that mattered to you right now—your will to survive.

“I’m sorry, Dae-ho,” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips, but full of emotion. “But I care about surviving. I care about living. And if I have to vote O, if I have to keep playing to do that, then that’s what I’ll do.”

For a long moment, you stood there, facing each other in the silence, your hearts both full of unsaid things. But the anger slowly began to fade, replaced by a deep sadness, a sorrow that neither of you could fix.

He stepped closer to you, his voice quiet. “I’m sorry... I never wanted this for you. But I’ll always be here, [Name], even if you hate me for it.”

You looked at him one last time, the weight of everything you had said sinking in. And for the first time in a long time, you let the tears fall—not from anger, but from the overwhelming fear of it all. The fear of what your life had become, of how far you’d fallen, of the choices you had to make that never felt right.

Dae-ho stared at you as you quietly wept, his heart breaking at the sight of your pain. Without a second thought, he reached out, pulling you into his arms. He wrapped you in the comfort of his embrace, guiding your head to rest against his chest, your tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

He didn’t speak at first, just held you tightly, as if trying to shield you from the world, from everything that had happened, and everything you feared. His hand gently rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles, offering what comfort he could in that moment.

“I’m sorry… I know I can’t take away all the pain,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “But I’m here, [Name]. I won’t leave you. You don’t have to go through this alone anymore. Please... just let me be here for you.”

You clung to him, not knowing if you wanted him to fix everything, but just needing the solace, the warmth that came with knowing he was still here. Still trying. You didn’t know what the future held, or if you could ever truly forgive him for the past, but in that moment, you allowed yourself to feel something you hadn’t in so long—comfort, even if it was fleeting.

He tightened his hold on you, letting you cry, never pushing you away. “I’ll always be here. I promise.”

You didn’t know how long it had been, but eventually, the tears started to slow. The tightness in your chest eased just a little, and you found yourself breathing a bit easier. Dae-ho, still holding you gently, never let go. He simply let you rest against him, giving you space to process everything, even if that meant staying silent for the moment.

You looked at him, your chest heavy with everything you’d just let out. “I’m sorry too,” you murmured, voice low and shaky. “I... I didn’t mean to lash out like that. I was just... I don’t know. I was scared. I couldn’t—couldn’t bear the thought of losing everything. But I shouldn’t have said those things.”

Dae-ho shook his head softly, his fingers brushing your cheek again. “No... I deserved it. I made you carry too much, and I never gave you the chance to say how you really felt. I was so focused on my own guilt, I didn’t see how much I was hurting you.”

The weight of the words sank in, and you felt a tear slip down your cheek, though this one wasn’t filled with anger—it was filled with a sadness you hadn’t let yourself fully feel until now. “We both messed up,” you whispered, the ache in your heart growing.

Dae-ho’s gaze softened, his hand gently squeezing yours. “But I’ll try to make it right. I don’t know if I can, but I’ll keep trying, [Name]. I’ll stay by your side, no matter what.”

You took a shaky breath, finding comfort in the sincerity of his words. “I don’t know where we go from here, but... I can’t pretend like it’s all fine. I need time.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’ll give you all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere. I’m just... sorry. For everything.”

The air between you was thick with unspoken apologies, regrets, and the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, you could both find a way to heal from this. You both had a long road ahead, a game to survive. But for now, the silence was no longer heavy with tension. Instead, it was filled with a quiet understanding, one that neither of you had expected to find, but one that was slowly, carefully beginning to piece things together.

"This time, the vote will begin with Player 001. Player 001, please cast your vote."

The moment the announcement was made, you felt a cold shiver run down your spine. Voting had begun. This time, you were going first—before Dae-ho. He stood beside you, his presence steady and calming, but there was an undeniable tension in the air. His hand brushed your back, the soothing gesture almost feeling out of place in this chaotic, life-or-death situation.

“Choose what you need,” Dae-ho whispered, his voice soft but full of sincerity. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t be mad.”

His words settled over you like a gentle blanket, but they couldn’t remove the weight of the decision you had to make. To survive, to keep moving forward, you knew you had to vote for O. You had to keep playing if you wanted a chance at surviving, but even as you stood in front of the voting machine, you felt a sickening sense of dread.

Was it really worth it? Pushing yourself, forcing the belief that survival was your only option, knowing the outside world would swallow you whole. What was the point of living if the only person who ever made you feel truly alive has always been Dae-ho? The thought echoed in your mind, and the walls of the room suddenly felt like they were closing in around you. Dae-ho had become your anchor in this madness—your reason for pushing through.

But now, you had to choose. You needed to choose for your own survival.

Your finger hovered over the button for O, but then you thought about everything you’d been through, everything you’d sacrificed already. At that moment, it was no longer just about survival. It was about the life you had left to live. You didn’t want to keep going without him.

X.

You slammed your hand down on the button, your choice made in an instant. The harsh reality of it stung as you tore off the patch you had placed on your jacket earlier, replacing it with a new one. As you made your way to the X side of the room, your heart felt heavy, but there was a strange sense of finality to it. You have made your decision.

You couldn’t help but look over at Dae-ho. The surprise on his face was so pure, so raw. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape, like a fish caught out of water, and the shock in his gaze hit you harder than you expected.

Despite the tension and the gravity of the moment, you found yourself quietly laughing at him, unable to hold it in. The absurdity of it all—of choosing to walk away from everything that had kept you going—made you want to laugh and cry at the same time. God, you felt like a fool. After your dramatic show earlier, how you had confidently claimed that you would continue voting O, ready to survive, ready to keep playing. Yet here you were, choosing X, choosing to stop. Choosing him.

Dae-ho just stood there for a moment, still processing, before going up the platform to vote. His footsteps were slow, deliberate, as if he were trying to piece together what had just happened. You couldn’t blame him. The moment was so surreal, so at odds with everything you’d said before. 

You watched him, heart hammering in your chest as he stood at the voting machine. His back was turned to you, but you could almost feel the confusion radiating off him. His hesitation was palpable, and you wondered if he understood. If he saw why you made the decision you did.

The sound of his vote pressing echoed in the silence, a soft click that seemed too loud for the room. He immediately walked to where you stood, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered. “Why... why did you choose X?”

The answer was too simple, too complicated, and maybe too painful to say out loud. Instead, you gave him a small smile, one that held so many unsaid things. “Dae-ho, I’ll always choose you.”

In the end, your vote didn’t matter. Since O won by a landslide, the next game was inevitable. But for the first time in days, or maybe even years, you found yourself smiling—a real, genuine smile—as you were introduced to Dae-ho’s little group. You exchanged pleasantries, introduced yourselves, and felt something warm stir inside you.

The following day came quickly, and with it, the next game. One moment, you were lying in bed, your mind running wild with the uncertainty of what was to come. Next, you were on a spinning platform, waiting for the music to stop. Your eyes immediately sought out Dae-ho, and when you met his gaze, he reached for your hand, gripping it tightly, as if he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, a promise in his words. “I won’t let go.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I know.”

The rounds passed, too smoothly, almost disturbingly so. You all survived the first four rounds with ease.

But everything was about to change. 

7.

“Five women, and two men. Go!” Gi-hun’s commanding voice cut through the noise, demanding attention. Without hesitation, 007 shot his hand into the air. “I’ll go with my mother!” he announced, stepping forward. Gi-hun nodded, relieved to have a volunteer. He scanned the group again, waiting for the next person to step up.

Dae-ho raised his hand, his voice strong as he called out, “We’ll go!” He pulled you closer to him, offering a small smile that was laced with worry. His eyes betrayed his calm demeanor, revealing the weight of what was happening. The air around you both felt heavy with the uncertainty of the situation. Still, you clung to each other, walking together toward the door.

Your group of seven—007, 149, 120, 095, Jun-hee, you, and Dae-ho—ran toward the nearest empty room. The sound of your hurried footsteps echoed in the tense silence. But just as you were about to step inside, something caught your eye and made your heart drop.

Player 095, frail and struggling, was being shoved aside by a group of players. Seeing her so helpless, you couldn’t just stand by. Without thinking, you yanked your hand from Dae-ho’s grasp and rushed to her side.

Dae-ho’s heart skipped a beat the moment he felt the loss of your hand. Panic surged through him. Where did you go? He scanned the chaos around him, his eyes frantic as he searched for you in the crowded room. His heart tightened when he saw you helped 095 into the room, making sure she was safe. He could see the determination in your eyes as you ensured her well-being, but once it was your turn to come into the room, to rejoin him, disaster struck.

A group of four players, each desperately fighting for their own survival, barreled into you.

The impact was brutal. Your body was slammed to the ground with overwhelming force. Everything around you seemed to blur and slow down as you hit the floor, your breath knocked from your chest in a violent rush. A sharp wave of pain shot through your body—your limbs aching, your head spinning—but strangely, you couldn't feel it all at once. The shock of the fall seemed to disconnect you from your body, like you were floating in a painful haze.

In that split second, time seemed to stretch out. You felt a sudden sense of numbness as your body tried to process the damage, and your heart raced as you struggled to breathe. Your vision blurred, and for a moment, you feared that you wouldn’t be able to get up again. But then, the rush of adrenaline kicked in.

Determination surged through you like a lightning bolt. You couldn't afford to stay down. You had to survive.

You pushed yourself off the ground, ignoring the throbbing pain in your limbs, and scrambled to your feet. Gritting your teeth, you ran with every ounce of strength you had left, your focus fixed on the door. You had to get inside—it was the only chance left. The room was just a few feet away now, but each step felt like an eternity as you sprinted, your legs shaking with exertion and fear. Every part of you screamed for rest, but you couldn't stop. Not yet.

"[Name]! Let’s play Mingle!" Dae-ho’s voice rang out with excitement, pulling you out of your thoughts. You raised an eyebrow, already knowing his playful nature.

“With just the two of us?” you asked, teasing him. A grin tugged at your lips despite yourself, knowing that whatever he had planned would likely be a mix of fun and absurdity.

“Well...” Dae-ho scratched the back of his neck, pretending to think deeply, but the mischievous glint in his eyes gave him away. He was already scheming.

It was your third anniversary together, a day you both decided to celebrate in your usual style: by skipping class and spending it alone in your room. Both of you were still wearing your high school uniforms—uniforms that no longer felt like the serious attire they were supposed to be. The two of you had spent countless afternoons like this, laughing and simply enjoying each other's company, without a care in the world.

“I’ve got it!” Dae-ho suddenly exclaimed, his eyes lighting up as he dashed to your bed. He scooped up a handful of stuffed toys with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Let’s use our children!” he declared, holding them up like he had just discovered the most brilliant idea.

You stared at him, your laughter bubbling up instantly. "Our children? Really, tiger?" you chuckled, wiping away the tears that had already begun to form from laughing too hard.

"Hey, don’t laugh! This is serious!" he protested, feigning offense, but you could see the twinkle in his eyes that told you he was only pretending to be upset. He adjusted the toys in his arms, a determined look on his face.

“Alright, fine,” you replied, still laughing but wiping your eyes. “Let’s play.” You were already game—who could resist when Dae-ho was this excited?

Dae-ho carefully arranged the toys in front of you both, giving each one a position with a level of care that made it clear he was taking this game very seriously. “Okay. For this round… Three!” he announced dramatically, holding his hands out in front of him like he was preparing to start a battle.

You didn’t even wait for him to finish before snatching up two of the nearest toys. His jaw dropped in mock betrayal, and he huffed loudly, feigning offense. "Not fair! You should partner with me. Always!" he said, acting like you had broken some sacred rule.

You stuck your tongue out at him, teasing. “Stop being a sore loser! I’m just playing by your rules.”

"Fine," he grumbled. He pouted dramatically, a little over-the-top for someone so competitive. He then scurried around the room, gathering two more toys to prepare for the next round.

The game continued in the same playful vein, with the toys being eliminated one by one. The room filled with the sound of laughter, teasing, and mock outrage as each round got more dramatic. The toys “lost” in ways that made no sense, their plush bodies being thrown to the side in exaggerated defeat.

"For this round,” Dae-ho said, his voice suddenly turning serious. “Two!” He gave you a look, as if to challenge you to keep up with him.

You smirked, ready to grab him this time. But before you could react, he swooped down and grabbed the last remaining toy, holding it close to his chest with a triumphant grin. “Hey!” you cried out in mock outrage, throwing your hands up.

"Sore loser!" he teased, clearly pleased with his victory.

You crossed your arms, pretending to sulk. “Whatever.” you muttered, rolling your eyes for effect.

Dae-ho chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. He set the toy down, then knelt in front of you. “Wait, wait, don’t be mad!” he said, holding the toy up to his face like a little puppet. He moved its tiny arms in a dramatic fashion, as if it was trying to “walk” toward you.

"Eomma! Please don’t be angry at Appa! Pleaseee!” he said in a high-pitched, exaggerated voice that made you burst out laughing.

Your faux anger crumbled immediately, and you couldn’t help but giggle at his antics. He was ridiculous—and that was one of the many reasons you loved him.

Still holding the toy, Dae-ho slowly lowered it from his face, a more tender look in his eyes. You hadn’t noticed at first, but there was a delicate necklace hanging from the toy’s tiny paw. Your breath hitched as he gently removed the necklace and held it out to you.

"Here," he said softly, his voice unexpectedly gentle. You could feel the warmth in his words as he looked at you with such sincerity. Without warning, he leaned forward and clasped the necklace around your neck. The touch of his fingers against your skin sent a shiver through you. "Happy anniversary, [Name]."

For a moment, your heart skipped a beat as the rush of emotion hit you unexpectedly. His gesture felt like everything—a simple, yet deeply meaningful way of showing how much he cared. You blinked back the sudden welling of emotion in your chest.

Before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around him, pressing a kiss to his lips in gratitude. You then buried your face in his shoulder, hiding the emotions that threatened to spill over.

“Thank you.” you murmured, your voice muffled against his skin.

Dae-ho chuckled softly, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, comforting hug. “Anything for you.”

In that moment, everything else faded away. There was just the two of you, wrapped in each other's warmth, sharing a quiet, simple happiness that felt bigger than any words could express. Time seemed to slow down, and you didn’t want to think about anything else.

As you pulled back, your laughter bubbled up again, light and carefree. You couldn’t resist teasing him once more. “You’re still a sore loser, though.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dae-ho replied, rolling his eyes but still grinning. “But you love me anyway.”

You smiled, your gaze softening as you looked at him with affection. “I do. Now help me with this necklace!”

Your hand stretched toward the door, the cold metal just within reach. 

Then everything went silent.

[maximoff-pan]

the ultimate deception | benedict bridgerton (part one)

summary: you are a well known artist who paints under a pseudonym. What happens when Lady Whistledown comes to know of your identity? How will your relationship with Benedict evolve?

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!(artist)reader

word count: 4k

warning(s): poor writing and dialogue (sue me, I'm rusty lol), very unedited so if there are mistakes, I apologize, misogyny, penelope aka Lady Whistledown's biggest defender

a/n: this is definitely going to be more than one part, but I wanted to post something after so many months. Let me know how you like it (or don't like it haha)...comments and feedback are much appreciated <3

• • • • • •

“I wish I possessed merely an ounce of your talent.” 

Benedict’s gaze seems to be wholly absorbing your latest painting, a depiction of the botanical wonders of London’s Royal Kew Gardens. 

You puff out a breath, blowing on the feathery end of one of your writing quills. In your haste, it had gotten loose, tickling your face irritatingly. Tucking it back behind your ear, you wave him off. “You have much more talent than you give yourself credit for.” You admit through squinted eyes, scanning your work. “You simply lack conviction. And you worry far too much about what others think of you.”

Benedict smiles, receiving your words as the highest of praise. He reaches out to take a better look at the piece of art before him. “You flatter me.” He mumbles in awe. “But I suppose there’s a chance you could be right.”

Chuckling at his words, you grin knowingly. You’re right. It’s more than a chance…you just are. He knows it too. 

You both continue to steadily eye the painting, you out of critical evaluation of your work, and him in sheer admiration of it. 

Benedict’s favourite part remains the beautifully bloomed magnolias that are scattered across the canvas. He’d been sure to tell you numerous times of their elegance while you’d been working on it, eagerly awaiting the finished product. As you’ve come to realize, Benedict loves watching you work. It’s one of the prices you’ve had to pay for his allowance of your workstation being at Bridgerton House, if you could even call it that.  

You are grateful, truly. You wouldn’t be able to make your own living without his kindness. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to keep to yourself in the way you prefer to. 

“When will Augustus Leighton be displaying his latest work of perfection?” Benedict’s question reminds you of your fate as an artist. 

Augustus Leighton is the pseudonym you paint under. Using his name, you have become a well known artist among the ton, even going so far as to have a painting hung at Buckingham Palace. It’s difficult, you must admit, pretending to be someone else. But it’s a necessary evil.

Painting as a woman would get you nowhere. Especially as a woman with no money (particularly at the time you began), no status, and no husband. 

Your mother is a seamstress with little to her name and your father was a servant to Violet and Edmund Bridgerton, before his heart became too weak. He passed away when you were thirteen, only a few years after the Bridgerton children had lost their own father. You’d grown up with little money, but Violet had been kind to both you and your mother, seeing how close you’d become with her children. 

You were raised alongside them, Benedict and Eloise becoming your closest of friends. At three and twenty, there are five years between you and the two siblings in either direction, with Eloise being freshly eighteen, and Benedict having turned twenty eight. To this day, they remain two of only three people who know of your true identity, outside of Penelope Featherington. 

You hadn’t exactly meant for Eloise or Penelope to find out about it, but once they had, it became comforting to have more than just Benedict to speak to about your predicament. Especially considering, although Benedict has been wonderfully supportive, he could never understand the struggle a woman must endure in a male dominated world.  

“Likely never. This one is a gift for Lady Danbury.” You answer Benedict’s inquiry after a bout of silence. “She’s spoken about her love of these gardens quite regularly, so I thought, why not have Mr. Leighton recreate it for her?” 

“How will you get it to her?” He questions. 

A smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “I have my ways, lest you worry about it.”

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

The next few days are interesting to say the least. You’d somehow managed to get the painting delivered to Lady Danbury, and as far as Violet had been willing to speak of her latest visit with the formidable aforementioned woman, you have been made aware that she adores it. 

You’d also heard more about it from Benedict, who’d mentioned something about her being at a loss for words, an ultimate shock to both him and his mother. They’d never seen her look so bewildered. 

According to Eloise, Lady Danbury had been surprised to receive such a gift, especially of something so near and dear to her heart. She’d said it reminded her of her time with the Queen, telling the young Bridgerton woman about the months just after her husband had passed, when a new independent lifestyle began to bloom for her. 

The painting itself reminded her that women like her could be free, and one day, they would be. That sort of metaphorical mindset had definitely appealed to Eloise’s sense of social justice. She’d been more than excited to tell you about the older woman’s reaction to your art, claiming it to be a wonderful revelation. 

Today though, as you sit in the Bridgerton’s common living room, the opposite representation of said female autonomy rests in your hands. The paper feels rough against your skin as you pass it to Eloise who’s propped excitedly to the left of you. You’ve never been a fan of Lady Whistledown’s gossip column, although you can admire her unabashed confidence. But despite her strong will as an author, which could be seen as an inherently empowering trait, you are of the impression that she goes about it in an entirely backward way. 

Women don’t need to put each other down to build themselves up. It accomplishes nothing, consequently acting as a source of nourishment for the patriarchy you find yourself trapped in. 

“You’re not going to read it?” Eloise asks as she takes the pamphlet from you. 

“I never do.” Is your instant reply. 

Penelope perks up at the mention of the column, eyes trained curiously on you. If you had known better, you’d say she was a little too interested. 

But at this moment you shrug it off, listening with no suspicion as she asks a simple, “Why?”

You don’t have the hindsight to understand why your stomach turns at her question, but you respond anyway. “I tend to think of Lady Whistledown as a poison.” It’s the first time you’ve voiced such an opinion. 

Penelope and Eloise turn to you in surprise. “Come again?” Penelope’s soft voice cuts through. 

“She is a poison.” You repeat before explaining yourself. “Do not get me wrong, I hold admiration for her bravado, but her words, the things she writes, they cause nothing but pain and conflict for those she chooses to sink her teeth into.”

“But she’s an independent woman.” Eloise interjects. “One who is doing more than any of us could dream of. She is making a name for herself!”

You try to think about your next words carefully, but your mouth makes quick work of a reply. “A name which she hides behind, casting stones through the guise and safety of anonymity.” 

Penelope lets out a scoff from beside you. She’s always been one to defend the infamous gossip columnist. “At least she does not hide herself behind the mask of a man.” That feels like a shot. “The people know full well of her gender, despite her true identity remaining a secret.”

You hear the implication on her tongue. The same cannot be said for you. 

And she’s not wrong. You do hide yourself behind the mask of a man. You’d never once denied that.

You sigh. “I know you must think of me as a hypocrite.” 

Eloise agrees hesitantly. “Only a little.” She admits. “It’s just that you do the same as Mr. Leighton.”

You soften at her honesty. Truthfully, you understand where she’s coming from, but you can’t help the urge you feel to defend yourself.

“I disguise myself as Augutus because I know that no artist or art critic alike will take me seriously as I am. I want to share my work with the world, that is simply all I want. It’s all I have ever wanted.”

“Does that not make you a coward?” Penelope inquires, although it feels less like a question and more like an opinion. This is what she believes. And she's entitled to that. 

“Perhaps.” You nod in acknowledgment. “But it has also made me uniquely successful. And I take great pride knowing that my work is highly regarded, in spite of the fact that I have to be someone else to succeed.” 

“Does that ever bother you?” Eloise persists. “Knowing that no one will know you for the work you have done?”

Before you can respond, Penelope chimes in with a query of her own. “Does it ever make you feel guilty, lying as you do?” This feels like a challenge. 

You turn to Eloise, answering her first. “No, I feel quite unbothered. I like the privacy it provides me.” Your gaze flicks between the two girls, a fire in your eyes as you speak. 

You answer Penelope’s question next. “Guilt is one of the last feelings to cross my mind.” You feel content with it. “Because of Augustus, I have my own money, my own independence. I do not need a man to survive or to be happy. I have choices. And that's a facet of my life I never dreamed could have existed. If there is anything more empowering for a woman than that, I cannot think of it.”

Eloise listens to your words carefully, absorbing them, reveling in them. She hadn’t thought of it like that, but you’re right. Independence is a sign of true equality. And you have that. Not because of the name you hide behind, but because you’d used the insecurities of men to your advantage. You’d played the game and won. 

“I suppose I have been quite short sighted.” There’s much less arrogance in her tone. Eloise sounds humbled. “You’ve given me a new perspective to think about.”

Penelope does not enjoy the direction this conversation has headed. “Surely you cannot think yourself above someone such as Lady Whistledown.”

Your face scrunches in thought. “Above?” You stipulate. “I do not think myself above anyone, gender aside. But I do think I have a much higher sense of self respect than she does.”

“And how could that possibly be?” Penelope has to bite her tongue. She wants to say more, defend herself more. But she cannot. 

Eloise cuts in. “Lady Whistledown has the utmost confidence in herself. I dare say more than all the women in London combined. As much as I have come to see your side, I cannot agree with that.”

“One’s high level of confidence is of little concern here.” You deliver. “Often, in matters regarding the human condition, such as these, it can act as a detriment.” Your eyes narrow as you speak. “Self respect and self confidence can coincide, but they are not the same.”

Eloise laughs out of confusion. She’s not used to being this clueless. “I don’t understand.” She says.

“Ah,” you decide to stop tiptoeing around the subject. “I merely think that no self-respecting woman would use the pain and suffering of other women, or any other person for that matter, for their own profit and entertainment.” 

Eloise’s smile drops. “Oh.” Again, she hadn’t thought of it that way. But what resonates with her most is that you’re not wrong. 

“Is that what you truly think of Lady Whistledown?” Penelope’s voice is calm and collected for the first time this afternoon. It almost scares you. 

“Yes.” You say, before voicing, “However, I mean no offense to either of you. I know how much you girls adore her column. I just want more for you than what she does. A life of gossip is dangerous, and you deserve so much more.”

If you had known you’d been talking to Lady Whistledown herself, maybe you would have kept those opinions to yourself. But little did you know how much your life was about to change, how dangerously you’d walked the line, and how much vengeance rests in Penelope Featherington’s soul.

Future note to self, do not play with fire if one does not wish to get burnt.  

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

“(Y/n), I think you need to see this.” Benedict holds up the newest edition of London’s famous gossip column. 

Your heart sinks at the look in his eyes. I’m sorry they seem to say. 

You haven’t even read it and you already know it’s bad. Handing it to you, Benedict looks hesitant, almost in preparation of what's to come. As you take it from him, you glance down at the ink on the paper, her handwriting etched in your brain. 

You swallow the lump in your throat as you begin to read:

Dearest Gentle Reader,

It has come to this author’s attention that a certain individual is playing an unforgivable game of deception within the world of classical art that this ton so highly regards. This artisan has gone to great lengths to keep their true identity from you, painting under a well recognized pseudonym. 

By now you may have guessed, this artist is a woman. One who has tricked you and lied to you by passing her work off as that of a man’s. What a horrid crime it is to keep such a secret from you, and a desperate one, I must admit. A woman so foul as to seek such attention for her art, far too greedy to be content with the life so many of the wonderful women of the ton lead. Instead, she parades around disguising herself so she can live a life she feels entitled to. 

This author asks you to consider the arrogance of it all. But the question remains, as I am sure you are desperate to uncover: who is the serpent who remains among us?

And so it is with great sorrow that I announce the once beloved Augustus Leighton is a fraud. A man never seen in the public setting, has given us a reason why. He is a woman.

And her name, ladies and gentleman of London, is (Y/n) (L/n). 

As I am sure you, gentle reader, are shocked at this revelation, I will take a moment to address the woman this particular entry concerns.

May I remind you Miss (L/n), I have ears and eyes everywhere. Or did you forget? It would do you a world of good to remember that the next time you think about besmirching me. And, as I write this, I must say, this warning goes for all. Heed it, live by it, breathe by it. I am not a woman you want to cross. 

Yours truly,

Lady Whistledown

Panic crawls through your body. You want to cry, scream, maybe even simply die from the anxiety you’re feeling. 

“What am I going to do?” 

Your voice cracks, it sounds like glass breaking. Shattered, ragged, and tired, and Benedict can do nothing but hold you. 

Again, as your body shakes and caves into the pressure you think, what am I going to do?

• ж • ж • ж • ж •

The moment Eloise enters the room with Anthony at her side, your mind is sent ablaze. Only three people had known about Augustus. Only three people could have possibly let it slip, and you know for a fact it wasn’t Benedict.

As much as you want to believe Eloise would never do something like that to you, you can’t help but feel like she might have offhandedly mentioned it to someone. Her mouth had always worked much faster than her brain.  

Benedict’s gaze meets yours in understanding. He hopes his sister hasn’t done this; he’ll be furious if she has. 

You’re about to say something when a certain eldest Bridgerton catches you off guard. Anthony smiles when he sees you, eyes twinkling uncharacteristically so. 

“I had no idea you could paint like that.” He says. “I must admit, I’m quite proud of you.”

You blink rapidly in confusion. Proud? In all the years you’ve known Anthony, he’s never told you he’s proud of you. 

“So you’ve read the column then?” Your head hangs in shame. Everyone in London has probably read it by now. 

“Everyone has.” Eloise pipes in timidly, confirming your suspicions. 

She’s nervous, understandably so, fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. You assume when you finally catch her gaze that she’ll avert it quickly, but instead, she holds it well. 

We need to talk. 

Benedict, reading the room perfectly, coughs in apprehension. “Brother, how about we let these ladies be for a moment? I’m certain they have some things to discuss.”

“Of course.” Anthony nods with a smile, not before reminding you how proud he is of you.

If anything good can come of this, it might just be that. 

Once alone, Eloise is eager to assure you of her innocence. “I spoke to no one.” She promises. “Blood be forgotten, you’re my sister (Y/n). I would never betray you like that.”

The look on her face is one of pure panic; she needs you to believe her. And despite everything, you do. It almost makes you feel guilty that you questioned her. 

“It’s alright.” You assure her. “I know you wouldn’t.”

But that only leaves one person…

“I think Penelope is Lady Whistledown.” You're taken aback by Eloise’s words, like a stab to the chest. Twisting the knife in further, she corrects, “I know she is.”

Moments of silence pass before you can collect your thoughts. “How long have you known?”

This is where Eloise loses her composure. Pure shame is etched upon her features. “I caught her a few weeks ago.”

A few weeks. A few weeks… A FEW WEEKS?

“Oh.” Your murmur is dejected and weak.

Eloise had known you’d been slandering Lady Whistledown in front of Lady Whistledown, and she’d done nothing to stop you, except defend her best friend’s honour. No wonder she’d been so reluctant to agree with you. 

“I wanted to say something.” Eloise stammers. “But I couldn’t. Penelope doesn’t know that I know.”

You inhale a staggered breath of air, face falling to your palms. “I’ve been such a fool. How could I have been so stupid?”

“You have not.” The girl beside you opposes before continuing, “Trust me, I am furious with Penelope. The things she’s done and said about me, about the people I care about, I’m not sure I can forgive her for it.”

You scoff lightly. Trust her? How are you supposed to do that?

Sure, Eloise has certainly been burned by Lady Whistledown before, but she’s always had her name to fall back on. “You have no idea what it’s like, Eloise.”

“I’m sorry.” She slumps in apology, shrinking in on herself. Eloise likes to think she can understand where you’re coming from. She’s a woman, same as you, one who has the same struggles against the patriarchy, and yet, hers are much different.  

“Don’t.” You dismiss her apology in frustration. It feels harsh but necessary. “You always speak about feminism and the difficulties of being a woman. How it is impossible for you to hold title and rank, or to be recognized for your accomplishments. But you are a Bridgerton Eloise, and that comes with more privilege, more title, more rank, and more acknowledgment in society than you seem to understand.”

Eloise’s brow furrows. “More often than not, that name is a burden, something you could not possibly grasp.”

“And I should not have to.” Your lips pull into a thin line. This isn’t a competition, but you feel it necessary to defend your point wholly. “I am the daughter of a servant and a seamstress. I have no money, no control, and no future if I am not to marry. Since the day I was born, I belonged to someone else. You talk of struggle, but you have no idea what it truly means.”

Eloise doesn’t like what you’re implying. “You think I live a life of luxury? That I am a stranger to the adversities life has to offer? I can assure you, I know much more about the struggles of which you speak. My mother has prepared me for the purpose of my future; finding a husband is imperative.”

“You plan to remain unmarried, correct?” You ask her seriously.

“With every fiber in my being.” Is her scathing reply. And it only serves to prove your point. But you can see her side of things too. 

“El, you defy your mother with your distaste for society. And while I applaud your determination to fight for equality, your fault remains in your failure to recognize the entitlement that has been bestowed upon you simply by having that choice. Unlike so many women, you can choose to live your life as a spinster. For you, those options exist. For me, I have not one choice besides finding a well suited, at best, middle class husband, because that is all I am suited for.”

In this moment, her heart shatters for you. Is that really what you think of yourself? “You cannot possibly mean that.” 

“It’s how it has to be.” You affirm. 

“It’s not.” She disagrees. “There’s so much more for you than a husband.”

Both your defenses are down, walls have collapsed, and you’re starting to get through to each other. She’s starting to grasp the gravity of what this means for you. Your career is more than likely over, as is the steady source of income you’d managed to build. Except where before you’d had less than no money to your name, you now had a healthy dowry (that you’d earned no less) to find a more comfortable suitor. 

Eloise sees it now. What Penelope has done is monumentally life changing. 

However, as emotional as this circumstance is, you still feel the need to reach out. She’s your sister after all. 

“Eloise,” your eyes search hers. They tread in a sea of empathy. “I never meant to imply you have lived a life without misfortunes. I’m not trying to diminish your hurt. But I thought if you heard my side, you might come to understand mine.”

She softens at your admission, having gotten carried away in defending herself. Nodding, she smiles gently. “I do.” She says. “And while you may not bear the Bridgerton surname, you do have us. Every Bridgerton will stand behind you, always.”

Against every fibre in your being, you believe her. Somehow you’ll always have this little family of yours, somehow you hope you’ll be okay…

[toskarin]

sorry to ask, but can you explain your last post to someone who knows nothing about the musician community youre talking about... it sounds like a really really good post if i just understood it better

this is another one of those posts where I'm transcribing a stream of consciousness, so I'll throw in a courtesy readmore

the musician community, as a whole, is much more segmented than the visual artist community

this leads to good and bad things, but generally it allows for more awareness of one's position and an acknowledgement that the needs of an underground folk artist are going to be different than the needs of a composer who receives a name credit. this means there is always going to be heavy pushback when someone tries to impose ethics downward

one element of this is the inward acknowledgement that the monolithic musician community isn't actually real in a way that isn't really mirrored in the visual artist community. besides making music and navigating the financial (and legal) landscape of that, there is very little that intrinsically unites musicians

this acknowledgement allows discussions about concerns among poorer musicians to exist without being completely shut down by someone who has different concerns, because they're not seen as the subject of the discussion unless they are respectfully contributing to it

one big reason for this being possible is that musicians are less respected than visual artists in the professional world

that might sound absurd if you only know of one landscape, but think of how many game (and movie, and tv, and etc. etc. etc.) franchises with identity-defining composers go on to swap out the composer at the first sign of a labour dispute, to very little protest as long as the quality of music isn't seen as dropping

hell, if someone else can copy your style satisfactorily, there's often no fuss at all! this leads to a pretty violent disillusionment with your place in the creative world

even beyond that, there exists an entire industry based around creating a parasitic body of IP landlordism for anyone whose music isn't attached to another product. the musician is, in a way that is deeply and thoroughly beaten into them, a labourer

the visual artist community (until recently) didn't tend to have this disillusionment, so it often follows the sway of its most popular and established members

in fact, the modern visual artist community as a broad cultural body is carved almost entirely from social media discussions that treat the community as one entity. accordingly, becoming established basically requires participation in this online entity

to further poison the well, the position of a visual artist is regularly talked about in spiritual terms rather than labour terms. there is something special that makes you a visual artist. it's the exact mentality that people rightfully made fun of in those ordinary people vs creative people comics. it's the unspoken cultural assumption that natural talent exists, even if most people would deny believing in it if put into explicit terms

while this does feel very good, it means that acknowledging labour-originated conflicts of interest is a bit rude

when a community unites itself around a spiritual core, it can't properly assert "your experiences are not applicable to what is being discussed and you should not be imposing yourself" because, by all metrics, an artist is a fundamentally unique demographic that can speak in all conversations about art

it's a warped form of anti-gatekeeping, a one-way gate through which you can strike down at other poor artists, but not up, enforced from below and framed as a desire for openness

the visual artist community's relative homogenisation of popular consensus is, on the whole, very very very bad for what it does to its norms. it hashes out and legislates within itself with an unspoken assumption that its most prolific members are simply further along the artist lifecycle, and therefore the most trustworthy

discussions with direct parallels ("is it okay to be obviously influenced by someone else's style?") come to much hazier conclusions which lean towards the opinions held by people with the most followers

most egregiously, this manifested in how visual artists react to piracy

the past ten years (in large part because of patreon making viable the paywalling of material behind a regular subscription) have been consumed by arguments about piracy that all seem to terminate in the assumption that piracy is theft, with little stratification of opinion between the hobbyist and professional scenes on this matter

this assumed spiritual core of the community is felt strongly in every conversation. look at the difference in attitudes around the distribution of cracked VSTs and the distribution of brush packs. hell, even on the corporate level, look at the difference in attitudes around pirating DAWs vs visual art programs

even when people are implying an approval of piracy, they find ways to frame it from a position of revenge on a company for something wrong it did, because they still need to conform to the community understanding of piracy as theft

individual visual artists can be (and often are!) more conscious of this stuff, but even then, people react with shock when these visual artists aren't horribly concerned about the possibility of their paywalled work existing on a torrent site

in a word, if you can see the ways these conversation spaces are different and similar, it's all so exhausting

[justrustandstardust]

i saw an incredible post on tiktok and i wanted to expand on it, because it's genuinely amazing. all the credit to @noesbf on tt for the idea that inspired these thoughts.

geto's character is threaded through with motifs of consumption. he takes things in, whether they be curses or daughters, and is spurred by intense empathy that ends up going in the "wrong" direction once he takes the entire jujutsu world under his wing.

when we're introduced to him in hidden inventory, our first glimpse is of him consuming a curse. he's also alone, in a dark alleyway, a symbolic image that parallels his journey throughout the story. he's a consumptive force, a facet of his being that ultimately leads to his undoing because he consumes the responsibility of "saving" the strong, who are burdened by the weak.

gojo, on the other hand, repels. he's an outward force, extending out a physical barrier that creates distance between his body and the world. where geto invites, gojo rejects. their abilities are constructed as diametrically opposed to one another's.

through the motif of gojo's abilities, this image captures their consume/repel dynamic in a singular shot. after riko's death, gojo leans into red, which repels. he focuses on growing stronger and in doing so, isolates himself from the world (and subsequently, geto). on the other hand, geto leans into blue, which aligns with the consumptive nature of his character. he harbours riko's death inside of himself and it festers, like a curse.

black holes are all-consuming vacuums. they subsume everything around them and create an inescapable vortex— once you're pulled in, you're never getting out. it will literally eat you and in doing so, makes you an everlasting part of it.

white holes, on the other hand, function in opposition to black ones along the same axis. where black holes pull, white holes push. nothing can enter them; they're doomed to a lonely eternity because of the force that holds the universe at a distance. nothing outside of it can affect what goes on within, yet it affects everything around it.

however, white holes can be subsumed by black holes. while nothing can enter them, if a white hole were to cross paths with a black hole, its consumptive force is so powerful that it would eat them too.

after geto and gojo experience a rapture in their relationship, gojo withdraws from the world, holding everyone at a literal and figurative distance. yet, even while he's alone, he's endlessly drawn towards geto. his eyes are bound but his soul isn't— it's tied to the piece of him inside of someone else, and gojo visibly feels the pull.

white/black holes also correspond to the colours associated with gojo and geto's characters (they align with their yin/yang dynamic, where yin (black) symbolizes darkness & the moon and yang (white) symbolizes light & the sun).

yin/yang are more than two halves; they form an indivisible whole. they become one another: light turns to dark, the moon replaces the sun in the sky, life transitions into death only to be born as life again.

if two celestial bodies exert oppositional forces upon each other, they function in equilibrium. geto's consumption was growing alongside gojo's repelling, reaching an event horizon when he took the lives of 112 villagers and forcing the two of them out of equilibrium. he continued to consume (curses, money, vulnerable people through his cult) until he died and took gojo's soul with him.

consumption can only exist if there's a repellant force pushing back. geto and gojo are not opposites, instead, they each contain the other— every yin has yang within it and vice versa.

they are borne of each other, they are unknowable without the other. they are more than matching; together, they are complete.