#do you understand how important he is to me?

[william-t-sickofyourshit]

William was busy at work, so he had his own things to worry about. While Sebastian was procrastinating looking at the treatment pamphlets, and having this difficult discussion with Isa over the phone, William had to deal with his students. The junior classes had more theory, so William had to do some tests and exams with them from time to time, and today was such a day. Meanwhile, with his senior classes, he had about three hours of intense piano practice. And since all of his colleagues knew that he accompanied Sebastian to a doctor appointment the day before, of course he was flooded with questions during lunch. Everyone asked how Sebastian was doing, their friends worried and cared, and wanted to know what the doctor said. They were all relieved when William told them that Sebastian was now cancer-free after his surgery. Ronald immediately suggested throwing a party in order to celebrate. But then William had to explain that more treatment still awaited Sebastian, and his recovery journey was not yet over.

Of course, this conversation during lunch got William thinking about all of it again. About how grumpy and reluctant Sebastian is regarding treatment. So, he was actually very glad when Isa texted him later, telling him that she indeed spoke to Sebastian already. William was already on his way home as he received messages from Isa, so he was reading them while walking. And oh gosh - he had to stop in the middle of the street and read twice, because he was so surprised by what Isa told him.

“Are you kidding me? Is that man for real?” William spoke to himself, just in disbelief. He quickly texted Isa back, thanking her for telling him all this, and promising that he won’t tell Sebastian he knows this from her. And then, he stomped back home, absolutely fuming. 

William was shocked, just shocked. Cancer treatment was so important, it was crucial. He understood, of course, that it was also scary, and that it will take a toll on Sebastian’s body. And this whole time, William thought that this was the reason why Sebastian was so hesitant about this, saying he doesn’t want to do it. But now it turned out that it was all about his looks? William had no words.

Before going to Sebastian’s place, William had some stuff to do at his own home, and at the church, so he went there first. But he was so agitated, that while walking around the house, he kept babbling, speaking to Dexter and Pavarotti as if they could understand him.

“And - and! On top of that - he has the nerve to think that I am so shallow that I would leave him just because his looks change! I should be offended, right? Can you believe it?” William gasped, throwing his hands in the air. Dexter and Pavarotti both tilted their heads at him, and William took it as confirmation that they also couldn’t believe it. 

For I have sinned...

The principal cleared his throat, eyes scanning the notes that he had wrote down before this meeting. It already lasted an hour, and the teachers gathered in the faculty room were becoming restless and bored. But indeed there were some things to discuss, with the concert that the senior class was supposed to perform at the end of the semester, and with recent staff changes. 

William glanced down at his watch, sighing softly. His class was starting in 15 minutes, so at least, whether the meeting will be done soon or not, he will get to excuse himself. He looked out of the window, his mind wandering. Principal’s voice turned into white noise in the background. It was a pleasant day, late summer. But William was looking forward to a slightly cooler weather. Wearing all black could really be bothersome at times. 

“And lastly, I am pleased to announce that we have finally found replacement for the violin teacher. Dear Mr Tanaka, may he rest in peace, was with us for so many years that I’ve been concerned we won’t be able to find someone as good as to fill this position.” the principal spoke. “But Mr… Michaelis, was highly recommended to me, and he indeed has impressive references. He will be starting this week, so please welcome him warmly once he will arrive. Ah yes… about that. He will arrive today at noon, I need someone to pick him up from the train station and bring over for the tour around the school. Any volunteers?” 

William was barely listening, and definitely not paying much attention. He glanced at his watch again, and saw that it was time to leave, as his class was about to start. He raised his hand to excuse himself, and little did he know, he just volunteered.

“Father William! Excellent!” the principal exclaimed. “Just don’t be late, the train arrives at noon.”

“Train…?” William questioned, raising his brow. He had a feeling he was missing something…

***

Right after the meeting, William had to run for the class, so he had little time to clarify what exactly he had volunteered for. He was a piano teacher in this Music Academy, but also he served as a priest in local church. Well respected, and rather liked. So when he later found out it was about the new violin teacher, he didn’t refuse. Who, other than himself, would be a better choice to introduce a newcome to their community?

So even though he raised his hand by accident, he accepted this fate.

After classes, at noon, William took a taxi and drove to the train station, to pick up their new teacher. Wearing black trousers, and a black shirt with a thin tie, was absolutely dreadful in this weather, so William quickly found shelter under the roof of the station platform, that provided some shade.

The train had just arrived. William had no idea how Mr Michaelis looked like, but he figured he will just look for someone carrying a violin case with them. 

He was in for a bit surprise.

@crazyvik97

[chaoticwriting]

The Summoning

It's just your normal everyday Monday. You know. The worst day of the week. And wouldn't that be cemented with these cultists that are trying to summon some eldritch beings to take over the world or something.

The Justice League goes on full force that day since the cult, Follower of Darkness, has a very wide range of followers among them. From businessmen, martial artists and even metas. So it is quite a struggle for the league to stop the summoning and just as they reach the summoning room, the magic circle has already lightened up and glowing with green light.

Flash: Uh oh. That is not good.

Hal: You think so?

Superman: Focus. We need to stop it now.

They try to stop the cultists from finishing the summoning but a green barrier is erected around the cultists.

Batman: Zatanna, Constantine. Break the barrier.

Zatanna: We can't. The barrier is too strong to break in a short period of time.

Suddenly, a green portal opens up in the middle of the circle as the cultists continue to chant in a language even Constantine barely understands.

The more they chant, the bigger the portal becomes until suddenly it stops and begins to shrink drastically. Instead of some interdimensional eldritch beings, what comes out is a teenager with a paper and pencil and a clearly not happy face.

???: Can't all of you do this on a weekend? I have some serious homework catching up that I need to do.

Cultists:????

JL:????

???: Ugghh, what do you guys want anyway? If you want some world destruction or killing someone go ask some other guy.

Cultists: Oh great destroyer, we ask you to destroy our enemy and return the world to the rightful.

???: What part of no world destruction do you not understand? Would you like me to show you a slide presentation to explain?

Cultists: But- but we summoned you. We offer sacrifice so that you may fulfil our wish.

???: YOU DID WHAT??!! You kill someone just because you want to summon me?! That's it. You are super done. I'm sending all of you to jail.

Before the cultists can react, their bodies are completely frozen except for the head. The teenager folds the paper he is holding and puts both the paper and pencil in his pocket as he walks closer towards the cultists. Suddenly, all the ice starts to move and they converge together into one big ball of ice.

The teen approaches the barrier and punches a hole through it, causing it to disperse. Seeing the Justice League on the other side of the barrier gives the teen quite the scare as he accidentally shoots out a green ray from his hand towards them.

???: What the hell! What are you all doing here?

Superman flies closer cautiously as he tries not to startle the kid.

Superman: We are trying to stop the cultists from finishing the summoning. We are sorry to have bothered you.

???: Bothered me? They killed people just to summon me. I don't even know how they managed to find a way to summon me. I am pretty sure I already destroy all records of way for people to summon me.

Flash: Ermm, I'm pretty sure they don't kill anyone. They do prepare blood though. If not for the fact they actually try to summon an interdimensional being, we wouldn't have bothered with them.

The teen turns towards the cultists and sees them nodding heavily as if to confirm Flash's words. They can see the teen turn a shade greener as he releases them from their ice prison ball but still keeps them in ice shackles.

As Wonder Woman escorts the cultists out, the teen suddenly turns towards one of the Justice League as if he just finds out something important

???: CONSTANTINE!!

[zhelin-thames]

The night was calm—eerily so, by Amity Park’s usual standards. Danny Fenton, better known to the ghostly underworld as Danny Phantom, leaned against the brick wall of an alley, munching on a cold burger. His patrol had been uneventful for once, and he was planning to call it a night when the sound of footsteps echoed down the street.

Danny didn’t need ghost sense to know someone was watching him. The footsteps were light, precise, and purposeful—not the aimless shuffling of a drunk or the hesitant steps of a passerby. Whoever it was, they were skilled. His eyes flicked toward the shadows, but he kept his posture casual.

And then the kid stepped into the light.

“Train me,” the boy said, his voice even and steady, though his face betrayed a hint of nervousness.

Danny blinked at him. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, dressed in black from head to toe with a hood shadowing most of his face. But it wasn’t just his age that gave Danny pause. It was the look in his eyes—sharp, cold, and determined. This kid was on a mission.

“No,” Danny replied flatly, taking another bite of his burger. He’d seen this kind of determination before—he’d been this kind of determination before—and he wasn’t about to let this kid follow in his footsteps. The vigilante life wasn’t just dangerous; it was a one-way ticket to pain, loss, and an early grave. Danny had survived by the skin of his teeth, but he wasn’t about to play Russian roulette with someone else’s life.

The kid didn’t flinch. “Train me.”

Danny sighed. “No.”

He turned and began walking away, hoping the kid would get the hint, but of course, he didn’t. The boy followed him like a shadow, his footsteps silent but deliberate.

“Train me.”

Danny stopped and turned to face him. “You’re really not gonna let this go, are you?”

The kid shook his head. Danny could respect that kind of persistence, even if it was annoying. Still, there was no way he was getting roped into this.

“Look, kid, I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing, but trust me, you don’t want this life.”

“Yes, I do,” the boy said firmly. “I’ve trained for years. I know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah?” Danny raised an eyebrow. “And what’s your plan when things go sideways? When you’re outnumbered, outgunned, and one mistake away from getting yourself killed? You think martial arts and stubbornness are gonna save you?”

The boy didn’t answer, but his jaw tightened, and Danny could see the frustration simmering beneath the surface. He sighed again, running a hand through his hair.

“Fine,” he said, crossing his arms. “But we’re doing it my way, got it? First rule: what’s your name?”

The boy straightened, his back rigid with pride. “I am Bruce Wayne.”

Danny froze. Wayne. As in the Wayne family. The rich, fancy folks who owned half the buildings in Gotham. He stared at the kid, suddenly understanding why he was so serious—and why he’d probably been trained in martial arts since he could walk.

“Alright, rule number one,” Danny said, recovering quickly. “When you’re in your vigilante identity, you don’t give people your real name. You need to keep your identities separate. Got it?”

Bruce frowned, clearly not understanding the importance of this, but he nodded.

“Good. Now again—what’s your name?”

The boy hesitated, his brows furrowing as he considered the question. Finally, he squared his shoulders and said, “Batman.”

Danny blinked. Then he blinked again. The kid’s tone was serious—so serious that Danny might have actually been intimidated if not for the fact that his voice cracked halfway through the word.

Danny bit his lip, struggling to hold back a laugh. “Alright, Batsy,” he said, the nickname slipping out before he could stop himself. “Rule number two: no vigilante-ing until you’re twenty. Teenage vigilantes get killed. They make dumb mistakes, and trust me, I know. I was a teenage vigilante, and let me tell you, it’s not worth the risk.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “What? No! I need to protect Gotham. I can’t wait four more years to do that!”

It was the first time Danny had heard any real emotion in his voice. The boy’s face softened, just for a moment, and Danny could see the weight of the world pressing down on his narrow shoulders. He wanted to argue, to convince Danny that he was ready, but Danny shook his head.

“Nope,” he said firmly. “You wait until you’re out of the ‘teen’ range, or I don’t train you. End of discussion. And rule number three, which is kind of an extension of rule number one: don’t give out personal information in your vigilante identity. I know you’re sixteen now, and I wasn’t even trying to get that info out of you.”

Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line, and a low growl escaped his throat. Danny couldn’t help but think he sounded like a cranky puppy.

“Fine,” Bruce muttered, clearly realizing he wasn’t going to win this argument. But Danny could tell he was already filing everything away, committing the rules to memory. The kid was smart, no doubt about that.

“Good,” Danny said with a grin. “Training starts tomorrow, Baby Bat. Meet me at Nasty Burger. Civvies only.”

Years later, Bruce Wayne stood in the Batcave, his head pounding as he argued with a pint-sized acrobat perched on the Batcomputer.

Bruce opened his mouth to argue, but Danny was already walking away, his laughter echoing down the alley.

“Dick,” Bruce said, his voice low and measured, “you’re not going out there. You’re nine. You wait until you’re twenty, and that’s final.”

Dick Grayson crossed his arms, his small face twisted into a defiant scowl. “But you didn’t wait until you were twenty!”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s different.”

“No, it’s not!”

Bruce groaned. He was starting to understand how Danny must have felt all those years ago.

Meanwhile, in Amity Park, Danny Fenton paused mid-bite of his burger. A strange sensation washed over him—a tingling at the back of his mind that he hadn’t felt in years.

“I don’t know where or why,” Danny muttered, narrowing his eyes at the distance, “but I just know Baby Bat is doing something dumb again. And I don’t like it.”

It had been years since Danny Fenton had reluctantly taken on a certain sixteen-year-old Bruce Wayne as a trainee. The so-called Baby Bat had been stubborn, determined, and relentless in his pursuit of justice—even if Danny had been equally stubborn in making sure the kid didn’t get himself killed before he turned twenty.

Now, years later, Bruce Wayne had turned into Batman—the Batman. The name was spoken in hushed tones across the criminal underworld and was plastered on the news every other week. Danny couldn’t help but feel proud… and maybe a little exasperated.

He’d done his job. Bruce was alive, competent, and running Gotham like a pro. Danny had thought his days of worrying about Baby Bat were long behind him.

But that thought was obliterated the moment Bruce reached out through a very specific secure channel.

Danny leaned back on the couch in his apartment, half-listening to an old horror movie playing in the background while munching on chips. His ghostly senses were quiet, and for once, life was calm.

That’s when the Bat-symbol flashed on his computer screen.

He groaned loudly, almost spilling his chips. “I knew it. I freaking knew it. I should’ve ignored this brat the first time he said ‘Train me.’”

Reluctantly, Danny got up and opened the line. The face staring back at him was unmistakable—Bruce Wayne, older now, with sharper angles and a jawline that could probably cut glass. Despite the years, Danny immediately recognized the faint glint of determination (and maybe stubbornness) in his eyes. Some things never changed.

“Bruce,” Danny drawled, leaning against his desk. “What do you want now? Did you break something? Or someone? Or are you just here to tell me about how Gotham still sucks?”

“Danny,” Bruce said, his voice as grave as ever. “I need your help.”

Danny squinted at him, skeptical. “Help? With what? You’re literally Batman now. What could you possibly need from me?”

Bruce hesitated for a moment, and Danny almost laughed. He’s nervous. What the hell is going on?

Finally, Bruce spoke. “It’s my family.”

Danny blinked. “Your… family?”

“They’re... difficult,” Bruce admitted begrudgingly, and Danny couldn’t stop himself from laughing. He laughed so hard he had to clutch his sides, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

“You? You, the most difficult person I’ve ever met, are complaining about difficult family members?” Danny wheezed. “Oh, this is rich.”

Bruce didn’t look amused. “Danny.”

“Alright, alright,” Danny said, wiping his eyes. “What’s the deal? You’ve got Alfred, right? Let him handle it.”

“This is different,” Bruce said, and Danny could hear the faintest edge of discomfort in his voice. “You’ll see when you get here.”

And with that, the line cut out.

Danny stared at the blank screen for a moment before sighing. “I swear, if he’s gotten himself in over his head again…”

Danny arrived at Wayne Manor via ghost portal the next evening, stepping out of the swirling green vortex in his Phantom form. The grandeur of the place hit him immediately—it was just as ridiculous as he remembered.

He floated down into the Batcave, landing silently behind Bruce, who was reviewing a crime map on the massive Batcomputer.

“Alright, Batsy,” Danny said, his voice echoing in the cave. “What’s the big deal?”

Bruce didn’t even turn. “They’re here.”

Danny was about to ask who when he heard a series of rapid footsteps and loud voices approaching from the tunnels.

“—I told you to stop touching my stuff, Todd!”

“Like I care, Drake!”

“You’re both insufferable,” another voice cut in, colder and sharper.

“Guys, please!” someone else chimed in, clearly exasperated.

And then they were there—a collection of teenagers and young adults, each looking like they belonged in their own action movie.

Danny blinked. “Bruce,” he said slowly, turning to face him. “Why do you have an army of kids?”

Bruce sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose as his children assembled in front of Danny.

“Danny, meet my… family.”

The first to step forward was the oldest—a grinning man in his twenties with an acrobat’s grace and bright, mischievous blue eyes. “Dick Grayson,” he said, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Danny shook it, eyeing him warily. “The original Robin, huh? Bruce talks about you sometimes. Says you’re the ‘good one.’”

Dick smirked. “Good to know I’m still the favorite.”

“Only because you don’t give me headaches,” Bruce muttered.

The next kid to step forward was a young man with a white streak in his dark hair, a leather jacket, and an air of barely-restrained chaos. He didn’t offer a handshake.

“Jason Todd,” he said, his voice rough. “And you’re the guy who taught Bruce how to nag, huh?”

Danny snorted. “And you’re the one who probably causes most of his headaches.”

Jason smirked. “Damn right.”

The third was a lanky teen with sharp eyes and a smartphone glued to his hand. “Tim Drake,” he said, not looking up from the screen.

“You’re the tech guy, I’m guessing?” Danny said.

Tim nodded distractedly. “You could say that.”

Next was a young boy, no older than ten, with a scowl that could probably scare grown men. He crossed his arms and glared at Danny.

“Damian Wayne,” he said. “Biological son.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Ah, the little terror Bruce never shut up about.”

Damian bristled. “I am no terror—”

“Yes, you are,” everyone said in unison.

Danny turned to Bruce, his arms crossed. “So… what do you need my help with? Because it looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

Bruce sighed heavily. “They don’t listen to me. Half the time, they’re arguing. The other half, they’re trying to outsmart each other—or me.”

“And?” Danny prompted.

“And,” Bruce said reluctantly, “I thought you could help… mediate.”

Danny blinked. Then he started laughing again. “You want me to babysit your army of vigilantes?”

“It’s not babysitting,” Bruce growled.

But it absolutely was.

Over the next few days, Danny found himself in the middle of Bat-family antics. Whether it was Jason and Tim bickering over whose tech was better, Dick trying to wrangle everyone for a “team-building exercise,” or Damian threatening to fight literally everyone, Danny was beginning to realize why Bruce looked so perpetually exhausted.

But for all the chaos, there was a sense of family here that Danny couldn’t help but admire. It reminded him of his own ragtag group back in Amity—Sam, Tucker, Jazz, even Vlad in a weird way.

Eventually, Danny pulled Bruce aside. “You know,” he said, “for all your complaining, you’ve built something pretty amazing here. They’re not just your team—they’re your family.”

Bruce looked at his kids, a rare flicker of softness crossing his face. “I know,” he said quietly.

Danny grinned. “Well, you’re still a pain in the ass, but I think you’ve done alright, Batsy.”

And so, Danny’s unexpected reunion with Bruce turned into a week-long crash course in dealing with the next generation of vigilantes. By the time he left, he was exhausted—but also a little proud.

As he stepped back through his portal, he shook his head with a smile.

“Baby Bat really did grow up, huh?”

Somewhere in the Batcave, Bruce smirked.

[webslingingslasher]

j! its been so long but omg hi

i was super obsessed with ur frat!peter hows he doing?

i just saw a tiktok that was about a frat boy yelling at a party “if youre not a brother or fucking a brother, then get the fuck out!” has this been brought up in the frat!peter circle?

i have so many scenarios in my mind like at the different stages! when they first started and trouble isnt super stable in the relationship and she goes to head out but peter (or ethan omg) grabs her arm and hes like ur part of that demographic trouble. im melting 🫠

or when theyre like broken up/taking a break and she goes to leave and peter goes all sad puppy dog eyes :((

omg yes queen::

*a little something ya'll can wake up to. <3

---

'if you're not a brother or fucking a brother, then get the fuck out!'

you hold in a sigh, the party's over. ally won't make it home with you tonight, she ditched you thirty minutes ago to 'go with matty,' aka, you won't see her again until tomorrow.

you glance down at your drink and debate chugging it, if you do you know you'll leave with a woozy stomach. you take two sips and dump the cup in the kitchen trash, it sends two empty beer cans falling, you shrug at the mess and keep walking.

a girl stumbles into your shoulder and profusely apologizes with tears in her eyes, you keep telling her it's okay but she doesn't let it go until her boyfriend nudges her out of the house.

the house music cuts, any stragglers were just seriously kicked out. you follow the crowd and prepare for the cold walk home, a hand loops around your upper arm before you can get through the threshold.

'where do you think you're going?' you turn around and grin at your friend. 'home? where are you going?'

'also home. i'm just waiting for everyone to clear out first.' ethan pulls you away from the dwindling party. 'you know, brother duties.' he sends a wink your way, you nod along like you understand.

'yeah, but i'm not a brother so i don't think i should help with that.'

ethan stops you again. 'parker is a brother, yes?' he is. he's also not there tonight. something about going to queens being more important than the typical friday night party. 'he is.'

'and you're fucking him, right?' you love when ethan has a little liquor in him. 'i am.'

'okay, so then you fit the requirements. hang back with me and we can go to my place together.' it's not a hard sell but you'll act like it is. 'are you sure? peter's not even here, do those rules still apply?'

'i'm a god damn chapter officer, i get to make the rules and it's everyone else's job to follow them. how about that?' you pat ethan's shoulder, you're not arguing one bit.

'can't fight you on that, can i? you twisted my arm good enough, lorax. i'm yours until peter gets home.' ethan holds out his hand, you shake it like it's a business deal.

'good. he told me to make sure you stayed.' he says it with a wink, a gentle suggestion he wasn't supposed to tell you that but you're glad he did. it makes you warm thinking peter didn't want you to feel excluded, especially because he was missing in action tonight.

'well... i am fucking a brother, right?'

'you are. and you know what that means? you have to stay here after every party.' he says it like it's a bad thing but you can get used to being on an exclusive guest list.

it feels nice. so, ‘hell yeah.’

-- vs. after the breakup--

'if you're not a brother or fucking a brother, then get the fuck out!'

hearing it makes you sad. no one's going to make you stay or tell you that those exceptions still apply to you. ally gets to stay here and you have to tuck your tail between your legs and scoot out the door.

'i can leave with you.' your best friend is kind for offering, you're an even better friend for saying no. 'that's okay, stay with matt.'

'are you sure? you shouldn't have to walk out of here alone, that kinda blows.' it does and you don't like the reminder. you'd prefer if ally stays, actually. you don't want her pity.

'it's fine. beats the alternative, right?' she looks at you to say what the alternative is, you do it with a sigh. 'fucking peter. that's my other option.'

'who said it had to be peter? there's like forty guys in the frat and you're buddies with at least five, take your pick.' you've thought about it but frat boys, especially the ones from sig nu, make you queasy.

'it's fine, ally-cat. i'll walk back with one of the other girls in our dorm.' the same faces you see in the hallway at your dorm are gathering their stuff to leave, they'll have no issue with you tagging along. 'boo. i miss when we would have frat house sleepovers.'

'good. blame peter.'

'and i do. he hates to see me coming his way, he really does.'

another brother screams out the same line, you frown and decide to leave while you still have friends in eye-distance. when you reach the door you look behind one last time to send a wave to your best friend. ally sends one back and blows a kiss with it. you catch it and slam it to your cheek, she giggles, you grin. your eyes flit up to the stairs, someone's already watching you.

peter sends you a sorry smile, he hates that you don't get to stick around anymore either. you match his melancholy and give him a shrug, more like a 'whatcha gonna do?' vibe. rules are rules and you're no longer a fitting member for the requirements they need.

'you can stay.' peter mouths it, you pretend not to know what he just said. 'wait.' you're still pretending, you turn around and walk a little faster down the steps- peter catches you on the bottom step.

'i said you can stay.' you have no reason to stay behind. you're not a brother and you're no longer involved with one. you point to an imaginary watch on your wrist, 'i'm about to turn into a pumpkin.'

'yeah, you almost left a shoe running out of here so fast, cinderella.'

you grin, 'i'm just following the rules.'

peter wavers his stance, he doesn't care who said what- he wants you to hang around a little bit more. he likes seeing you around. 'you're still included. i mean, we're involved, aren't we?'

you look at him like he's crazy, you swear you see him blush before he starts fumbling over his words. 'i just meant that i'm not moving on and you're not moving on and i'm trying to get things back to how they were- no, wait, i'm trying to get things better than they were before. not that they were bad! well, i mean they were bad but not... trouble, help me out here, you know what i mean.'

you do. you just like ignoring it. 'you're cute when you grovel for me.'

'i'll get on my knees right fucking now.' he's not even drunk and he's willing to beg for you in front of his party goers. you have to hold in a smirk of pride. 'to ask me to stay or to convince me with your mouth?'

peter's eyebrows raise, 'if you're asking me to go down on you the answer is yes. it's very much a yes, my place or yours? fuck it, let's go to the bathroom.' you're halfway back inside before you realize what you started.

you rip your hand away from peter, you refuse to go back to what it was. you need more than a few apologies to make you crawl back into his bed, you need a real confession. 'nuh uh, not happening. not in a damn bathroom.'

'okay, that's fine, my place is closer.'

you have to stop yourself from following him a second time. 'no, wait! i meant no, it's not happening. period.'

'i don't care if you're on your period, i'll still do it. that's how committed i am to you.' you manage to keep from gagging at the visual, instead you shove peter's shoulder. 'ew! you're so gross! i'm not on my period, you dolt. i'm just not having sex with you.'

'cool, don't have sex with me, let me just show you i can still make you come in under five minutes.' he has no idea how tempting it is. you're being braver saying no than he is for asking, post-breakup included.

'go find another girl, i'm sure there's a whole line-up waiting to get picked on.' peter's nose wrinkles, he doesn't even think of it as a cheap shot. 'gross, other girls are icky.'

you shut it down. 'peter, i'm not a brother and i haven't touched you in two months. there's no reason for me to still be here, goodnight.' you try to leave, a whine follows behind you.

'but you're still-'

but you're not, no matter how much he says it.

'if you changed the rule to 'if you're not a brother, fucking a brother, or used to fuck a brother, then get the fuck out!' how many girls would stand around and wait on you?' peter looks at you, he doesn't say anything and silence always screams that you're right.

'mhm. rules are rules, goodnight.'

there's a sense of succeeding when all you get is a wistful goodbye behind you. it lasts until the next week when the routine friday night party comes to an end with the normal call.

'if you're not a brother, fucking a brother, or go by trouble, then get the fuck out!'

ally squeals and tells you 'that's you!' but you're too busy glaring at peter's smug face to celebrate. it's his turn to shrug, his mouth forms four words that fuck you over.

'rules are rules, trouble.' 

[paimonthearchivist2]

except for the fact that this "framing" is not mine. read the third (fourth? i cant be fucked checking) reblog and you'll see that this framing was in fact provided to me as the actual explanation behind the "pro-communists" in the original post, sparking my original point. also, im a fucking trans woman myself and "you guys" 1. is not misgendering in any sense, that is not remotely what those words mean in that order and 2. you could've just. said "i dont like being referred to by 'you guys'" and got an apology, but instead you decided to be smug and wrong instead. my apologies for being an asshole during this argument however, i just got told i should die by somebody on this same post making just about the same style of argument so i was understandably pretty salty when people kept taking my words and twisting them. and I don't disagree that orwell was an anti-communist snitch, remotely; this argument only happened because snitching on "pro-communists" while entirely a plausible thing for him to do does not exactly reconcile with his time in Catalonia, and i wanted a source for that and was promptly told it was specifically marxist-leninists (which is completely in character, had the original post been specific i wouldn't have even questioned it. although that is an (unrelated) issue in and of itself) and i made a comment about how the original post probably should have been more specific and said it was marxist-leninists because that is both an extremely important piece of context and also makes it sound completely like orwellian behaviour, in the sense I'd literally be surprised if he didn't do that. but of course the human psyche somehow can't handle mild criticism, so you decided to spend some hour in total making a dumb argument because i said you should have been more specific. still not as bad as the other one who told me they hope i die, of course, so what do i care.

It's called Orwellian because George Orwell wrote a snitch list of people he thought unsuited to working for a propaganda arm of the UK government because he thought they were pro-communist, anti-white, or had homosexual tendencies,

[munsonsmixtapes]

older! eddie who is intimidated by your younger male friends

cw: hurt/comfort, age gap (reader is 25, Eddie 40)

You and Eddie enter the party and he immediately feels uncomfortable. He doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because he’s the oldest person there or maybe it’s because he just wanted to stay in with you. This is your debut as a couple and you’re so excited to show him off.

He doesn’t know why since he’s much older than you and none of your friends don’t seem to understand why you’re together. He’s just feeling a bit insecure but he’s not going to let that ruin his night. He’s going to have fun with you and that’s what matters.

You loop your arm through his and lead him into the house, introducing him to all of your friends. It isn't until he comes across your male friends that a strange feelings arises inside him. He doesn't know what it is or where it came from, but what he does know is that he feels out of place.

"Guys, this is Eddie," you introduce him, beaming from ear to ear. All he can do is shake the hands of your friends as they introduce themselves, not really feeling chatty like he normally is. He honestly just wants to go home, but he's going to stay for you.

He looks at all of them, sitting on the couch and he's sure that it won't hurt them to stand up like it will for him. He's wondering now why you're with him when any of these other men would be better suited for the role. He's fifteen years older than you for crying out loud.

He's never cared, especially since you're an adult, but now he's starting to feel like his age. He can't compete with these guys. They're all in their late twenties and definitely don't have that chronic lower back pain that he always experiences.

He can't stay, not now. The whole thing feels weird to him now, being here with all of your significantly younger friends and he feels like he really shouldn't be there. So he excuses himself for a smoke.

You follow him because something feels off to you. You have a feeling that he's just going to leave without saying goodbye. Everyone else might not have been able to see how uncomfortable he was, but you can. You saw it the second you walked through the door. And you completely understand why he would feel that way. What you don't understand is why he wasn't honest with you.

You feel awful that you dragged him here and that he agreed because he wants to make you happy, but you wish he would have told you the truth. That's more important to you than some stupid party.

He's leaning against his van smoking a cigarette and you make a beeline for him, silently plucking the thing from his fingers and taking a drag of your own. You stand in front of him, staring at him even though he won't meet your eyes.

"You could have told me," you say, your tone coming out a bit more bitter than you intended.

"I'm sorry. I was excited, I really was. But then we got here and seeing all of your guy friends...I don't know, it made me feel old."

"You're not old, baby," you hand the cigarette back to him. "You're not old at all. I don't want you comparing yourself to them, okay? You're my man and I don't want any of them. I just want you." You press your lips to his then take him by the hands. "Now come show me how not old you are, hm?" You open the back of the van and he follows, fully intending on doing exactly that.

taglist: @the-witty-pen-name @k-yurieee

[snaplight-anxiety]

couple who are both “promise to never put me before the world” types but one is “promise you will choose not to save me” and the other is “promise you’ll kill me”

[nerdygirlramblings]

Off to See the Wizard (7)

previous | next

cw: bad attempt at accents

Gaz watches the door slam behind you and turns back to Price, eyebrow raised. "Well, that was'n part 'a the plan," he says dryly. He looks to Soap and Ghost then back at Price. He drops his gaze to where Price still holds his wrist and, voice laced with sadness, says, "Maybe we were too much."

Price angles his head to catch Gaz's eye. He sees his own guilt reflected there. He sighs and runs a hand over his face. "Ya might be right," he admits.

"Wot 'appened?" Ghost asks, looking from the chair you abandoned to the door to Price.

"Think we might-a come on too strong," Price says. "She'd been skittish at dinner. Who knows wha' she thinks 'a wha' you an' me told 'er seein' what we did tonight." He drops his head into his hands. He knows you need to know about them, but when they first tried to explain their relationship to Laswell, it took months to make her see. To understand. They simply don't have that time with you.

Price knows actions speak louder than words. But it seems they shouted when a whisper might have worked just as well.

You sleep fitfully, chased through your dreams by soft lips, deep blue eyes, a desperate plea, and a broken heart. In the morning, when you hear the others getting ready, instead of rolling over and going back to sleep, you pull your things together. As the door to the barracks closes behind them, you head to the bathroom to get ready. You've paid attention to their routine and know they do their first round of training before they eat. If you head to the mess now, you can pick up some coffee and food to take with you, thus avoiding them for now.

You run quickly through the line in the mess, grabbing some fruit before you go. You carry it and a big tumbler of coffee to your office where you proceed to barricade yourself in with all the current intel you have. You check and double-check and triple-check the travel itinerary; the boys leave in four days, and despite your own emotional turmoil, you want them safe. You ignore the text you get from Laswell asking how you're getting on with the boys. Does she know something about them you don't? Instead you respond with a comment about how you know how to get to town if you need to and about Corporal Avery. You keep your thoughts about the 141 guarded.

By lunchtime, you're deeply invested in some older intelligence on the organization the 141 is taking on. It's a series of wire-taps between some of the organization's presumed leaders and local underlings from months ago. You know the audio has been scrubbed six ways from Sunday, but you wouldn't be the best if you didn't follow every hunch, and something tells you there's important information here. If you can find it.

You're so deep down the rabbit hole you don't hear the knocking on your door. You focus on your job and don't realize you've skipped lunch.

You work through to dinner, stopping when your growling stomach reminds you it hasn't had quite enough fuel to keep going at this rate. A glance at the clock shows it's 7:30, far later than you've seen the boys eat. Maybe you can eat in the mess in peace and slip into the barracks unnoticed, but you doubt it.

It's really John you're avoiding. It's not Kyle's fault he kissed his friend? lover? partner? in front of you. He couldn't know what John insinuated earlier that day. He couldn't know the kiss just about broke you. Even Simon, though he said he wants you, didn't do anything to make you feel like he was putting you on. It was Soap who snuggled close. Sure, Simon didn't stop him, but maybe that's how they comfort one another. You know their jobs are harrowing. Maybe this is something they do to cope.

You aren't thinking about food when you walk into the mess, mind still stuck on the 141, so you're surprised to see Soap sitting alone at a table. You consider ignoring him - he hasn't seen you yet - but when he glances up and sees you, his whole demeanor changes. You didn't realize how sad he looked until you think about how happy he is to see you. He waves an arm and starts to rise, looking like he's going to start shouting at you in a moment.

You hurriedly make your way to him, sitting in the space across from him as he takes his seat. "Och, Oz, was thinkin' you'd taken off." It's part tease, part scold. "We didnae knoo whare ye were. Gaz couldnae feend ye for brekkie, ahnd Ghost said no one answered yoor door at lunch."

You bite your lip and look away, torn between being ashamed and frustrated. You finally settle on curious. "I'm a big girl, Soap. I can, and do, take care of myself."

He waves a hand at you. "Aye, we knoo. But we're all keen on spendin' time wi' oor best girl now tha' yoor here." He blushes a bit at this admission but still meets your gaze. "We only have a few days, and I fer one doan wanna miss out on ye if I can help it "

You feel the heat rush to your cheeks. Soap has always been a sweet talker, but this feels definitively more like flirting than anything he"s said over comms.

He starts talking again, barrelling through your silence. "An' I hope I didnae make ye uncomfortable when I was restin' las' night. He doesnae look it, but Ghost makes a right fine pillow." He winks at you. "I bet you do too. Yoor soothing like tha'."

You hurry to respond. "No, no, I wasn't... uncomfortable? A little surprised I guess. Didn't know it was, well, I don't know what I thought, but it's fine. I'm fine." You know how you sound, tripping over yourself. In an attempt to deflect, you say, "I still need to eat, so..." You trail off and hope he gets the hint to leave, but it seems he's stubborn because he doesn't react. In fact, he leans forward and levers him up when you do.

"Lemme come wi'," he says. "We all had oor scran, but I can keep ye company. Pay ye back for all those nights ye made things less lonely."

You can't really say no when he puts it so sweetly. So you let him accompany you through the line, pointing out what you should try and what to avoid. You don't fail to notice the sounds he makes when you grab your selections, the hums and snickers and scoffs and questioning noises. When you're sure you have a fairly balanced plate - with some extra desserts because it's been one of those days - Soap deftly pays, ignoring your reminder that, "I get a daily meal allowance as part of this placement. It isn't even my money I'm spending." Then he snags your tray, carrying it for you back to your table.

As you eat Soap tells you more about himself, especially his family and how they want him to "settle doon wi' a nice girl." And just as John did the previous morning, Soap looks directly into your eyes as he says it. "Ne'er thought I'd feend one Ah wanted to settle doon wi'. No' really. No' until yoo, Oz."

You sputter for a moment, but really, who wouldn't. Three admissions of desire? love? in two days, and though you aren't quite as shocked by Soap's after both John and Simon, you're still troubled. "What about last night? You and Simon...you seem...close."

Soap nods his head. "Aye, we are. But it doesnae mean my heart is too full for ye." He looks at you so earnestly the recriminations die in your throat. You have feelings for four people all at the same time, after all. Who's to say the same can't be true for Soap. Is that what's going on with John, too?

You take a deep breath and force yourself to meet Soap's eyes. "What, exactly, are you saying, Soap? Are you playing around? Is this a game, or-"

He hastily cuts you off. "No! No no, nothin' li' tha'. I like ye, Oz. Have for a long while." He reaches across the table to hold your hand. "And yoor right. I have feelings foor...Ghost too." He shrugs and focuses on the table, collecting his thoughts. "Guess Ah don't see the point in limitin' mah love when each mission could be mah last." He spears you with his ice blue gaze and drives the point home when he adds, "An' Ah knoo Ah'm no' the only one who thinks tha' way."

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 8

~~

Taglist: @blackhawkfanatic @starriestarlight @grayskel @mxtokko @imjustheretofightforlove @miss-vanta-likes-to-write @thriving-n-jiving @madsothree @silly-starfish @danielle143 @beelzebee @nova-willow-541 @alchemyfreak321 @lilynotdilly @eternallyelvish @viylikescats @erintaro @hidden-treasures21

[itsnesss]

hii maybe a yandere!junho ?? I cant stop thinking about him 😩 i love your writing btw💕

𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐮𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 | hwang jun-ho × fem!reader

summary | you wake up restrained in a small room, facing jun-ho, who reveals his obsessive love for you. his yandere tendencies surface as he believes he's protecting you from the world. you must navigate his dangerous devotion and find a way to escape

warnings | junho!yandere, kidnapping/restraint, psychological manipulation

word count | 2.1 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

You wake up with a start, the cold floor chilling your bones. It’s hard to remember how you got here. The faint flicker of a hanging light bulb illuminates the room. It’s a small, almost claustrophobic space, with gray concrete walls. In front of you, sitting on an old metal chair, is him: Jun-ho. His dark eyes watch you with an intensity that makes you shiver.

"Finally awake," he says in a serene voice, but it’s loaded with something else, something unsettling. "Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this moment?"

You try to speak, but your throat is dry. Your voice barely comes out as a whisper.

"What… what’s going on?"

He smiles, and the gesture should comfort you, but there’s something strange in his eyes, something you’ve never seen before.

"I saved you," he replies, leaning forward. "They were going to hurt you. I couldn’t let that happen."

"They? What are you talking about?" you ask, your heart pounding rapidly.

You try to move, but your wrists are tied with a thick scarf. You look at Jun-ho in disbelief.

"This… this isn’t real."

He slowly gets to his feet, brushing his hands off like he’s just finished an important task.

"Don’t worry. You’re safe with me. No one will ever hurt you again. No one will ever look at you that way again."

His voice, though soft, has a sharp edge. Memories begin to return in fragmented flashes. The last time you saw him was at the café near your workplace. He was always there, sitting at the same table with his black coffee, watching you. There was something about him that unsettled you but also intrigued you, like a mystery impossible to ignore.

"Jun-ho… why am I here?" you manage to ask, though the answer seems clear in your mind.

He leans closer, dangerously close. His warm breath brushes against your face, and you can smell the faint aroma of coffee he always carried.

"Because I love you."

The confession hits you like a punch. You instinctively recoil, but you can’t go far because of the restraints.

"Love me? This isn’t love…" you say, trying to stay calm.

His expression hardens.

"Not love?" he repeats, as if tasting the words for the first time. He paces around you, each step echoing in the small room. "Didn’t you see me? I was always there, watching over you, protecting you from all those men who didn’t deserve you."

"Jun-ho… this isn’t right. Let me go, please."

He stops behind you and places his hands on your shoulders. His touch is firm but not rough.

"Not right?" he murmurs near your ear. "Isn’t it right to want the best for the person you love?"

Your body tenses. The danger in his voice is palpable.

"If you really love me, you wouldn’t do this," you try to reason with him.

He chuckles softly, a sound that makes you tremble.

"You don’t understand. This is for you. For us. You can’t keep living in that world full of people who don’t value you. I’m the only one who can."

"It’s not your decision…" you protest, but he moves quickly in front of you, leaning down until his eyes are level with yours.

"Of course, it’s my decision. Because no one else cares as much as I do."

His gaze is so intense it feels like it could pierce your soul. His obsession is undeniable, but behind it, you see something else: pain, loneliness, desperation.

"Jun-ho, listen… you don’t have to do this. We can talk, find a solution," you say, trying to keep your voice gentle, though inside, you’re terrified.

He smiles again, but this time there’s sadness in his eyes.

"You’ve always been so kind… so understanding. But you don’t get it. If I let you go, they’ll hurt you. I can’t let that happen."

"Who are they?" you ask, hoping to buy time to think of a way out.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he steps back a few paces, as if lost in thought. Finally, he speaks, his voice barely a whisper.

"Everyone. Everyone who tried to get close to you. Everyone who didn’t deserve you."

The air feels heavier. The idea of what he might have done to "protect" you starts to sink in.

"What did you do, Jun-ho?"

He looks at you, and for the first time, he seems vulnerable.

"What I had to."

His words are simple, but the weight behind them leaves you breathless. Your mind fills with horrible images, but you force yourself to stay composed.

"Jun-ho… let me help you. This doesn’t have to go on like this."

He shakes his head.

"I don’t need help. I’ve already done everything necessary."

You start to notice a slight tremor in his hands, as if guilt is beginning to catch up with him.

"If you really love me… trust me. Let me go, and we can figure this out together."

For a moment, it seems like your words are reaching him. He lowers his gaze, and you can see the internal struggle on his face. But then, he straightens up, and his expression hardens again.

"I can’t risk it. If I let you go, you’ll go back to that world… and I can’t allow that."

Desperation grips you. You need to find a way to make him see reason before it’s too late.

"What do you want, Jun-ho? What do you really want?" you ask, trying to keep his attention.

He steps closer again, his eyes burning with intensity.

"I just want you to be mine."

His answer feels like a sentence, and you know words won’t be enough to change his mind. But you can’t give up. Not now.

"Jun-ho, if you keep going down this path, we’ll never truly be together. This isn’t love. It’s fear."

The word seems to affect him. He takes a step back, his gaze faltering.

"Fear?" he repeats, as if trying to process it.

You nod, even though the fear in your own heart threatens to overwhelm you.

"You’re afraid of losing me. But keeping me here isn’t the solution. If you love me, trust me."

The silence that follows is unbearable. Finally, Jun-ho sighs and lowers his head.

"I don’t want to lose you…" he admits, almost in a whisper.

"You won’t," you reply, summoning all the conviction you can. "But you have to trust me."

For a moment, you think you’ve reached him. But then he lifts his gaze, and his expression is a storm of emotions.

"Fine," he finally says, with an eerie calm. "But if I let you go, promise me you’ll never abandon me."

Your heart stops. You know any wrong response could trigger something worse.

"I promise we’ll talk about this. But first, I need you to give me a chance."

Jun-ho stares at you, assessing you. Finally, he pulls a knife from his pocket and cuts the ties around your wrists.

"Don’t make me regret this," he warns.

You rub your aching wrists and look at him carefully. Every move has to be calculated.

"I won’t," you respond, though your mind is already planning how to escape this place.

[luv-lock]

... # ☆ TV GIRL .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : Yandere Batboys as Tv Girl songs.

☆⁠ NOTE : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

⎯ BRUCE WAYNE - "Lovers Rock"

Bruce doesn’t sleep much. On the rare nights he does, it’s not the weight of Gotham that keeps him awake. It’s you. Every shadow in Wayne Manor feels heavier, sharper, when you’re not there. He watches the footage from the hidden cameras he’s placed in your apartment, the glow of the Batcomputer casting his face in a cold, eerie light. It’s not paranoia, he tells himself. It’s protection. You’re too important to him to leave vulnerable. He’s already lost so much. But tonight, the feed shows you out. You’re laughing with someone—a stranger whose hand brushes your arm. Bruce’s jaw clenches. His hand tightens on the desk until his knuckles go white. You belong to him. Whether you realize it or not, you were his the moment you crossed his path. He closes the feed and stands, his cape sweeping behind him as he makes his way to the Batmobile. You won’t have to worry about that stranger again. Bruce will make sure of it.

⎯ DICK GRAYSON - "Cigarettes out the Window"

The breakup wasn’t your idea. Dick made that decision for both of you. “For your own good,” he’d said, tears brimming in those piercing blue eyes. But you didn’t see the cracks forming beneath his charming smile. You didn’t see him unraveling the moment you walked away. He shows up at your door one night, drenched from the rain, a bouquet of half-dead flowers in his trembling hands. “I needed to see you,” he says, his voice soft, broken. “Just for a minute.” You hesitate, but you let him in. He always had a way of making you feel guilty for his pain. Once inside, he’s all over you—his hands brushing against yours, his eyes locked onto your every movement. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just… let me be here. Please.” When you finally ask him to leave, his face hardens for just a moment before he forces a smile. “Of course,” he says, stepping back. But later, you find a small camera tucked behind the bookshelf, and you realize Dick never really left.

⎯ JASON TODD - "Not Allowed"

Jason’s love feels like a storm—violent, relentless, impossible to ignore. He shows up at your doorstep at odd hours, blood on his knuckles and a wild look in his eyes. “You don’t get it,” he says, pacing the room while you watch him from the couch, too afraid to speak. “I do this for you.” You’ve tried to push him away, to draw boundaries, but Jason doesn’t understand boundaries. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. “No one’s ever going to hurt you,” he promises, crouching in front of you. His hands are rough as they cup your face, his touch both tender and possessive. “Not while I’m here.” There’s a body on the news the next day. Someone you’d fought with recently, someone who’d made you feel unsafe. Jason doesn’t say anything, but when you confront him, his expression darkens. “I told you,” he says, his voice cold and even. “No one gets to hurt you. No one.”

⎯ DAMIAN WAYNE - "Birds Don’t Sing"

Damian doesn’t understand why you don’t see it—why you don’t understand that every step he takes, every calculated move, is for you. You accuse him of controlling you, of isolating you, but he knows better. He’s protecting you from yourself, from the world, from anyone who dares to look at you the way he does. “You’re too naive,” he says, his voice sharp but laced with a tremor of desperation. “You don’t see how dangerous the world is.” You flinch at the last part, and something in Damian snaps. “I warned you,” he says, stepping closer. “I warned you not to test me.” His hands, once gentle, grip your throat with a force that makes you gasp. “You’re mine,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “And I won’t let anyone take you away from me. Not even you.” Later, you find yourself staring at the locked windows, the reinforced doors, and the absence of your phone. Damian’s words echo in your mind: “This is for your own good. One day, you’ll understand.”

𝒍𝒖𝒗-𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 ☆ 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

[margeoww]

Hiii, could you maybe write a Toto Wolff fic, where he’s super busy with work and stuff and forgets their anniversary or the reader’s birthday and she is like so close to leaving him, but he like can’t live without her and promises to be better?? Like very angstyyyy but with a happy ending. <333

The Time We Almost Lost

back to my main masterlist

pairing: toto wolff x fem!reader

summary: when Toto Wolff forgets one of the most important days in your relationship, his world begins to crumble as you decide you can’t keep being an afterthought.

warnings: Angst with happy ending!!

a/n: sorry for making this so short 💔

The silence in your shared home had become suffocating, its weight pressing down on you with every passing second. Once, this space had been alive, a sanctuary of shared laughter, quiet moments of intimacy, and conversations that stretched long into the night. Now, it was a hollow reminder of everything that had changed.

Your birthday had come and gone, unacknowledged by the man who once made it his mission to make every moment feel special. The once-vivid memories of his handwritten notes, surprise dinners, and whispered promises had faded into a distant ache. The untouched cake sat on the counter, mocking you with its cheerfulness, its candles still perfectly intact, waiting for a celebration that never came.

You had told yourself you wouldn’t cry. But as you sat alone, your hands clasped tightly around a glass of wine, the dam broke. Silent tears fell, their warmth streaking your cheeks as you stared into the empty room. How had you let it get this far? How had you become invisible in the eyes of the man you loved?

When Toto finally came home, it was well past midnight. You heard the soft jingle of his keys, the door creaking open, and the familiar rhythm of his footsteps in the hallway. A pang of anger shot through you, sharper than the sadness you’d been nursing all night.

He hesitated at the doorway to the bedroom, his tall frame silhouetted by the dim light from the hall. —Liebe? —he called softly, his voice laced with exhaustion.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your robe wrapped tightly around you, the charm bracelet you’d bought yourself resting in your palm. The anger you felt earlier was a simmer now, dull but present.

—I came home as soon as I could. —he started, his tone cautious as if he already sensed the storm brewing. —I know I’ve been…

—Busy? —you interrupted, the bitterness in your voice slicing through the air. You stood, fixing him with a glare that made him stop in his tracks. —Go on. Tell me how you’ve been busy.

Toto sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. —You know how much is going on with the team right now. I don’t want to make excuses, but…

—Then don’t. —you snapped, cutting him off again. —Because I’m tired of hearing excuses, Toto. I’ve been patient. I’ve tried to understand, but last night… Do you even realize what yesterday was?

He stared at you, confusion clouding his features. And then it hit him. His eyes widened, and his shoulders slumped as he whispered. —Scheisse.

Your chest tightened at the confirmation. —That’s it? Scheisse? —You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. —You forgot my birthday, Toto. You didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t even notice when I didn’t say a word all day. Do you even care anymore? Or am I just… someone who happens to live here?

His face crumpled at your words, guilt etched into every line of his features. —Of course, I care. You’re everything to me.

—Am I? —you challenged, your voice trembling. —Because it doesn’t feel like it. I’ve been putting in all the effort, waiting for you to remember I exist, hoping for scraps of your time. But I can’t do it anymore, Toto. I can’t keep feeling this invisible.

He stepped closer, his hands outstretched as if reaching for you would keep you from slipping away. —Please, don’t say that. I know I’ve let you down, but I…

—You’ve let me down for months. —you interrupted, your voice cracking. —This isn’t just about last night. It’s about every night I’ve spent eating dinner alone, every morning I’ve woken up to an empty bed, and every time I’ve wondered if I’m even a priority in your life anymore.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his usually composed demeanor cracking under the weight of your words. —You are a priority. —he said, his voice breaking. —I’ve been so caught up in work, in trying to keep everything together, that I didn’t see what it was doing to us. To you. But I see it now. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make this right.

You folded your arms across your chest, trying to hold yourself together. —Words aren’t enough, Toto. I’ve heard them before, but nothing ever changes. I need more than promises. I need you to prove that I matter to you.

He nodded, his jaw tightening with determination. —I will. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just… don’t leave me.

The vulnerability in his voice, the raw emotion in his eyes, shook you to your core. You wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that this time would be different. But the wounds he had left weren’t easily healed.

—You’re asking for something I’m not sure I can give. —you whispered. —You’ve broken my heart, Toto. And I don’t know if I can keep putting the pieces back together on my own.

His hands trembled as he reached for yours, his touch tentative. —Then let me help you. Let me be the man you deserve. I know I’ve failed you, but I’ll spend every day proving that you’re the most important part of my life. Just… don’t give up on us.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken fears and fragile hopes. Finally, you let out a shaky breath, your tears spilling over as you whispered, —I don’t want to give up on us. But I can’t do this alone, Toto.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you as if you might disappear. —You won’t have to. —he murmured. —I promise, you won’t have to.

[starsintheskyandtheeye]

"So why the fluff piece," Jimmy asked, leaning up against the shelves by Lois's desk. Since ghosts didn't show up well on camera Perry had him working with Cat on a high society wedding over making the article look like a product of cheap ghost hunting. This was the first time he'd seen Lois, or Clark, since before they'd gone back to what was apparently ghost central station.

"You mean instead of talking about the near literal war going on between LexCorp and half a dozen religions? Or those religions spinning desperately with the fact that ghosts are real and don't want to talk to them? Or something about the scientific discoveries that lead to this mess, or the ones since? Or literally anything other than a fluffy morality piece," Lois answered, spinning slowly in her chair as she did, to stare pointedly at her partner. "I don't know Jimmy, why don't you ask Clark."

Clark smiled beatifically at his partner's sore loser behavior and it showed in his voice as he spoke directly to Jimmy. "Those are the headlines topics in all the other big papers right now, yes. But do you know why those are the big topics?" Clark saw Jimmy's confused look, and Lois's eye roll, and said, "Wait, I'll rephrase, do you know why all the other papers are reporting on the fallout from the news?"

"Ohhhhhh," Jimmy said, understanding. "Very clever CK. We've got the only published interview with an actual ghost, and they're all focusing on boring old humans.

"Still though, why the general fluff instead of a specific point?"

"Do you know how hard it is to interview a teenager," Lois answered, annoyed at the memory. "Much less a dead one," she said, a little more subdued. "We were originally going to focus more on Phantom's life and death, or the nature of the afterlife, or on how exactly the crossing over happened."

"So why didn't you? Those both sound like your usual stuff."

"Like she said, evidently the teenage ability to avoid the subject remains after death," Clark said, remembering the way the kid had managed to politely, firmly, and slightly desperately changed the subject every other time they asked a question. He hadn't heard someone change the subject that many times in one sentence since he'd asked Bruce how Selina was doing on her trip to Themyscira.

"And, much as I hate to pin my name to anything sweet and fluffy," Lois said, "It's the right article to write right now. Public opinion is fickle, showing people the humanity of these guys important. You've seen how much emphasis LexCorp is putting on the dangerous aspect and those mad scientists having so much of their work focused on studying them like animals."

"This changes the tone," Clark said, picking up the thread where Lois lost it to future story threads. "People will read it because it's the first ever verifiable interview with a ghost. And while they're reading it they'll see something a lot calmer than anything else being published right now. A story about a different culture, and a very relatable person on the face of it.

"It makes sense," Jimmy acknowledges, "but I'd hate to be in between Lois and her next story. Especially if she goes after Luthor like I heard Perry talking about." Lois focused on Jimmy at that, with a hint of the look that made him so concerned for her next story subject.

"Did Perry okay me to write another piece directly about Luthor?"

"Not sure, I just heard him saying something about the Ghost Investigation Ward with your name, his, and 'inevitable.'"

Lois's grin was downright predatory. Jimmy winced a bit and looked to Clark to support. Clark was smiling softly at his partner as she whipped her chair back to her desk to begin typing.

"Oh that reminds me Jimmy, did you get those pictures of LexCorp's water treatment facilities? Perry's busy and I think he'll be okay with it if I pick one to go with my article about lead pipes in Metropolis."

"Yeah CK, I got them like you asked, a couple where the sign is front and center and a couple where it's mostly pipes with a few branded junction box type things. I'd go with the pipes, it looks technical and gets your message across more subtly."

Clark grinned a smaller version of Lois's scary smile. He thought a moment then told Jimmy. "You should go with Lois next time. You're the best photographer I know. I'm sure you can get something usable, or at least interesting from the ghosts."

"Just Lois? Not you both?"

"Probably not no. Superman was there last time, and said that he'd be working a lot in Metropolis soon," Clark coughed a bit then said, "Apparently he went with us to take a look at what LexCorp was doing. We found some leads so I'm going to be staying here to report any developments as they happen."

"I can't decide if you're a great guy for giving Lois all the scoops on literal ghosts or a very smart guy for finding a way to keep all the scoops on what our own literal alien celebrity is doing."

"He's a menace and I'm so glad you're finally noticing Olsen," Lois chimed in without looking up.

"Oh definitely a great guy," Clark said. "Just a simple farm boy right here."

Respect for the Dead

By Lois Lane and Clark Kent

1,436 words

By now most of the world has been shaken by the news.

Ghosts are real! And ghosts are in danger! The original publication written by Lois Lane can be found here but we are not here to follow that well trodden avenue of discussion.

Here at the Daily Planet we have elected to focus on speaking to the ghosts themselves, rather than debate their existence alongside our fellow papers. During the hunt for the new source of Kryptonite that sparked this discovery Lois Lane made contact with one Danny Phantom. Originally he chose to anonymous but since the outpouring of support from much of the world he has since chosen to come forward publicly.

Given that the ghostly teenager is operating as a hero similar to our own Superman much of his personal history could not be shared. What was safe to share however was very different from what this reporting team had been expecting.

We had gone in prepared to hear the story of what caused a ghost that looks like a schoolboy to lead a life of ghostly vigilantism.

What we got was sweetly sarcastic individual giving us amusing anecdotes of his start as a hero, descriptions of the stranger habits he's gained since his death, and many many tips on how to politely interact with a ghost. At our confusion (who knew there were so many different types of ghost!) Phantom went on to explain and correct several common misconceptions about ghosts. So without further ado; here are the highlights of that discussion.

We begin with what was given to us as the number one rule of human/ghost etiquette. Never ask the individual, be they glowing werewolf, ghostly lunch-lady, or undead rock star, about the circumstances of their death.

It seems simple does it not? A matter of everyday politeness, and yet that is the number one reason for communication breakdowns between ectoplasmic entities and still living humans. Fortunately for the health of the interview this reporting team did not make that mistake. Phantom did not explain the nature of the offense but did not need to. It was clear that the, until then, friendly conversation would have ended abruptly if we had gone any farther down that path.

What we were encouraged (and warned) to talk to a ghost about was their obsession. As Phantom explained, "It's what drives a ghost, why we are still here, or why we formed at all."

When asked about his own obsession Phantom laughed a bit and said, "I'm a bit young for a ghost, so I don't really have one yet, I bounce around a lot. My doctor, he's a yeti, says it's normal for me though! The options are all over the place though. I know one ghost that haunts the high school to prevent bullying, a really nice guy. Another just wants to have her music heard by the world. Unfortunately her music brainwashes people to love her so we aren't super close. Or another that is all about granting wishes, but not in a singing blue genie way, in a fairy tale way, it's a mess whenever she gets over here."

That seems to be a common theme in ghostly/human interaction. Ghosts largely mean no harm but the pursuit of their own obsessions can have devastating effects on any that stand between them and their goal. Something to keep in mind if you're ordering pizza when the Box Ghost is at large.

Hoping it wouldn't cross into the realm of ghostly faux pas we went on to ask how old Phantom is. Once again Phantom seemed somewhat awkward although no more than what seemed to be his baseline when talking to (self claimed) famous reporters, saying only, "Time works differently in the realms. It can be really weird sometimes, you'll be talking to someone that looks like a toddler only to learn that they were last in a human world during the 1400s or something."

As Phantom continued to share however, the everlasting aspect seemed to be the least interesting part of the Infinite Realms, or the Ghost Zone as the Doctors Fenton, previously mentioned as ghostly experts here, call the place where the vast majority of ghosts dwell.

Ghostly yetis practicing medicine, while certainly not the least of the inhabitants were just the start. Phantom went on to share with us a sampling of the being he has encountered in his travels, medieval women moonlighting as temperamental dragons, the very concept of time, a warden of any ghosts that cross his path, and of course the ubiquitous creepy toddler so often featured on the silver screen.

According to Phantom up until extremely recently (whether by ghostly or human terms we were unable to determine) the Infinite Realms was closed off from our own home except for the occasional haunting. Which was explained to us by the telling of what was, to Phantom, a very funny joke about pop culture influencing ghost culture as people died and brought it over with them. From this we can glean several things. That the realms of the living and the dead have never been so far apart as it would have seemed to the living. That the near future will hold many changes as major religions, governments, and the common people hear what the dead have to say as they weigh in on what respect for the dead really means. And that while many things do translate, ghostly humor is not one of them.

Although of course that may be that, despite his real age being possibly many times our own - combined, Phantom is still eternally a teenager. And a teenagers jokes are often incomprehensible to any who do not share that state.

When asked about the sudden ghostly interest in our own living Earth Phantom had this to say, "Lots of ghosts want to go to the lands of the living. Especially anyone that used to be alive themselves. And anyone that didn't is curious what the fuss is about. Earth is so different from the ghost zone but it's still where a lot of us came from. If someone gets a chance to hop through the portal they'll go, to see how things have changed, or to keep things from changing, or just to stretch their obsessions. Really it's a chance to go home, just for a little while," he said, reminding us that for all they look like aliens ghosts are just as human as you or I.

With a few caveats.

The portal Phantom spoke of is an invention by the Doctors Fenton, Ectobiologists. Up until recently Jack and Maddie Fenton had been the worlds foremost ghostly experts, building a portal to the "Ghost Zone" in order to study what up until recently had been considered to be a non-sentient classification of emotional ectoplasmic imprintation.

We spoke to the researchers after our interview with Phantom, at his request. Despite the recent evidence come to light the couple remain the foremost (living) human scientists in the field. When asked about the setback to their work they had this to say, "We were devastated of course. To learn that we won't be able to study spooks -" Jack Fenton broke off there, at an extremely well executed elbow jab from Maddie Fenton who then said. "We got an extreme tunnel vision, a hazard of obsessive science. We were told we were wrong about the existence of ghosts for so long that we forgot to check that we were correct about their nature. We look forward to pivoting to ghostly anthropology and human/ghost interaction technology."

Ultimately we did not learn any groundbreaking secrets, but then if a ghost willing to go on record ( a written record at least, our recorded transcript of the conversation was near unusable due to static) you sit down and listen. We can never anticipate what a reader will take from an article but if we could make a suggestion? In this reporting teams opinion, the balance of ghost and human realms is not unlike the inversion of a mirror. We are reflections of one another. Opposite, yes, and dangerous to one another for it, but ultimately we are all the same. After all what is a ghost but emotion and ectoplasm (according to current science)? And for all that we try to rise above it, what is a human but emotion and flesh?

Fin.

Coming Soon!

Keep an eye out for top ten tips on ghostly interaction and interviews with the Justice League on diplomatic efforts with GHOSTLY ROYALTY!!

[snowluvvie]

₊˚⊹ ♡ . rafe cameron x apple pie!reader

Rafe didn’t understand what everybody was always running their mouth about when they said shit like “you’ll meet a nice girl” “you’ll wanna settle down” because, in his experience, nice girls were atrociously boring and no one he ever wanted to be around. He was sure he’d shack up with some bitch and get married and pump out a couple kids because he had to, because that’s what he was supposed to do, but not because he loved someone so much he wanted to

That was, until he met you.

You, with your gentle beauty and the way your hair was always so close to perfect but never quite. The pleated skirts and the way you always smelled of cinnamon and, faintly, soil. Warm as a kitchen at dawn, quiet except for your laugh, which was loud enough to scare the birds out of the forest.

The thing about girls with rickety front porches and warm hands, though, is that you have to be on their best behavior around them—that’s what Barry said, at last: “Man, she’s not gonna want your coked-up ass. That typa chick wants a dude who builds a fuckin’ fence and shit. They don’t like rich dudes. Give it up.”

And unfortunately, Rafe was pretty sure he was right. You mostly kept your head down when you walked, and no matter how many things he leaned against, or how many times he casually smoked a cigarette near you, he just couldn’t get you to look his direction—and if you did, you didn’t grant a second glance to his crisp white shirts or his backwards hat.

His crowning last-stitch move was when he made a big show of helping his dear sister carry her bag when she was walking down the dock—it looked heavy, he wouldn’t want her hurting herself! She’s family, after all! Sarah had tried to wrestle the bag back and she flipped him off after he put it onto the boat for her, but it’d already had the desired effect… your eyes lingered on him for a moment. Family was important, after all. You were the kinda girl who cared about those things.

When the two of you started going out, he felt like his life was spinning out of control and simultaneously clicking into place. You had expectations for him, real ones. And a lot of the time when you said shit like “I’m making dinner tonight, don’t be late” or “wash your hands” Rafe wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself, because you weren’t his damn mother—except when he looked over at you and saw your face, that wide-eyed, imploring look you always gave him, the words died in his throat. What the hell was wrong with him?

He’d do something nice for you and you’d nudge his arm. “What, you sweet on me or somethin’?” He’d wonder who even talks like that, it’s weird. Then he’d find himself grabbing your pretty face and kissing you so hard you think he might break your nose.

Rafe was so, so well behaved with you. He kept it together so nice, all his unstable shit wrapped up into a neat little package tied with ribbon. He acted as a guy who smiled semi-often, and said thank you sometimes, and maintained eye contact with you when he was fucking you—all things that were new and unfamiliar to him. When you told him what time dinner was, he came over in time. He kissed your forehead and he meant it. For you, he did it all. Barry had been right. You wanted a well-behaved guy, and Rafe wanted to watch the way your smile took over your face when you were happy and the ecstatic look on your face when you came, so he was well-behaved.

That was, until he wasn’t.

He was supposed to come over at nine. You would’ve just gotten out of the shower (or maybe you’d still be in, if he got lucky) and you’d put your cute little plaid PJs on, and you’d climb on top of him and put your weight on his chest while the two of you watched some 90’s movie. The movie would get boring in act three and he’d watch you ride him, and then he’d cum on your stomach like a gentleman, and the two of you would fall asleep wrapped up in eachother.

Instead of that carefully constructed, lovely, dreamy evening—Rafe showed up at nearly three in the morning, covered in blood.

He knew you’d be asleep, he’d have time to wash his face and toss his shirt in the trash can out back before climbing into your bed with you. He didn’t wanna go home. He wanted to press kisses to your throat and apologize for being late, swear that it would never happen again and then make it up to you in the morning by making you cum over and over in your crisp red plaid bedsheets.

Instead, he found you sitting on a stool in your living room, head leaned against the wall, eyes heavy with sleep. Waiting for him. Rafe froze like a deer in headlights and waited for the inevitable, for you to call him a psychopath and beat him off the property with a broom.

You didn’t. You didn’t speak, just led him to the bathroom and wiped the blood from his face, carded your fingers through his hair. Threw his clothes into the rattling washing machine with a tablespoon of hydrogen peroxide, and then let him crawl into bed with you anyway. The two of you were silent, and he slung an arm over you. You settled into the crook of his armpit and fell asleep with your face smushed against his bicep, and he felt something horrible and unfamiliar blooming in his chest.

You could never leave him, he decided. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t survive that.

[lukas-broken-bow]

Why is your name that?

Mine is this because when I first started tumblr I was hyperfixating on an OC called Oscar who got kidnapped by an evil doctor/ringmaster. (He was called Valentine which was ironic because Saint Valentine was a doctor who was a beloved figure and all of the people Dr. Valentine kidnapped to be in his show hated him. But also because he’s aroace and loves all his victims like pets but he’s namesakes with a holiday about non platonic love.) Valentine would do a thing where- You know how some taxidermists will make mythical creatures out of several different animal species’ parts? He would do that with living things. He would use surgeries and chemicals to combine living creatures together to make monsters for his show. There was also a carnival that he also owned that traveled with the circus/was part of it. And in that carnival was a “zoo” thing for artificial monsters who refused to perform. Like Oscar. So Valentine turned Oscar into a have snake. (Like the shape a mermaid is, but with a snake instead of a fish.) Valentine has chemicals that can make things grow more than they should to fit whatever creatures they’re supposed to be attached to. So he did that with the snake and mixed up it’s organs so that it’s brain could go in in its back somewhere and be connected up to Oscar’s brain so that they could communicate mentally. Now Valentine put the snake’s fangs, tongue, and vocal cords into Oscar’s mouth and throat (so now he can’t talk and he’s venomous.) But you understand. It’s still the snake’s brain controlling all the snake parts. And the snake would have conflict with Oscar at first. But then they would slowly meld into one consciousness because they can both feel each other’s physical sensations and emotions and they’re aware of all of each other’s thoughts, so like. Intuitively, I felt like they would stop being able to tell the difference eventually and just become different facets of the same person.

Anyway, Oscar really, really likes plants. He’s a gardener professionally and on his own because he grows a lot of his own food. (Made his own rain catching irrigation system.) So Valentine offered him a bunch of options for a new name. “Oscar” simply isn’t exotic or snakelike enough. And while Oscar wasn’t going to respond to anything other than his real name, Valentine was going to name tag him with whatever he chose, so it did actually matter. There was one single option for a new name that was anything related to a plant. He decided he would choose that one out of. I guess it was some sort of tie to what he used to do? The name was Basil. Oscar thinks of it as the snake’s name.

So Basil the snaking thing. Now I think I would rename myself “Parsley the Crow” since that’s more accurate to me, but everyone knows me as this and I have friends and branding to keep up with.

(Oscar eventually managed to grow a bunch of plants in his cage as an act of rebellion. Mostly ferns.)

okay, first of all, that lore is FIRE. second, branding is very important so good on you for maintaining your brand.

now, regarding myself, I am, as has been proven, a nerd. I am such a nerd, in fact, that my favourite band of all time is 2CELLOS, a cello duo comprised of Luka Šulić and Stjepan Hauser that has since broken up. I grew up OBSESSED with their music (I used to beg my mother to watch their music videos every day). they basically designed my pop culture taste. I got into AC/DC because 2CELLOS covered Thunderstruck. they covered the Pirates of the Caribbean theme, so I watched the films. I became interested in time travel (now a dear obsession) because one of their music videos involved them doing rocking cello solos in the Georgian era, and I began hc-ing that they travelled back in time to do it (this was when I was maybe nine). I loved them SO MUCH (still do, but now I also have other interests music-wise and pop culture-wise).

when I was around twelve or thirteen years old, I finally got the chance to go to one of their concerts; my grandparents were in town for my birthday, and as a gift, they bought me tickets to the 2CELLOS tour. at that point, I had just gotten into the internet and didn’t really have a brand or a consistent url, and I didn’t know what I wanted it to be. and then, at the concert (which was AMAZING), Luka played the cello so hard his bow broke. the coolest thing my tiny child self had ever seen.

that was the moment I forever became Luka’s Broken Bow.

funnily enough, for my birthday this year, I got tickets to go see Luka solo in concert in April. who knows, maybe he’ll break his bow again.

[pursued-by-the-squid]

ii. 'round the block

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

word count: 5.4k

ao3 | masterlist

“I’ll explain everything. Just let me in.” The door creaks softly, perhaps shifting under the weight of a hand being pressed to one side. “Please.”

You shake your head firmly, not that he can see it. “I don’t trust you.” You did. Really, you did, but then that businesswoman walked into your life and screwed with your head. Now you don’t know what or who to trust anymore, or if you should even be trusting yourself.

The moments tick by. Gi-hun’s presence still looms just outside. You hear his shoes on the carpet, how they quietly shh-shh when he adjusts his stance, but nothing else. Part of you – the sane part, however small it is – wonders if you should call the police.

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “I’m sorry I did. Please, let me explain.”

If he plans to explain, there’s a lot that needs answering. The mystery he wears like a second coat had been almost appealing at first, had lent itself to the fantasy of a kind stranger who plucks you from among the thorns, choosing you above all others. Some fantasy that turned out to be. You’re an idiot.

But then you peer through the spyhole in your door and catch the heavy slope of Gi-hun’s shoulders. You see his face twist with despair. You see him bow his head down to his chest, eyes squeezed shut in defeat, and your resolve falters.

You’ve never once considered him dangerous. Not the type. All that sorrow and misery, it never scared you before. If anything, it only endeared him to you more than it should have. Is it possible you’re overreacting, or that Gi-hun isn’t as terrifying as the strange businesswoman makes him appear?

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

The hope that blossoms across his face is all the proof you need, foolishly or not, and it shatters whatever resolve you still have left. “I swear to you,” he says, desperate, pleading, so, so kind and so terribly broken. “I only want to help you, [___]. Please. Let me apologize to you properly. Let me explain.”

You really hope he doesn’t secretly turn out to be an axe murderer with a penchant for charity cases.

It’s strange to see him inside your home. As long as you’ve known him, Gi-hun has been a man of the streets, coming and going without a trace. But standing among lounge chairs and your half-eaten dinner with only the light of your laptop to illuminate his face, he looks out of place. He looks taller, somehow, though you can’t imagine why. Maybe it’s the comparison of seeing him next to everyday items as opposed to, like, a tree.

The laptop goes dark a moment later and you scurry to turn on the closest light source, the little study lamp at your dining table (hardly more than a glorified TV tray, really). There’s just the one chair since no one ever comes over, so you decide to wander over to the sofa and deposit yourself there until something less awkward happens. Or he kills you. Either one.

He trails after you. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Your cheek doesn’t sting anymore, thank goodness. Besides, it’s not your face that hurts.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

You study him carefully as he moves to sit on the far end of the sofa, as far away from you as he can manage. Your eyes dart cautiously over the bend of his fingers as they splay out atop his knee. “Will you tell me who you are?”

“That’s… not important,” he sighs. “This game that you played, that’s what matters. That’s what bothers me.”

Yeah, clearly. The dozens of missed calls and ignored texts on your phone are proof enough that Gi-hun disapproves. It’s just that you don’t understand why. If he does work with that ddakji businesswoman, why would he be upset that you interacted with her? And if he doesn’t, then why does it matter at all? And why is he dodging your questions?

He leans forward so both his hands are braced against his thighs, his face and body bowing beneath the weight of whatever strange emotions are playing across his face, things you couldn’t explain even if you tried. “Why did you play?” he asks. “Am I not giving you enough?”

So he knows, then. About the money. But more than that, he thinks that you need more from him. The whole reason you played was because the guilt of taking from him was eating you alive.

“Are you starving, that you need money that badly?”

You reply with a fierce shake of your head. “No, it’s not… That’s not why.”

“Then what?” he presses, his voice strained and gruff. His eyes, so wide and dark, seem to hold the sorrows of the entire world when he looks at you. When you hesitate to answer, he dares to shift himself closer by a few inches. The sofa cushions indent under his hands when he moves. “I have enough,” he murmurs. “If you need more–”

“I don’t.”

“Then why? Why would you endanger yourself like that?”

You don’t think about what he means. You don’t think about the implications of the question, of how much danger you’ve unknowingly put yourself in, because all you can hear is the distressed, incredulous ‘why’ that he somehow has the audacity to strike you with.

“Because I can’t keep taking your money, Gi-hun!” You’re so flustered that your brain skips right over the usual honorifics you use with him. It’s not even a thought in your mind. “I feel wrong every time you give me more, it’s like I’m using you. I hate it.”

The room is quiet for a moment, and then – “Using me?”

“I don’t do a damn thing to earn any of the money you give me. You don’t even talk to me. Every time we meet, it’s like… like a one-night stand but worse, somehow.”

At his perplexed and mildly horrified expression, you realize you’ll have to elaborate further. Exactly what you didn’t want to do.

“I’m grateful. God, I’m so, so grateful that you want to help me, Gi-hun, you have no idea.” Already, your throat is constricting with tears, tightening until it feels impossible to do anything more than breathe. It muddies the quality of your voice until you sound as pathetic and stupid as you feel. “But you throw money at me every few months and then disappear the rest of the time. Like you’re ashamed of me or something.”

Gi-hun’s entire jaw is trembling, his mouth hanging open in shock. He’s staring at you like you’ve just insulted him, his country, and God himself. “Ashamed?”

You nod. “Yeah. Or, or maybe like I’m some kind of chore you wish you could get rid of.”

“Why? Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, I guess…” You’re not even sure when the notion first came to mind, but it feels so pervasive that it’s almost like it’s always been there, lurking in the back of your head. Maybe it has. “I thought maybe you regretted wanting to help me. Or you didn’t think I deserved it anymore.”

That’s certainly true, though they’re not the real reasons behind your feelings. More like momentary doubts slipping through your thoughts when you were at your lowest this past year, driven by your own insecurities and self-loathing. No, the truth is –

“I’ve thought about staying. I wanted to anyways, but then you offered to help me if that’s what I wanted, and I started thinking about all the things I could do, stuff I wanted to buy for the apartment, extra things that I don’t need. Things I should be working for myself instead of leeching off of you to get them. And I feel awful for it because you’ve been so kind to me and I don’t even know you, but you saved my fucking life, Gi-hun. You got me back on my feet when I had nothing and you won’t even let me talk to you long enough to say thanks.” You sniffle, messily wiping your nose with the palm of your hand. “When that woman approached me and told me I could make money, I felt so relieved. Like I could finally buy myself the things I want without feeling like I’ve betrayed you somehow. Without feeling like I’m the greediest, most selfish, most horrible person alive for wanting to take whatever you give me.”

After nearly a year of being made to feel, however unintentionally, that you’re little more than a distant thought in the head of a man with far more important things to do, Gi-hun touches you. Not for the first time. Your fingers have brushed once or twice before in the exchanging of cash, but it is the first time he touches you without a scowl on his face, his eyes alight with an apology he doesn’t seem to know how to speak aloud. His thumbs move soothing semi-circles over the back of both your hands.

“Promise me you’ll never play ddakji again.”

You’re quick to nod your agreement, even if it is a bizarre request. “I won’t. I promise. Just… why? Who was that woman?”

Gi-hun’s mouth twists into a grimace. “It’s complicated,” he says.

“So uncomplicate it.” You’ve decided to be incredibly foolish and let this man into your home; the least he can do is answer a few questions. “At least tell me you’re not part of some weird drug ring, gang thing.”

One of his brows arches curiously at you. “Is that really what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think.” You certainly hope that he’s not a deranged criminal, but you’d have no way of knowing even if he was. That’s the problem. “You never tell me anything. I don’t know anything about you, I just know you have a lot of money and you’re nice to me, and it… it doesn’t make sense.”

He chews on that for a minute, his eyes unfocused and distant. You can only imagine what he’s thinking. You can only imagine who he really is.

“The less you know,” he finally says, “the safer you’ll be.”

Ugh, is this man actually the most stubborn human alive? That’s not even a real answer. Are his actions truly so terrible that he has to hide his connections to you to avoid… what, exactly? What kind of people would come after you simply because of your arrangement? And why?

Gi-hun frowns when you ask. “The ddakji woman. She’s just a small part of a larger scheme that I’ve been trying to take down for the past year. She’s dangerous, [___], and anyone like her is dangerous too.”

“But why is she dangerous? What scheme? What does that even mean?”

His teeth flash pale white in the lamplight. “Just trust me.”

“I-! I’m trying to. But you won’t tell me anything. How can I trust you when I know you’re keeping things from me?”

“Aish,” he mutters as he suddenly moves to his feet, pacing back and forth in the small confines of the room. His jaw is wired shut, the muscles tensing beneath his skin. There’s an explanation in there somewhere, you’re sure of it, but he refuses to give it to you and you just wish he would help you to understand why.

Some hopeless part of you longs to reach for him. “Gi-hun-ssi–”

His head snaps so he’s gazing at you over his shoulder with that inscrutable intensity of his. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“What, your name?”

This time he shakes his head. “Not Gi-hun-ssi. Just… Just Gi-hun.”

That might actually be a stranger request than the one about ddakji. It feels wrong not to include an honorific. “But isn’t that rude?”

It takes a moment to find it in the low light, but you catch the slight curl of his mouth, the barest hint of a smile. “Not between friends.” He crosses the room again and sits, this time closer to you than ever before, albeit still at a respectable distance. One of his hands finds one of yours. “And as your friend, I want to keep you safe.”

It’s enough to leave you breathless.

This is so much more than you ever anticipated from him. He keeps things so close to his chest that every bit of information you have of him has been patiently pried from his grasp and preserved in the smallest chamber of your heart, yet now your head is reeling. You’re friends. Friends.

“Why?” Why does he choose to call you his friend? Why does he care so deeply? Why you? Just… why?

Gi-hun swallows heavily. “Because I’ve lost too many friends already.” And the silent but sturdy implication is that he will not lose you as well.

Dreams are funny things. Gi-hun used to dream a lot more when he was a kid. He’d dream about making lots and lots of money and moving out of Ssanmung-dong, somewhere fancier where all the rich people live with their nice apartments and designer clothes. Sometimes he’d dream about kissing the pretty girl in his grade who made his stomach feel funny. Sometimes he’d dream about stealing sweets and sharing them with Jung-bae. But it’s been a long time since he’s dreamt of anything nice.

Now, if he dreams at all, he only sees blood and bone and regret that counts itself in multiples of 456. It’s just that he’s never dreamt of you before. Yet he wakes up the next morning realizing he’s done exactly that. The memory of your bloodied face and body pierced with the same bullets that killed his fellow players is so haunting that he finds the image seared into his retinas. He’d tried to save you. He’d failed. It sticks with him the entire day.

He sends Jeong-rae and his men off to the subway, his phone burning in his hand the entire time because the weight of your discussion last night is like an anchor around his neck. You won’t even let me talk to you long enough to say thanks. He thinks about every time you’ve tried to goad him into talking, tried to extend your meetings like he’s tried to stretch out the few minutes he once had allotted with Ga-yeong, all while he’s been fighting to keep your interactions as brief and impersonal as possible.

I don’t even know anything about you.

He thinks about the painfully boring reports Jeong-rae gives him at the end of every night – ‘[___]’s done for the night. Safe & sound.’; ‘Quiet night in, no sign of anyone following us.’; ‘Stayed up late again tonight. Does this kid do anything other than study?’ – and then he thinks that he’s probably the biggest idiot to ever come out of Ssanmung-dong.

You’re lonely. He’s been too miserable and too terrified of getting another innocent person killed to see it.

His thumbs type out the first thing that comes to him, inspired by something you’d said in passing and full of typos because his hands are shaking too much – ‘You don’t need my permission to buy something you want. The money is yours.’ He honestly expects you to ignore it, or to question him further. Or to never speak to him again, even if he keeps trying to give you money. He wouldn’t blame you for wanting to back out after how he handled things.

‘I don’t want to disappoint you.’

Somehow, you keep managing to surprise him.

‘It doesn’t matter to me what you buy. Just take care of yourself.’ It’s curious how easily the sentiment comes to him.

If you were anyone else, spending the money would feel wrong. If you were anyone else, maybe he wouldn’t still be offering. But there’s something of his friends in you – the naivety of an expat in a strange new world, the hard-earned and innate distrust of anything kind that dares to help you, the sharp and curious glimmer of intelligence in your starlit eyes – and, well, Gi-hun has never been able to leave well enough alone. Even when he knows better.

And he does know better. The unconscious memory of a bullet lodged between your brain tissue and your skull comes to him  when he tries to eat dinner, and again when he receives the final notice of the day. The recruiter is nowhere to be found and you are safe in your apartment, but it doesn’t feel safe. Every time he breathes, he wonders if you’re still alive. Has the recruiter found you? Has the Game Master found you? Are you dead? Did he kill you?

Sang-woo’s face and bulging neck swim before his eyes. You have to help her.

Sae-byok, with her freckled constellations and her dark, wet blood. I need you to swear that you'll look after him.

He digs the meat of his hands into his eye sockets until it hurts.

It’s not enough. Paying for your tuition isn’t going to keep you safe. He thinks of the chipped mug you left out on your dinner tray last night, still half full, and the wilted plant by the window, and then he thinks about how easily you were targeted, how, if things had been worse, he wouldn’t have been able to save you in time. Just like his dream. Just like Sae-byok. Just like all of them.

He needs to try harder. Send out more men, search for longer hours, maybe even extend his investigation beyond the train stations. You were approached at a bus stop. Anything could have happened. He won’t let it happen again.

Gi-hun doesn’t sleep more than an hour or two that night, his brain too busy and his body too restless to allow him a moment of rest. He gives Jeong-rae new orders – if only the little boy he’d been in the military all those years ago could see him now, what he’s become, what he’s willing to do – and then he makes the decision. He crosses the line he’s been denying himself since he met you.

He cares.

“Take this with you wherever you go,” he says when he presses the taser into your palm.

You stare at it like you might stare at a grenade with the pin pulled out. “I’ve never had to use one before,” you admit in halting increments.

He shows you how.

“You should get a second lock on your door,” he suggests the next time you go out for food. Finals are finished for the term and you’re ravished. You haven’t been taking care of yourself like you should be, he suspects, so he treats you to something nice. It’s not blood money when it’s you.

You’re not entirely opposed to the idea, but neither are you eager to accept it. Something about the lease agreement and rules about modifications or renovations means that it’s technically not allowed. He can’t blame you for your hesitancy, especially when you still don’t know exactly what it is you’re meant to be protecting yourself from, but he isn’t going to allow you to endanger yourself more than you already have in his complacency.

Still, Gi-hun isn’t entirely without reason. You make such a fuss about the lease agreement that he goes out and buys an assortment of non-permanent security items for your front and bedroom doors. He makes you promise to use them.

It’s what what he would have done for his mother, for little Kang Cheol, for his precious daughter who lives an ocean away. Gi-hun lost the right to care for them a long time ago. But he can care for you here and now in the sad and tormented way that he does, and maybe, just maybe, he can earn his penance.

It is, perhaps, not his best plan, but there’s a sort of freedom that comes with playing the fool. In-ho wonders briefly if it’s the sort of freedom 456 once enjoyed, maybe in the years before his turn in the arena. The thought lingers for a moment and then is gone, dismissed in the blink of an eye when he sees the first student rushing outside.

This is your last class of the day, so he only has about fifteen minutes of play before you’re rushing off to the bus stop. The time is more than ample. A lot can happen in fifteen minutes, a lot can happen in just five. It’ll be interesting to see which offers more reward.

He’s just taking another sip from his lukewarm coffee when you appear. The weather is much colder today than it was the week before, so you’re bundled head to toe, your breath puffing around your face as you meander down the steps. He moves on instinct. It’s almost like being back in the arena, like being back in that final Game with his life and 45.6 billion won on the line. How curious that he feels that familiar spike of adrenaline now, of all times.

Your paths intersect at the foot of the stairs. You’re going one way and he’s going the other, and In-ho’s cup, now suddenly lidless, tips down the front of your coat as he passes. “Oh. Oh, I – I am so sorry. Are you alright?” His hands hover uselessly above your shoulders in some vague attempt to offer assistance.

You’re too taken aback by the liquid seeping down your chest to notice the way he’s watching you, waiting for you to act. Curiosity has been eating away at him since he first saw the footage of you playing with the recruiter. Who are you? What is it about you that sets you apart from the masses, that calls to Seong Gi-hun’s bleeding heart?

“Shit,” you mutter, low enough that he might not have heard it if he wasn’t listening so closely. You’re trying to brush yourself dry. How quaint. “Ah, I… I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s okay.”

In-ho studies the way your mouth wrinkles when you grimace. “I didn’t burn you, did I?”

This time, relief flashes across your face. When you finally look up to meet his eyes, he finds you smiling. A real, genuine smile. “No. You didn’t. Thank goodness.” He sees the gears turning in your head as you take him in, inclining your head politely as he’s sure you do to all your elders and superiors. “I’m sorry if I got in your way, sir. I wasn’t paying attention.”

One of his hands reaches for your elbow, not fully touching but brushing lightly over your sleeve. “Please,” he starts with all the thoughtfulness of the kind and gentle man he once was, “let me make it up to you.” The words are vile and repulsive on his tongue.

Already you’re waving him away, and that simply won’t do. “Oh, no, that’s alright. It’s not that big a deal, I promise.”

“It is to me. Please.” He starts rummaging through his coat pockets, purposefully tripping over his own hands and spilling a bit of coffee on himself in the process. The coffee cup is deposited onto the floor so he can shake his fingers dry, and then, “Here. Buy yourself a new coat. I think I may have ruined yours.”

And oh, how charming it is to see your eyes go wide with disbelief. He doesn’t get to see such carefree expressions during the Games. Everyone is always so horror-stricken, so bereaved – that or they’re too bloodthirsty to feel much of anything, so this is an adjustment. Unexpected, yes, but surprisingly welcome. He presses further.

“How am I supposed to apologize if you won’t accept this?”

Your lips part slightly. “Oh. No, I don’t, uh… I don’t need the money.” Carefully, you tap your fingers against his hand and push the offered money against his chest. “I forgive you, really.”

Where was this humble spirit when his recruiter approached you? You had been so eager for money that you’d won three separate times, and that was only a day after 456 had gifted you several hundred thousand won. In fact, you’d been so eager that In-ho had actually thought he stood a chance at getting you into this year’s games. What a triumph that would have been.

As disappointed as he still is not to have recruited you, he can’t help thinking that perhaps this is the better path to take. He can pick you apart himself this way rather than merely watching others do it from a distance.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to go catch my bus.”

He nods. “Of course. My apologies again.”

“Thank you,” you reply with a cheery smile.

He doesn’t follow you to the bust stop. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he drives himself to your apartment complex and waits in the parking lot across the street, perusing the borrowed files he’s brought with him. You’re an international student, though he could tell that based solely on your Korean; some of the vowels don’t sit right in your mouth. You have a full schedule, dabble in a few clubs when you have the spare time, and you live alone, which certainly makes things easier. A review of your recruitment video shows that you’re decent enough at ddakji, although it’s possible your winnings are the result of beginner’s luck. You’re a bit wary of strangers too, which is ironic considering how often you’ve been meeting with 456 of late.

These are social visits, plain and simple, but even more than that, he can see the way you smile in the security camera snapshots, how your eyes light up when Gi-hun comes to meet you. You’re infatuated. Even if you weren’t obvious about it (and you are), he would recognize the look of it anywhere. Whether Gi-hun can recognize it for himself or not is a different matter entirely.

In-ho waits until your bus comes to drop you off. He studies you from the shade of a tree, his coffee-stained coat left in the car so he isn’t immediately recognizable. You dawdle about for a minute or two, scrolling through your phone, before finally disappearing inside the building, and the cigarette he’d lit is put out a moment later, just in time for the alert on his own mobile to chirp from his trouser pocket. He smiles to himself. The live feed of your modest little kitchen/dining nook/sitting area is coming through without a hitch, as he knew it would.

The first thing you do is start pulling off your coat, already muttering to yourself under your breath, though the microphone is far enough away and you are quiet enough that it doesn’t pick up. Are you cursing his name, he wonders, or are you wishing you’d taken the money?

Either way, it’s no matter. He’ll have further opportunities to test you in the coming weeks, and by then he’ll have figured out exactly how to weaponize Gi-hun’s attachment to you.

“Gamsahabnida, Professor, I’ll see you next week.”

You’re glad you decided to stick around after class and chat – the clarification on your most recent assignment still turning over in your head as you meander into the hallway – but you’ve missed your bus in doing so. Since the next one won’t be coming for another half hour and you’ve already worked up a bit of an appetite, it seems the most logical choice to postpone your journey home and head for the cafeteria. Maybe you’ll swing by the library afterward, there’s a book that you think might help with your essay–

“Pardon me.”

You’re not fully paying attention to the people around you, so the voice takes you by surprise. Casting a glance over your shoulder only shows the half-obscured face of a tall gentleman in a dark coat as he attempts to walk around you. You dart to the side of the hallway so he has enough room to pass, but there’s something familiar about him that has you stealing a second, then a third glance, and not even discreetly. The line of his profile, the remarkably distinct voice – it’s the coffee man!

You don’t intend to say anything to him. You’re content enough to let him continue about his life without even knowing you exist, but it seems that the blatant turn of your head in his direction (three incredibly embarrassing times) has caught his eye. He pauses just a few paces behind you, his fancy dress shoes clicking lightly against the floor, and then he turns. You know because his voice isn’t distorted when he speaks to you.

“I remember you,” he huffs, and you think you can hear a smile teasing along the edges of the statement. You confirm it a moment later when you turn to face him.

“Who, me?”

The man nods. “I spilled my coffee on you last week, I believe.” And a bit of pride flares up in your chest for recognizing him, for being so quickly recognized in return.

“Ah, that’s why you looked so familiar!” Yeah, totally pretend you didn’t just do a triple take.

Coffee man tips his head back as he looks at you, a weight to his gaze that you nearly miss because a lock of his hair chooses that moment to fall perfectly over his temple. “How’s your jacket? You didn’t have to replace it, I hope.”

“Oh, no. It came out in the wash without any trouble. But I appreciate your concern,” and truly, you do. It’s sweet of him to care that much about somebody else’s troubles, no matter how minuscule. Strange, yes, but sweet too.

The conversation sags there, too polite to press forward and too casual to probe deeper, so it only ends up feeling awkward as the silence begins to stretch between you. You both dart around the idea of eye contact, though he seems more prone to it than you are. Right. This is… fun.

You clear your throat. “Well, it was nice to see you again. Thank you for not spilling coffee on me again.”

You make to leave, but he beats you to it with a tentative step forward. “Are you in a rush?”

That depends, you muse, though you make an effort to appear personable on the outside. “Not exactly. Why?”

“I’ve been trying to find a particular classroom, but I think I’ve gotten myself turned around. Would you mind…?”

A quick glance at your phone tells you that you have the necessary time if you postpone your bus by an additional 30 minutes, which you suppose isn’t that bad in the grand scheme of things. Besides, it would be rude to turn him down if he’s lost. You’d hate to receive the same treatment if you were in his shoes.

“Sure. Which room were you looking for?”

Coffee man’s smile catches a bit of the overhead lighting, bright and inviting. “I can’t remember the number,” he admits, “but the professor’s name was Lee.”

“That could be a lot of our professors.” There are at least two in your department and others have up to three or four, according to campus gossip. “Do you know their first name? Or the class they teach? I might be able to look it up for you.”

It’s an incredible stroke of luck that the very instructor he’s searching for is the one you’ve just left. The timing is perfect – if he’d arrived any sooner or later than you, he might have missed the classroom entirely. “It’s just down there,” you say, pointing your arm in the direction you’ve just come from. “Number 103, on the left. He should still be in there, but I think he’s getting ready to leave, so you might want to be quick.”

As if it hadn’t already occurred to him that your professor might also want to go home for the afternoon, coffee man checks his watch with a flick of his wrist, his mouth tilting into a slight frown. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”

“He’s usually pretty flexible if it’s an emergency,” you start, but you never get the chance to explain further. Coffee man is already dismissing you with a wave of his hand and a pleasing smile, assuring you that it can wait, whatever it is.

“I’d rather not inconvenience him,” he says. “But thank you for your help just the same, uh…?”

“Oh.” Your hand finds purchase in his. “[___].”

And when he smiles, you find yourself thinking that it’s a rather nice one. “Young-il.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Young-il-nim.”

He nods politely. “Likewise.” You end up missing the next three buses, but for once, the inconvenience doesn’t bother you because you spend most of that time getting acquainted with one of the most fascinating people you’ve had the pleasure of meeting in a very long time.

[itsnesss]

hey, are you willing to do a Myung-gi x read x jun hee where they both want her and are kind of fighting over her. thanks <3

𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | lee myung-gi & kim jun-hee × fem!reader

summary | the request

warnings | romantic tension, jealousy, slight arguments

word count | 0.6 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

You were sitting on the edge of your bunk, fiddling with a bracelet. You didn’t want to draw attention, but that seemed impossible with the two of them around.

Myung-gi was leaning against the wall, his frown as deep as always, but his eyes softened every time they landed on you. On the other hand, Jun-hee, with her short hair and confident attitude, sat on the bunk next to yours, pretending not to care about you, though her words cut like knives every time Myung-gi spoke to you.

“What are you doing there alone?” Myung-gi asked suddenly, stepping closer to you. His hands rested on the edge of your bunk.

“Nothing important, just… thinking,” you replied, trying not to hold his gaze for too long.

Jun-hee let out a sarcastic laugh from her spot. “Thinking, sure. Probably thinking about how much she wants to get out of here, not sit around listening to your nonsense, Myung-gi.”

He clenched his jaw, turning to Jun-hee. “And what would you know, Jun-hee? You’re always sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

She stood up slowly, her posture steady. “I know more than you think, and I also know she doesn’t need you pretending to be her protector,” she said, motioning toward you with a tilt of her head. “She doesn’t need someone like you, Myung-gi.” It was obvious they had history.

The atmosphere grew tense. You felt the weight of their stares on you, but you didn’t want to intervene just yet. It was as if they were both trying to prove something that didn’t need proving.

“And what do you think she needs, Jun-hee?” Myung-gi shot back, stepping closer to her. His voice was filled with frustration. “Someone like you? Someone who only knows how to use sharp words to hide their own insecurity?”

Jun-hee narrowed her eyes, a sarcastic smile playing on her lips. “At least I don’t need to hide behind excuses to justify my choices, Myung-gi.”

“Enough!” you said, standing between them before things got out of hand. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

They both froze, their expressions shifting from anger to discomfort at your intervention.

“There’s no need for you two to fight over me. This isn’t another test; you don’t have to compete like my attention is some kind of prize,” you added, crossing your arms.

Myung-gi lowered his gaze, his expression softening. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Jun-hee, on the other hand, let out a chuckle. “Don’t worry. He’s the one taking things too seriously.”

You knew Jun-hee used sarcasm as a shield, but you also noticed a hidden vulnerability in her gaze.

...

As you returned to the common dorm, they both walked by your side, competing for your attention in more subtle ways.

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt in the test?” Myung-gi asked, his concern evident.

“Of course she’s fine. She’s not as fragile as you think, Myung-gi,” Jun-hee interrupted, rolling her eyes. “But if she needs someone who actually understands her, I’m right here.”

You sighed, tired of the same dynamic. Suddenly, you stopped, turning to face them.

“Can you both stop?” you asked, your voice firmer than you expected. “I don’t need you to take care of me like I can’t do it myself.”

They both fell silent, surprised by your tone. Finally, Myung-gi nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Jun-hee crossed her arms, but her expression softened too. “Alright. Maybe… I went a little overboard.”