#just follow the instructions. it's not hard

[st7rnioioss]

can u do bsf!chris taking off inexperienced!reader's virginity?

BSF!CHRIS TAKING INEXPERIENCED!READER'S VIRGINITY

˚𝜗𝜚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬... smut!!, fluff, softdom!chris, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t do this!), kissing, swearing.

♡ ˖ ࣪ ◟ the air and atmosphere in chris’s room was all hot and cloudy. every breath felt heavier than the last one, the close proximity of the two of you making it hard to breathe.

you were sitting on top of chris. it all sort of happened so quickly neither of you got to comprehend it—but here you were, on top of chris, your tongue gliding over his while mindlessly reaching and touching his chest, gripping his shirt.

chris’s focus was everywhere else than on the movie playing in the back, long forgotten. he was way too busy trying to kiss the best he could. his hands were everywhere, but mostly resting on her hips which were starting to jerk forward.

“chris, can.. can we go further with this?” your voice was quiet and meek, almost too shy to ask.

you’d gone over the topic of sex with chris a couple times, and you always said you’d know when you were ready, because you wanted to—mostly you wanted it to be chris, not someone else. you let him know of that.

chris’s eyes widened at the question you just asked to casually, but he didn’t want to dwell on it, so he nodded. “o-okay.. i mean, are you sure you want to, it’s not just the heat of the moment?” his voice was soft, his lips plump and hands caressing your sides. “no, i’m sure chris, i’m ready.” your words were like honey to him, delicate and sweet while you avoided his eyes.

his hands cupped your face, finally making you look directly at him. “are you sure?” you nodded slowly, staring back at him with an soft smile, almost not there. swiftly, he kissed your forehead, before he started to take off his shirt, throwing it somewhere on the floor next to you. your legs were already straining from being on top of him for so long, so you shimmied away.

you watched intently as he got undressed, almost forgetting about your own clothes, quickly discarding your shirt. “um, chris?” you spoke up, meeting his eyes once more. “what’s up?” you sucked in a breath, staring at his bare chest you so desperately wanted to feel and kiss at like usually. “is it’s okay if i keep my bra on?” chris stared back at you, offering you a sweet smile and a nod. “yeah, that’s- that’s okay. don’t worry.”

you nodded again, quickly going back to unbuttoning your pants, messily pushing them down your legs and ankles so you were left in your underwear. chris was too left in only his boxers, the two of you sitting with a good distance on the bed.

“okay, just lay back for me,” he instructed, shuffling closer to you, watching as you got into position. “is this okay?” you whispered, your hands awkwardly resting on your stomach while staring up at the man on top of you. “it’s perfect,” he leaned over you, both hands next to your head. “if you want me to stop, just say the word, okay? or slap me, or just-“ he laughed, watching as you broke into a giggle. “okay, i’ll slap you.”

he chuckled along with you, slowly shifting further down the bed, his hands following down the sides of your arms. chris’s eyes met yours, and when you nodded he gently rested his hands on your knees to spread them apart. he never wanted to look away, your panties already sticky and damp, a patch forming on the fabric.

“holy shit..” he whispered to himself, his palms smoothing up your inner thighs, before his thumb stroked the wet fabric. a moan slipped from your lips, and in pure embarrassment you slapped a hand over your lips. “hey,” he said, looking back up at you. “i wanna hear you.”

with red cheeks and a shy smile, you removed your hand from your mouth, letting it thread through his hair. “that- that felt really good,” you mumbled, making chris snap back out of the trance he was in. “yeah? d’you like it?” he couldn’t help but smirk, letting his thumb continue to carefully rubbing.

another pathetic whimper slipped, and before long you felt his slender fingers hook under the material of your panties. “tell me to stop if you need to..” you rolled your eyes with a groan, growing impatient. “chris, i just need you to touch me, i’ll let you know!” you whined, making him smirk. “okay okay, sorry.”

your panties met the floor with swift movements while chris admired the naked sight of you. his hard dick was already straining against his jeans, bucking his hips into the mattress. “you’re so fucking wet already,” he looked at your soaked folds, glistening and slick. his thumb ran down your walls up to your sensitive bud, making a moan rip from your throat and fingers tighten their grip on his hair.

“touch me please, it hurts..” you whimpered, your hips grinding into his weak touch. chris quickly reached for your leg, throwing one of them over his shoulders with a gentle touch. his fingers returned to your pussy, his middle finger making its way to your slit while his thumb rubbed slow circles on your clit. “keep going chris..” your voice was weak, but loud enough for him to hear your pleading.

chris slowly entered his finger into your hole, his eyes stuck on your face to watch your reaction, and he nearly came in his goddamn pants from the sight of your jaw dropping, eyes rolling back, and back arching. your walls fluttered around his finger as he slowly retracted it, before pushing it back it. “does it hurt? at all?” his words were soft and gentle, keeping his pace slow. “n-no, it feels really good,” you shook your head, your mind enveloping the feeling of his touch.

chris smiled, carefully adding another finger to your dripping pussy, emitting a moan of his name from your lips. his eyes were stuck to your cunt, watching you clench around the two digits pumping in and out of you easily from the slick coating his fingers. “c-chris i think i'm gonna cum,” you whined, only moaning louder when his pace on your clit sped up, immediately releasing around his fingers.

“you’re doing so good, so perfect for me..” he whispered, listening to the sweet noises you let out shamelessly, pulsing around his fingers. he was quick to withdraw them, popping them into his mouth to lick off your slick. “taste so perfect too..”

within a few seconds, his boxers were throwing on the floor, his hand next to your head, the other one lining his cock up with your walls. “it might hurt a little..” he mumbled, but slowly aligned his leaking tip with your walls, his sticky precum mixing with your precious release. “it’s- it’s fine, just go slow please..”

and he did—chris slowly pushing the tip of his dick inside your drooling pussy, watching your face scrunch up in discomfort. “o-ow, that hurts like hell,” you whimpered, fingers digging into the skin of his shoulder to steady yourself from slipping out of reality. “sorry, i’m sorry,” he kissed your lips gently, stilling his movements. a minute or two later of kissing and comforting, chris stuffed more of his length into you.

his free hand grabbed grabbed your breast, still clad in a bra. “you’re so fucking right, oh my god. you feel s’good.” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut when he plunged most of his length into you. your own eyes screwed shut as well, pain striking through your body momentarily, before it subsided into pleasure in the matter of a few minutes.

“you can move, i think,” you weakly murmured beneath him, making his hips stutter and eyes open to look down at your pretty, pink face—now your eyebrows were knitted up in pleasure, lips parted, and eyes still pinched shut. “f-feels good,”

chris nodded with a laugh, the knuckles of his hand grabbing the sheets next to your head, turning white. you wrapped your legs around him to press him closer when his hips started moving, pulling his cock almost all the way out, before thrusting it back in. with every buck of his hips, the painful stretch of his cock spreading you open felt more and more pleasurable, sending your mind into a frenzy with a loud moan. you were squeezing around him, your nails clawing at his broad shoulders for some sort of stability.

“harder p-please. harder chris,” you let out a cry, feeling his pace pick up gradually. chris let out a breathless laugh at your wish, but he didn’t hold back from stuffing his dick harder into you with every thrust. “you like this, hm? tell me how it feels being fucked by your best friend,” his words caused you to let out a guttural moan. it was a half-lie, because just as much as he was your best friend, he was your boyfriend too—but yet his words sent a particular chill down your spine, making you clench around his cock.

“g-good.. s’good..” you pathetically mumbled, opening your eyes to look up at him, his face flushed and forehead glistening. the sight was enough to make your legs quiver around his waist, a groan followed by a whimper of his name leaving your lips. “you’re so fucking beautiful.. think you’re gonna cum?” his voice was strained and breathless, his fingers sneaking from your breast to place two of them on your clit, rubbing in careful circles while looking down to meet your eyes.

you whimpered, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer with a nod, moaning through gritted teeth. “yes, oh gosh.. i’m- ah,” when he sped up his circling on your sensitive nub, you almost came immediately, the last push to send you right over the edge.

your face was twisted up in pleasure, legs closing around his waist while a moan was ripped from the back of your throat. chris was in a trance, nearly spilling his cum right into you at the sight and sound of you, his hips stuttering against your own. “fuck, i’m gonna cum too..” he groaned, leaning down to press his forehead to yours, your pants and breaths mingling. “chris!”

you were holding onto him for dear life, thighs aching and pussy fluttering around his cock with every buck of his hips, his name being the only thing both your tongue and mind could remember. it didn’t take another second for him to paint your walls with his cum, emptying himself inside of your velvety walls with a gasp.

his eyes found yours, a giddy smile taking over your lips quickly as you turned flustered. you grabbed him by his face, pulling him closer to kiss him—it wasn’t as needy and desperate as earlier. this time is was much more gentle, patient, intimate. you’d never ever felt like this, your skin prickling and cheeks burning. “i love you so, so much. that was amazing.. but i can’t feel my legs at all.” you chuckled between pants, your laugh like music to his ears while he laughed along with you.

his lips quickly found your neck and collarbones, littering and placing wet kisses down your chest. “you couldn’t love me more than i love you,” he chuckled against your skin, his hands tracing your sides with gentle fingertips. your fingers found his hair when he continued to trace kisses down your body, twirling the dark hair between your fingers. “you did so well, pretty girl. and m’sorry about your legs.”

his words caused your heart to swell, turning you a little shy and meek. “was it really okay?” your voice was small and soft, but you cut yourself off when he looked up at you. “are you serious? you did so well, so, so good. you’re perfect in every way,“ he muttered, his hands roaming your body when he leaned over you once more, his eyes close to visibly darkening. “—let me show you.. please?” his lips attached to your neck, eliciting a gasp from you when he started rocking his hips.

more bsf!chris x inexperienced!reader here!

˚𝜗𝜚 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬... sorry if this STINKS chat💔 i lowk hate it but haha.. for the lore..

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❛❛ © 𝐒𝐓𝟕𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 ❜❜

[gottencents]

Fallin’ All In You - Giselle

pairing. idol!giselle x girlfriend!reader

synopsis. giselle playfully takes on the role of makeup artist while sitting on Y/N’s lap, turning every brushstroke into an excuse for a kisses.

The soft hum of lo-fi music filled the cozy living room, sunlight filtering through the curtains and casting a warm glow across the scattered makeup on the coffee table. Brushes, palettes, and foundation bottles were spread out in a chaotic but intentional mess—courtesy of Giselle.

Y/N sat on the couch, leaned back comfortably, arms resting lazily on the cushions as Giselle settled herself on her lap. Her knees framed Y/N’s thighs, and her weight was perfectly balanced. She had a brush in one hand and a mischievous glint in her eye, which only meant trouble.

“Alright, sit still,” Giselle instructed, her voice light but authoritative. “I’m making you my masterpiece.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, smirking. “And by masterpiece, you mean clown, right?”

Giselle gasped dramatically, placing a hand on her chest. “How dare you? I’m an artist!” She leaned in closer, their faces just inches apart, her expression softening into a grin. “Besides, you’re already too pretty to mess up.”

Before Y/N could respond, Giselle pressed a soft kiss to her cheek—just a brief touch of her lips, but enough to make Y/N’s heart stumble.

“Is kissing part of the makeup process now?” Y/N teased, her hands naturally resting on Giselle’s waist to steady her.

Giselle pretended to think, swirling the foundation brush in her hand. “Hmm… It is now. It’s called the kiss-and-glam method. Super effective.”

Y/N chuckled, her eyes following Giselle’s every move as she dabbed foundation onto her face. She was meticulous yet playful, her concentration occasionally interrupted by her own desire to lean in and sneak another kiss.

“There,” Giselle said after applying a thin layer. She tilted her head to inspect her work, her fingertips grazing Y/N’s jawline. “Flawless.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You barely did anything.”

Giselle grinned, grabbing a blush brush. “Patience, baby. Perfection takes time.” She lightly dusted Y/N’s cheeks with blush, leaning in close as she worked. Y/N could feel her breath against her skin, warm and comforting.

“Oops,” Giselle whispered, biting her lip as she lightly tapped the brush against Y/N’s nose. “Too much blush.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Guess you’ll have to kiss it better.”

Giselle didn’t hesitate. She leaned in, brushing her lips against the tip of Y/N’s nose in a soft kiss before pulling back, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Better?”

“Much,” Y/N replied, her voice dropping slightly, a playful challenge in her tone.

Giselle moved on to the eyeshadow palette, choosing a soft shimmer. As she leaned in to apply it, her body shifted slightly on Y/N’s lap, sending a jolt of awareness through both of them. Y/N’s fingers tightened their grip on Giselle’s waist instinctively, and for a moment, the air between them felt thicker.

“You’re staring,” Giselle said without looking up, her voice teasing.

“Can you blame me?” Y/N shot back, her eyes lingering on Giselle’s lips. “You’re kind of hard to ignore when you’re sitting on me like this.”

Giselle paused, her eyes meeting Y/N’s. A slow smile spread across her face as she set the eyeshadow palette aside. “You’re distracting me, you know that?”

“I thought that was your job,” Y/N said, her fingers lightly tracing circles on Giselle’s waist.

Giselle leaned down, their faces barely an inch apart. “Maybe it is,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Y/N smirked, her eyes flicking to Giselle’s lips and back up. “I might kiss you until you forget what you were doing.”

“Tempting,” Giselle murmured, brushing her thumb along Y/N’s jawline. “But you’ll have to catch me first.”

Before Y/N could respond, Giselle leaned in and kissed her again—this time, slow and deliberate. Her lips were soft, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary before pulling away.

Y/N blinked, slightly dazed. “That’s not fair.”

Giselle giggled, resting her forehead against Y/N’s. “Life’s not fair. But I’ll make it up to you.”

Her lips found Y/N’s again, this time with more certainty. The kiss deepened, and Y/N’s hands slid up Giselle’s back, holding her close. The rest of the world faded away—no music, no makeup brushes—just the warmth of Giselle’s body pressed against hers and the electric connection that seemed to hum between them.

When they finally pulled back for air, Giselle smiled, her cheeks flushed. “Forget the makeup,” she said breathlessly. “I think you look perfect just like this.”

Y/N grinned, her thumb gently brushing a stray strand of hair from Giselle’s face. “I told you, I was already pretty.”

“Yeah,” Giselle whispered, her eyes soft. “But you’re also mine.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at the words, pulling Giselle in for one more kiss—slow and sweet, a promise sealed in the warmth of their embrace.

The makeup could wait. This moment? It was too good to let go.

[ssaaaronmontgomery]

On Your Knees

Warnings: Smut, oral (m receiving), rough!hotch, face fucking, some dom/sub dynamic here, some aftercare, Hotch calls reader honey and baby once, slight language, praise!, brief mentions of a bad case but not described, and I think that's all but let me know if I missed anything!

Word count: 1k

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader (no pronouns used)

Original Hotch Thought: Aaron coming home from a bad case and using you for stress relief.

A/n: Supposed to be another Hotch Thoughts post but I lost my mind a little so here is a full fic about Aaron fucking your face 🫣😩

Forever tags: @greg-montgomery @boredelle @hotchsdoormat @ssahotchnerr @criminalskies @beardedhotchh @hotchnerbau @ssamorganhotchner @mrs-ssa-hotch @canuck-eh @luvehotch @callm3c0nfus3d @ivyflowers13

Hotch: @14buddy22 @pastanoodles11 @htchnr

Lmk if you want to be added to my tags 🫶

*This post is NSFW MDNI*

Aaron walks through the door and immediately comes to your shared bedroom.  You greet him with a smile and go to ask him how it went, but he just takes your hand before you can get the question out and starts tugging, desperate to get you off of the bed.

"Bad case.  Just be quiet and get on your knees."

You follow his order and you quickly get into position for him.  You're looking up at him and waiting for further instruction before doing anything else.  When he's like this, he's in charge and you do exactly what he says.

"You can touch." He says after admiring the sight of you in front of him for a few seconds.

So you do.  You bring one of your hands up to palm his already half-hard dick.  You use your other hand to get his belt and slacks undone before you finally tug them down enough and slip his cock out of his underwear.  You begin stroking him and he lets out a long sigh.  Aaron's hand has found its way to your cheek, cupping it gently before roughly grabbing your chin and making you look up at him.  You stop your movements, hand freezing around him. 

He just shakes his head and tells you to keep going, so you start pumping his aching cock again and he keeps your chin in his grip.  You're still forced to look up at him, not that you mind.  Then Aaron does something that you love.  He parts your lips with his thumb and you instinctively open up for him, allowing him to slide it into your warm awaiting mouth.  You close your lips around his thumb and you suckle on it, still holding eye contact with Aaron.

"Good.  That's good, honey."

Your hand starts to pump him faster and his jaw clenches slightly.  He rubs his thumb over your tongue and you moan around the digit before Aaron slips it out of your mouth causing you to frown before he moves his hand to the back of your head and neck, guiding your sadly empty mouth to where it can be filled again.

His other hand wraps around his cock and he taps his tip on your lips, making you open again and he slots his tip between your parted lips this time.  You glide your tongue over the slit to get a taste of his precum.  It's bitter and salty but it's him and you love getting to taste him.  He pushes your head gently, practically feeding his cock to you.  He's just a little bigger and he fills your mouth easily. 

"That's it.  There you go.  Keep going.  Just a little more." He keeps guiding your head to make you take more of him.  "Relax your jaw- there you go.  You're so good for me." Your nose is pressed into the hair at his base, filling your nostrils with his musky scent as the head of his dick hits the back of your throat.  You try not to let yourself gag when it hits the back, so you relax yourself the way he's helped you do in the past. 

Both of Aaron's hands are holding your head now, one on either side. 

"Are you okay?"

You nod slightly in response.

"I'm going to use you now, okay?"

You nod as best as you can again.

And after that Aaron starts with a few gentle thrusts into your mouth and then he really starts to pick up the pace.  You can't help moaning around his length and he groans at the vibrations it sends through him.  His grip on your head tightens a bit and he grits his teeth as he moves a little faster. 

You rest a hand on his thigh and start moving it up slowly.  When he doesn't stop you, you cup his balls in your hand and you start to massage them as you look up at him with tears in your eyes as he groans and moans at the added sensation.  Aaron's eyes are closed and his head is tilted back as he fucks your face. 

His dick twitches and he moves you, you move both of your hands to the floor for stability when he pushes you back against the side of the bed as he chases his orgasm.  He's not holding back now, his hips are snapping faster and harder.  He doesn't pay any attention to the whimpers that his length is muffling.

"Fuck, that's it.  That's so good, baby.  Just stay right there.  I'm so close."

Aaron's grunts fill your ears as his thrusts become more sloppy and less consistent.  You grip his thigh with one hand and try to swallow around him, struggling to continue breathing through your nose.  You hear him groan again as he reaches his high, spilling his warm cum at the back of your throat.  You struggle to take it all, but you do because he needs that right now and you would hate to deprive him of anything, especially after a long case. 

Once he has come down from that euphoric high, he pulls out of your mouth and tucks himself away, putting every back in place and holding your face gently now.  He wipes your tears away and brushes his thumb over your lips to clean up the saliva left on them.  He takes your hands and helps you stand and then guides you to sit back on the bed. 

"Are you still okay?"

His voice is soft now.  You nod and he rubs his thumb over your cheek affectionately. 

"I'm okay." Your voice comes out raspy and a little broken from how used your mouth and throat are.  Aaron leans down and kisses your swollen puffy lips before pulling away.

"I'll go get you some water and a snack yeah?  Then I'll take care of you too.  Just relax, I'll be right back." Aaron says before leaving and coming back a minute later with exactly what he promised.  And after that he does take care of you, also as he promised.  Then you both finally get to clean each other up and hold each other.  Aaron tells you what happened during the case that pissed him off so much and you listen, offering your understanding and many kisses to his forehead before he is finally able to let himself fall asleep in your arms.

[duachai]

PAS DE DEUX - THE8 | SEVENTEEN

Minghao is the mentor for a new batch of trainees and catches M/n, an unmotivated and conscious trainee in a way no one can quite explain. They spend time in the studio together. Maybe too much. The others are jealous. But nothing is stopping him from teaching his boy his body is beautiful.

Do it like how you taught me, Make bands by my lonely

♱ PAIRING : XU MINGHAO X MALE READER ♱ CONTENT WARNING : This writing contains VERY explicit sexual content and mature themes. ♱ AUTHOR'S NOTE : Um... so once again I got carried away... 20 pages... tah dah! LINKS : Wattpad

The studio was alive with movement, the rhythmic pounding of feet against the polished wood floor syncing with the bass-heavy track playing overhead. The air smelled of sweat and determination, a reminder of the countless hours poured into perfecting every step, every breath, every motion. 

M/n stood at the back of the room, trying to blend in, but it was impossible. His movements weren’t sharp, his footwork not crisp. He could feel the stares, the subtle shifts in the energy around him and other trainees noticing, judging. 

“Again,” the dance coach called out. The music restarted, M/n clenched his fists before throwing himself back into the choreography. He knew he wasn’t the best, but he refused to be the worst. 

The murmurs started the second he stumbled. 

“He’s still struggling?” someone muttered under their breath. A quiet scoff from another trainee followed. 

M/n bit down on the inside of his cheek. Then, the music cut off abruptly. 

"Alright, take five. Everyone, except you." The unfamiliar voice was firm but smooth, and the moment M/n turned to look, his breath caught. 

Xu Minghao stood near the mirrors, arms crossed, eyes sharp and assessing. The dancer, Seventeen’s performance powerhouse, was watching him. 

M/n swallowed hard. His muscles ached from overwork, his chest tight from exertion, but nothing compared to the weight of Minghao’s gaze on him. 

"You," Minghao continued, taking a step closer, "stay back. The rest of you, get some water." 

The trainees hesitated, some exchanging glances before filing out. Their silent judgment burned against M/n’s skin. 

Minghao watched him for a long moment before speaking again, pointing to the floor, still comfortably leaning against the mirror. 

"Show me the last section of the routine." 

M/n exhaled sharply, nodding, wiping the sweat on his palms on his sweatpants. He stepped into position, body tense with nerves, and the music started again. He moved, he tried. He failed. 

Minghao clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "You're too stiff," he said, stepping forward. "You're overthinking. Let me show you." 

Before M/n could react, Minghao was behind him, close enough that M/n could feel the warmth of his presence. Slender fingers traced his skin as he guided his arms into the right position, fingers skimming his wrist, adjusting his posture. 

M/n's breath hitched. 

"Relax," Minghao murmured, voice low, close to his ear. "Feel the movement, don't fight it." 

The words sent a shiver down M/n’s spine, but he nodded, forcing himself to focus. He had to. He couldn’t afford to fall behind. Not in dance, not in his dreams. And definitely not because of the sudden, unwanted spark curling in his chest. 

Not for his mentor. 

Not for Xu Minghao. 

M/n took a steadying breath, forcing himself to focus on Minghao’s instructions rather than the way his mentor’s touch lingered just long enough to make his pulse quicken. 

“Again,” Minghao said, stepping back. 

The music restarted, and this time, M/n moved with more fluidity. His muscles still burned from exhaustion, but the difference was immediate. The moment he stopped fighting the choreography, it started to feel… natural. 

Minghao watched intently, nodding slightly as M/n executed the steps with newfound ease. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better. When the routine ended, the silence stretched, save for the sound of M/n’s heavy breathing. 

Minghao’s lips quirked slightly. “See? You can do it.” 

M/n wiped the sweat from his forehead, his heart hammering from more than just exertion. “Barely.” 

“If you were hopeless, I wouldn’t be wasting my time.” Minghao’s tone was calm, matter-of-fact. He wasn’t giving compliments; he was stating a fact. 

Still, something in M/n’s chest fluttered at the words. 

The studio door opened, and the other trainees filtered back in. Some shot him unreadable glances, while others ignored him entirely. The shift in atmosphere was subtle, but it was there; the quiet resentment of those who had watched M/n struggle, only to see him get special attention from Xu Minghao himself. 

Minghao seemed to notice too, but he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he clapped his hands together. “Break’s over. Let’s get back to work.” 

M/n exhaled, shaking off the unease creeping up his spine. It didn’t matter what the others thought. He wasn’t here to impress them. He was here to prove to himself, to the company, to Minghao; that he belonged. 

As the next round of practice began, M/n threw himself into the dance, pushing past the doubt and the whispers. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t ignore the weight of Minghao’s gaze on him. 

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

`` Days blurred together in an endless cycle of training, evaluations, and exhaustion. The choreography became muscle memory, but M/n's mind never settled. The studio had become a battlefield; one where every misstep felt like a bullet, and every success only fueled the silent resentment simmering around him. 

`Minghao remained a constant presence, his mentoring sharp and precise. He pushed M/n harder than the others, but in a way that felt deliberate, almost as if he was testing him. 

One evening, after an especially grueling session, M/n lingered behind in the studio, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Sweat dripped from his temples, his shirt clinging to his body. He should have left already, but his frustration wouldn’t let him. 

Why do I still feel behind? 

The door creaked open. 

"You’re overthinking again." 

M/n startled, turning to find Minghao leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed. His sharp gaze softened slightly as he stepped forward. 

M/n swallowed. "I just… I don’t get why it’s so easy for everyone else." 

Minghao hummed, stopping just a step away. “It’s not.” 

M/n scoffed. “You don’t see them struggling like I do.” 

"Because they hide it." Minghao tilted his head. "Like you're trying to right now." 

M/n froze. He hadn’t realized how tightly he was clenching his fists until Minghao’s gaze flickered to them. 

"You’re improving, M/n." Minghao’s voice was quieter now. "But dance isn’t just about the moves. It’s about trust." 

"Trust?" M/n frowned. 

Minghao nodded. "In yourself. In your body. In the movement. You fight it too much." 

M/n huffed. "Maybe because I keep feeling like I don’t belong here." 

The words slipped out before he could stop them. 

Silence settled between them. Minghao studied him for a long moment before speaking again, his voice firm but calm. 

"If you didn’t belong, I wouldn’t be wasting my time on you." 

The words hit deeper than M/n expected. 

For the first time in weeks, the tight knot in his chest loosened just slightly. 

Minghao didn’t offer more reassurance; he simply turned toward the sound system. "One more time. Just you and me." 

M/n hesitated before nodding. 

The music started, and this time, M/n let himself move. He let himself trust. 

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like he was chasing the rhythm. 

He was dancing with it. 

And Minghao was watching. 

M/n woke up sore the next morning, his body aching from the extra practice with Minghao. But despite the exhaustion, a sense of accomplishment settled in his chest. For once, he wasn’t drowning in self-doubt. 

Yet, as soon as he stepped into the practice room, the atmosphere felt… different. 

The other trainees were already stretching, but the usual chatter was subdued. A few pairs of eyes flickered toward him, whispers exchanged just low enough that he couldn’t make out the words. 

M/n exhaled sharply, pushing down the unease. 

He knew the others had noticed the extra attention Minghao gave him. He knew they probably thought he was getting special treatment. But they weren’t there when I stayed late. They weren’t there when I worked myself to the bone. 

"Suck up," someone muttered as he passed by. 

M/n’s jaw clenched, but he ignored it, focusing on his warm-up. 

When Minghao walked in a few minutes later, the tension in the room only thickened. He greeted the group briefly, eyes scanning the trainees before landing on M/n for just a second too long. M/n looked away, hoping no one noticed. 

They did. 

Practice was brutal. Minghao wasn’t holding back today, pushing them harder than ever. M/n did his best to keep up, but every time he executed the moves, he could feel the weight of eyes on him. 

Then, during a water break, the whispering turned into something worse. 

"Did you hear?" one of the trainees said just loud enough for M/n to catch. "Minghao’s been giving private lessons." 

M/n’s stomach twisted. 

"I've noticed he’s a lot more flexible." another voice joined in. "I think he’s getting stretched out a different way then us." 

Laughter. A sharp, bitter kind. 

M/n’s grip tightened around his water bottle. He forced himself to stay silent, to not let them see that their words had gotten under his skin. 

But Minghao had heard. 

"Line up," Minghao’s voice cut through the tension, sharper than usual. 

The trainees scrambled into position, but the mood had already shifted. 

Minghao’s eyes flickered toward M/n, unreadable, but something about his posture had changed. 

He had heard everything. 

And he wasn’t going to ignore it. 

M/n forced himself to focus, but his mind raced with the words he had just heard. Private lessons. Getting ahead. It wasn’t just whispers anymore; it was an accusation. 

Minghao stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he scanned the group. His presence was always commanding, but today, there was something sharper in his gaze. 

"Let me make one thing very clear." His voice was calm, but the weight behind it made the room feel smaller. "In this industry, you earn your place. No exceptions." 

No one dared to speak. 

"If someone is improving, it’s because they’re putting in the work," Minghao continued, his eyes sweeping over the trainees. "If they stay behind after hours, if they push themselves past their limits, if they refuse to give up no matter how hard it gets; that’s why they get better." 

M/n’s breath hitched. 

Minghao took a slow step forward, gaze locking onto the group. "But if anyone here thinks they can undermine someone else’s progress because of their own insecurities, you’re free to leave now. Because if I catch any more of this petty, baseless gossip-" he let the words settle, his voice dipping lower, "you won’t last here." 

Silence. Heavy and suffocating. 

M/n could feel the shift in the room. No one met Minghao’s gaze, but the shame was palpable. The whispers wouldn’t vanish overnight, but Minghao had drawn a line. 

Then, just as quickly as the moment came, Minghao clapped his hands together. "Now, unless you’d rather gossip, we’re running the routine from the top." 

The music started, and M/n exhaled. 

For the first time, he didn’t feel alone. 

Minghao had defended him. Publicly. Unapologetically. 

And no matter how much M/n tried to ignore it, his heart raced at the thought. 

The shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. After Minghao’s warning, the whispers didn’t completely stop, but they dulled into background noise. The jealousy hadn’t disappeared, but no one dared to openly challenge M/n anymore. 

Still, the weight of their eyes lingered. 

Minghao didn’t treat him any differently in front of the others, but there was something there, something unspoken, simmering beneath the surface. 

It was in the way he lingered just a second longer when adjusting M/n’s form. The way his gaze followed M/n when he thought no one was looking. The way his voice softened ever so slightly when speaking to him. 

M/n told himself it was just his imagination. 

But then came the partnering exercise. 

Minghao had decided to challenge them with a new routine; one that required working in pairs to test their synchronization and connection. 

And when it came time to assign partners, Minghao didn’t hesitate. 

"M/n, with me." 

The room was silent for a fraction too long. 

M/n swallowed. "O-Okay." 

As the other trainees moved into their own pairings, M/n found himself standing directly in front of Minghao. The height difference was subtle, but noticeable enough that M/n felt it as they took their positions. 

Minghao placed a hand on M/n’s waist, his grip firm but controlled. "Relax," he instructed. "You’re too tense." 

"I’m trying not to be," M/n muttered. 

Minghao smirked, just barely. "Then let’s fix it." 

The music started, and M/n focused on moving with the rhythm. But it was impossible to ignore how close they were; how every shift, every step, brought him within inches of Minghao’s frame. 

When Minghao guided him into a turn, his grip tightened, steadying him effortlessly. M/n’s pulse stuttered. 

"You’re hesitating," Minghao said. 

"I-" M/n faltered as their eyes met. 

Minghao’s gaze was unreadable, but there was something intense in the way he was looking at him. Something that made M/n’s breath catch. 

"Don’t hesitate," Minghao said, voice quieter this time. 

M/n nodded, but his heart was beating far too fast for reasons that had nothing to do with the dance. 

They moved together, the world fading around them. And for just a moment, it didn’t feel like practice. 

It felt like something else entirely. 

The music swelled, and they moved as one. 

M/n had stopped thinking, stopped overanalyzing every step, every motion. His body followed Minghao’s lead instinctively, matching his rhythm, his energy. It was effortless. Natural. 

Minghao’s hand was firm on his waist, guiding him through the turn. The proximity between them was undeniable, but M/n barely had time to process it before Minghao executed the final move; a deep dip, pulling M/n flush against him. 

M/n’s breath hitched. 

His back arched slightly over Minghao’s arm, and for a split second, they weren’t just two dancers in sync. 

They were something more. 

The studio felt too quiet, the air thick with something neither of them dared to name. 

Minghao didn’t let go immediately. His grip on M/n’s waist lingered, just a second too long. And when M/n’s gaze flickered up, their eyes locked. 

The tension snapped tight. 

It was in the way Minghao’s fingers curled slightly, holding him in place. The way his lips parted, as if he wanted to say something but stopped himself. 

M/n barely realized he was gripping onto Minghao’s arm until he felt the heat of his skin beneath his fingertips. 

Then Minghao inhaled sharply; just a small, barely audible breath and that was enough to jolt them both back to reality. 

He released M/n, stepping back. "Again," he said, voice neutral, but there was an edge to it—like he was forcing himself to sound unaffected. 

M/n swallowed hard, nodding. "Right. Again." 

But as they reset into position, his pulse refused to settle. 

And when they moved together once more, M/n couldn’t shake the feeling that they had just come dangerously close to crossing a line neither of them was ready to acknowledge. 

The tension between them didn’t fade. If anything, it only grew stronger. 

Days passed, filled with grueling practice sessions and lingering glances. M/n told himself it was just in his head, but he could feel it every time Minghao adjusted his form, every time their fingers brushed, every time their eyes met for just a second too long. 

It was a slow, torturous build-up, a silent push and pull neither of them acknowledged. 

Until one night, when the studio was empty, and there was nowhere left to hide. 

M/n had stayed behind again, practicing long after the others had left. He was exhausted, his body screaming for rest, but he couldn’t stop. Not yet. 

The music played softly in the background as he moved through the steps, his reflection staring back at him in the mirror. But something was off, his timing, his balance. Frustration bubbled up, and he ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. 

"You’re pushing yourself too hard." 

M/n startled at the voice, whipping around to see Minghao leaning against the doorframe. 

"Thought you left," M/n muttered, trying to steady his breath. 

Minghao stepped inside, his eyes scanning M/n carefully. "I was going to. Then I saw the lights still on." 

M/n huffed. "Figured I’d get in some extra practice." 

Minghao crossed his arms. "You don’t need more practice." 

M/n scoffed. "You sure? Because it feels like I do." 

Minghao exhaled, stepping closer. "You’re not struggling with the choreography anymore, M/n. That’s not why you’re still here." 

M/n froze. 

Minghao studied him, his gaze unreadable but intense. "You’re fighting something. And it’s not the dance." 

Silence stretched between them. M/n felt his pulse quicken, his body growing warmer under Minghao’s unwavering stare. 

It would be so easy to deny it; to laugh it off, change the subject. But in this quiet, empty studio, with nothing but the sound of their breathing between them… 

Lying didn’t feel like an option. 

M/n swallowed. "And if I am?" 

Minghao’s eyes flickered with something, something dangerous. "Then stop fighting." 

M/n’s breath caught. 

The distance between them felt smaller than before. He wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, Minghao was right there, close enough that M/n could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that if he just leaned in… 

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" Minghao murmured, his voice quieter now, lower. "I tried ignoring it. I tried pretending it wasn’t there. But every time I watch you dance, every time I correct you, every time you look at me like that-" 

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "I can’t ignore it anymore." 

M/n’s heart pounded. "Then don’t." 

For a moment, they just stood there, breaths mingling in the stillness of the studio. 

Then, finally, finally, Minghao closed the distance. 

It wasn’t rushed or hesitant it was slow, deliberate, a silent answer to everything they had been holding back. M/n melted into it, his fingers curling around Minghao’s shirt, anchoring himself. 

M/n felt his world tilt on its axis as their lips met. It was soft at first, a gentle press of mouths, but quickly turned into a desperate kiss, the passion igniting. 

Minghao tasted of mint and determination. His hands, earlier strict and disciplined in their corrections, now explored M/n's back under his shirt with a tenderness that belied their usual professional demeanor. Fingers tangled in hair, breaths mingled, and the studio filled with the soft sounds of their mutual surrender. 

M/n was lost in the kiss, in the warmth and comfort of finally giving in to his feelings. He felt Minghao's arms wrap around him, holding him close as if he might disappear if he let go. The kiss deepened, becoming more frantic as their hunger for each other overwhelmed any remaining restraint. 

Minghao pinned M/n against the studio mirror, his body flush against the other's. He trailed kisses along M/n's jawline, pausing to nip gently at his earlobe. 

“Is this okay?” Minghao asked, keeping apart from M/n’s lips for just a second as he held his face close by the back of his head, fingers entangled in his hair. 

“Yes,” M/n reassured, looking through his long eyelashes up at Minghao.`  

"Good..." he whispered, catching M/n's bottom lip between his teeth gently. His hands started to trail down from M/n's neck, across his collarbones, to the hem of his shirt. "Can I..." he asked softly, fingers grazing the bare skin of his stomach. "Take this off?" 

“Mm,” M/n hummed. 

Slowly, almost reverently, Minghao eased M/n's shirt upwards. His calloused fingers brushed along M/n's sides, sending shivers across his skin as the fabric slid off completely. Minghao drank in the sight of M/n's bare torso, eyes darkening with appreciation. "Beautiful," 

“You’re just saying that...” 

“Look at me,” he demanded softly, his fingers hooking into the waistband of M/n’s pant. He wanted M/n to see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he was looking  at M/n like he was a prized possession. 

Minghao leaned in and placed a soft kiss on M/n’s neck, his warm breath fanning across his skin as he spoke. “I’m saying it because it’s true,” he murmured, his fingers slowly untying M/n’s sweatpants, “You’re so fucking beautiful, M/n.” 

He gently pushed M/n’s pants down, hooping around his thigh along with his undergarments, reveling his slim hips and thighs. He trailed kisses down M/n’s chest, his abs, and then finally his thighs as he helped M/n step out of his clothes, “Lift your arms,” he whispered. 

M/n followed instructions. The damp t-shirt slipped off his body, then their forehead pressed together for a moment, peppering kisses as Minghao drank in his junior's body, “Fuck...” he breathed, admiring M/n’s naked form in the studio mirror light, “You’re so perfect,” He trailed a hand down M/n’s side. 

Minghao began to remove his own clothes. His shirt was discarded quickly with the help of M/n, reveling taut muscles and smooth skin. His pants followed soon after, leaving his bare before M/n. M/n stood starstruck. He’d never in a million years think his idol would be au naturel right in front of him. 

Minghao stepped back closer, his hands framing M/n’s waist possessively. He nuzzled his face into M/n’s neck, inhaling his scent deeply. “Turn around,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “I wanna see you from every angle.” 

Guided by Minghao’s hand, M/n turned and faced the mirror. 

One hand snaked around M/n’s waist, resting low on his stomach. The other traced up his chest, brushing against a nipple. “Look at yourself...” 

M/n looked into the mirror. He was in awe at himself. He didn’t recognize himself. In Minghao’s arms, he felt sexier, more alive, more than what anyone could tell him. 

Minghao wrapped him arms around him, placing a kiss on M/n’s shoulder, smiling onto his skin, “See how stunning you are?” 

M/n’s lips curved into a soft smile as covered Minghao’s hands with his own, relishing the feeling of their naked bodies pressed together. “Every curve, every line...” Minghao cooed, his hands roaming over M/n’s torso, “Absolutely gorgeous.” 

“I want you,” M/n whispered breathy, almost not aware he said that out loud. 

Minghao’s breath hitched at M/n’s confession. A slow, wicked smile curved his lips as he felt a shudder run through M/n’s body. “Fuck, I want you too. You deserve it.” 

M/n leaned back into Minghao’s embrace as their fingers locked over M/n’s chest. His breath caught in his throat as he felt M/n’s weight settled against him. “Let me treat you like the prince you are.” 

Minghao slips his fingers into his own mouth, covering it in his spit. He slowly trails those wet fingers down M/n’s backside, pushing M/n gently into the mirror. 

He spread M/n’s legs apart with his thigh as he slowly circled his wet fingers around M/n’s entrance, teasing and preparing him gently. He looked at the scene in the mirror, his eyes darkening with desire as he took in the reflected image of M/n panting, sweat sticking to his forehead and the mirror. 

His finger slowly pushed inside M/n, watching carefully for any signs of discomfort, “Good, baby.” He cooed, his free hand slid around to grip M/n’s erection. He saw M/n’s reflection, his eyes half-lidded with pleasure as he hissed and ahed. 

Pushing his fingers deeper, he started stroking M/n in rhythm with each thrust, his hand working the younger’s length perfectly. In the mirror he could just see how turned on M/n was, “Look at how beautiful you are taking my fingers,” His teeth nipping at M/n’s ear. 

Minghao withdrew his fingers, leaving M/n trembling with need. Holding M/n by the hips, Minghao guided him to bend forward slightly, pressing his chest his back as he hooked his chin on M/n’s shoulder, locking a hand together in front of him as his other positioned himself at M/n’s entrance. 

He slowly pushed in, giving M/n time to adjust. Minghao’s fingernails dug into M/n’s hips as gently as possible, M/n’s hand gripping tightly in his. Minghao pulled back slowly. Almost withdrawing completely before snapping his hips forward again.  

“Fuck... God...” Minghao groaned deeply, pleasure rolling through him as he watched M/n accept him so perfectly. In and out, he had a set steady rhythm, his hips rocking forward and pulling back, watching the erotic sight of their coupling in the mirror. 

“Hao, f-fuck,” M/n choked, the vibration of his moans and whines bouncing off the mirror. Minghao’s lips curl into a smile at M/n calling out his name so lude. His togue ghost his lips briefly at the needy whimpers. 

M/n could feel his release building in his stomach, his thighs shook and he practically was scream for a resolve. Minghao reached his hand back around M/m’s leaking length, stroking him in time with his thrusts, “Come for me,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire but so sweet like his smirk as M/n came undone, him following suit. 

He felt M/n’s released pulse through him, hot and west against his hand. The sight of M/n falling apart in the mirror, pleasure contorting his features, stuttered as he came hard, burying himself deep inside M/n with a choked groan, then a sweet string moans straight in M/n’s ear. 

As the final shudders of their releases faded, Minghao stayed buried deep inside M/n, holding him close. He peppered soft kisses along his junior's shoulder blade, murmuring praises between each gentle press of his lips. 

The next morning, nothing had changed. 

And yet, everything had. 

M/n and Minghao returned to practice like nothing had happened. They kept their distance, their interactions no different from before, strictly professional, strictly normal. No one batted an eye. 

But beneath the surface, there were cracks in the facade. 

It was in the fleeting glances they shared when no one was looking. The way Minghao’s hand brushed against M/n’s lower back for just a second too long when adjusting his form. The way M/n held his breath whenever Minghao got too close, because now he knew what it felt like to have that distance erased. 

And then there were the nights. 

When practice ended and the others left, and Minghao would find an excuse to stay behind. When M/n would linger in the studio just a little longer, waiting. When the silence between them carried an entirely new weight; one filled with stolen moments, quiet confessions, and the unspoken promise of more. 

They weren’t reckless, but they weren’t distant either. 

Late at night, after the world had gone still, they met in empty studios and whispered things they couldn’t say in daylight. Minghao would pull M/n close, pressing lazy kisses to his temple, murmuring things like, "You’re getting better." "You’re going to make it." "I’ll be right here." 

And M/n would believe him. 

Because despite the secrecy, despite the world they lived in; the competition, the expectations, the scrutiny, this felt real. 

And for now, that was enough. 

As M/n packed up his things after another long day, he felt the familiar presence before he even turned around. 

"You’re staying late again?" Minghao’s voice was quiet, just for him. 

M/n smiled. "Depends. Are you?" 

Minghao’s lips twitched. "If you are." 

The answer was unspoken, but they both understood. 

So as the doors shut behind the last of the trainees, and the studio emptied once more, M/n turned to face Minghao; his partner, his mentor, his secret. 

And in the soft glow of the practice room lights, as they stepped toward each other again, M/n knew this was just the beginning. 

[talkingabout-tennis]

Puppy!art going crazy, going back and forth between humping your leg and literally any part of Patrick. You're busy though so he has to wait, and Patrick isn't allowed to give in. STRICT INSTRUCTIONS not to... well, that clearly doesn't work out. Standing at the door when you finish whatever you had to do, hands on your hips shaking your head like a dissappinted 90s sitcom parent as you watch

it makes me so happy this got to so many anon's like YEAH he absolutely would needy little thing. he's all sweaty, hair flopping down his forehead as he desperately chases a high that's just out of reach for him. he whimpers and whines on your leg, then continues his pathetic sounds while riding Patrick's abs or his bulge. he's so desperate for release but you know he can't get there unless someone is touching him, and you have work to do so you gave Patrick strict instructions not to touch the pup.

but how can he deny those pretty baby blues, rimmed with tears of desperation, or his sweet little pants and whines for any kind of touch. he can't, he's so weak for Art. so he flips the blonde over and is quick to discard of his boxers, using his spit to ready him before driving into him hard and fast, Art moaning and pressing back against him as Patrick snakes a hand under him to fist his weeping puppycock. it takes barely a moment for Art to spill onto the sheets in hot, sticky ropes that have been pent up for far too many hours and it takes even less time for Patrick to follow behind him, spilling and pulsing inside of him.

it's no shock to you when you walk back in to them cuddled together, the white oozing down Art's thighs as he snores blissfully against Patrick's chest. "sorry.." the brunette mutters quietly.

[drdemonprince]

if people are curious about hypno audios where do you recommend they get started?? for context, have never been into the idea until recently in large part due to the asks people have been sending in and your responses and now im just like 👀👀👀👀

you're gonna hate this, but I really recommend starting with an actual hypnotist. An audio file is not magic, it requires a lot of conscious intention and practice in order for it to work, and more than that a familiarity with what a trance state feels like for you, and that's hard to dive into cold without any guided experience. Some in the community might not agree with me here, and that's fine, but I honestly think it's better to find a play partner on SleepyChat or a Discord group than it is to fire up a basic file off of Youtube and wonder if it's working or not. Even better than that is locating a hypnotist in person if you have a local erotic hypnosis scene or any conventions, of course, but that's admittedly even harder to do.

Now I know realistically that a lot of people won't start that way, or that it won't be feasible, in which case I recommend you pop onto Youtube and look for real, not necessarily kinky depictions of hypnosis and what hypnotized people look like. I found it easier to get into the headspace once I understood what the commonly recognized levels of trance are and what a deep or light trance can look like. You can also find some panels and teaching resources on hypnosis on Youtube.

Mark Wiseman is a great figure to get into the work of. I also reallllly enjoy some of Mark Cunningham's stuff (note: the content of what he talks about and has subjects experience is not sfw). Sammi Hypnotized has a ton of real-life demonstrations and files to look into. Material High, FF Productions, and Hypnosis on Display also release a lot of real hypnosis videos. Most of this stuff is pretty horny even on Youtube. But there is more casual street hypnosis type stuff too.

Hell, here have my entire hypnosis playlist on youtube. It's a mix of audio files, depictions of real-world hypnosis, and just porny clips from media.

Outside of what I've already recommended, the Two Hyp Chicks podcast is really informative and looks at a pretty wide range of activities that can be incorporated into hypnosis. One of the hosts, sleepinggirl, has also written books on hypnosis that are quite excellent. Her style is Ericksonian hypnosis, which is not my personal bag, but it may be yours, and at any rate she's a real scholar of hypnotic practice and history, so it's a good place to begin. Just don't give up on hypnosis if the style doesn't suit you. There are many different ways to play with this stuff.

After you have watched hypnosis work quite a few times, you may begin to empathize with the subject's mental state, or just really really want it for your own! That's when you'll be in better shape to try a file on your own. But really, you can try just following along with the instructions of hypnotists in these videos, keying into the sensations displayed by the subjects, and see if you start to feel a little something. A hypnotic state is a lot more subtle at first that most people are able to recognize, unless you're super suggestible or dissociative or otherwise "good" at it, but it's a muscle you can strengthen.

[imjustatorturedpoet]

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter 8: welcome to my breaking point

pairing: hwang in-ho x reader

also available on ao3

word count: 8.7k

-----

The arena was massive, but it felt suffocating.

It was impossibly vast, a circular stage bordered by fifty vividly coloured doors. At the centre stood a carousel—not a functioning one, but a relic frozen in time. Its painted horses stood eerily still, their glossy eyes reflecting the sterile lights above. The entire setup felt like a mockery of childhood wonder, a carnival-themed nightmare dressed in bright colours to disguise the horrors lurking beneath. Bright, playful, festive—designed to look inviting.  

It felt wrong. All of it. A grotesque parody of something that should have been safe.  

You couldn’t move for a moment. Couldn’t do anything but take it all in, your mind scrambling to understand the twisted logic behind it. Your pulse quickened, a faint ringing beginning at the base of your skull.

Beside you, the others walked forward slowly, but still caught in the same silence. You quickly averted your gaze back to the group and followed them with hurried steps.

Then, the voice came.  

“The game you will be playing is Mingle.”  

Your stomach lurched. Your steps slowed as your group neared the edge of the platform, exchanging wary glances.  

“Let me repeat: The game you will be playing is Mingle.”  

Your fingers twitched. You swallowed hard. Another game you didn’t know.  

The announcer continued, her voice detached and clinical.  

“All players, please step onto the centre platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds.”  

The words felt like they had weight, pressing down on your chest, squeezing.  

Your blood ran cold as the instructions sank in. This was life and death.  

Your hands curled into fists at your sides as your mind started racing. This game wasn’t just about moving fast. It was about forming alliances in real-time, making split-second decisions. Who would be left behind? Who would hesitate? Would people break alliances to save themselves?  

Your breathing quickened. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.  

Jung-bae’s voice cut through the mounting hum of voices. “Oh, this game? We used to play something like this on school trips. We’d form groups by hugging.”  

“Yeah,” Dae-ho muttered, scanning the room. “Except now, instead of hugging, we’re going into those rooms.”  

Your group instinctively tightened into a loose half-circle, drawn together by sheer survival instinct. But it wouldn’t be enough. You knew it wouldn’t.  

Your eyes widened and you turned to Young-il. You lowered your voice so only he would hear you, “If I turn away for a second and you’re gone, Young-il, you better pray I don’t survive.”

Young-il huffed a quiet chuckle, tilting his head.  

"Oh? So now my biggest threat isn’t this game, it's you?" His lips quirked up at the corner. "Terrifying."  

You shot him a look, a wide smile appearing on your face. "You should be scared. Very scared."  

He exhaled through his nose, amused. "Right. And what’s my punishment if I disappear?"  

You crossed your arms. “You’re one move away from seeing stars."  

Young-il let out a low hum, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Damn. I’d like to see you try.”  

Your glare sharpened. “Oh, yeah? Go on then.”  

His smirk deepened, but this time, his eyes lingered on you a little longer. Then, with an easy shrug, he murmured, "I won’t."

Young-il’s fingers curled around your shoulder. The panic that had been climbing your throat long forgotten. Not gone, but suddenly contained. He didn’t pull you in, didn’t tighten his grip—just held you steady. A quiet reassurance. His fingers curled slightly, like he was anchoring you just as much as you were anchoring him.

His voice was soft, but steady. “On a more serious note, I won’t leave you. Nothing will happen to you. Or me.”  

You trusted him, no matter how scared you were.  

You nodded stiffly, forcing your breath to steady, forcing your body to still. Gi-hun was already strategising. “If the number is bigger than six, we’ll just grab the extra people we need. We’ll stick close together as long as possible.”  

“But what if it’s smaller?” Dae-ho asked, voicing the same fear that had been sitting in your gut. “What if it’s four or five?”  

What if I was the one left behind? Worse—what if Young-il was?  

His hand moved from your shoulder to your waist and pulled you closer to him, like he knew you were thinking it. Like he knew exactly where your thoughts were spiralling.  

“No matter what happens,” Young-il said, calm and sure, “don’t panic. Let’s stay calm. We will make it out together.”  

It wasn’t an if. It was a statement. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides, clenching and unclenching. Young-il noticed. His gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing.

Then, his head lowered to your ear and he whispered, "You're thinking too much," he said simply, tone softer than usual. "Stop."

You exhaled, shoving the thought aside. "Just do as I say and you’ll be fine.”

The certainty in his tone did something to you. Slowed the panic just slightly, just enough for you to breathe again. He turned to the others again and extended his right hand toward the centre of the circle.  

For a second, nobody moved. Then, slowly, you reached out first. Your palm pressed against his, cold against warm. His fingers twitched slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to be the first to take it.  

The others followed soon after, hands stacking over one another. The breath between you all felt heavy, like the moment just before a storm hit.  

Young-il spoke first, voice low and steady. “One, two, three…”  

The response came in unison, whispered but strong.  

“Victory at all costs.”  

The moment stretched for just a second longer before your hands fell away. The platform stood before you, waiting. The lights above seemed brighter now, the doors looming like silent threats.

The rules had been given. The game was about to begin. And all you could do was hope you wouldn’t be the one left behind.

As Young-il let go of you, all of you stepped onto the platform, moving as one, instinctively drawn together amid the growing sea of players. Bodies pressed in from all sides, the air thick with tension, with the unspoken fear of what was to come. Your group stayed close, forming a tight knot in the chaos, an unspoken pact holding you together.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted them—Hyun-ju and her group.

They were positioned right beside you, their presence impossible to ignore. Their postures were tense, their expressions guarded, scanning the room the same way you were.

After the last game, there was a quiet understanding between you. Having them close felt almost… reassuring.

Your gaze wandered through the arena once more, when your eyes landed on a peculiar screen. The numbers displayed were bold, impossible to ignore. 255. 

Dread curled low in your belly.

It was a countdown. A tally of everyone left. Of everyone still breathing. And you knew what it meant. Another way to remind you that the numbers could—and would—drop. You swallowed hard, pulse hammering as you stared at it, heart lurching with a sudden, sick realisation. It wasn’t just a tracker. It was a tactic.  

A constant, looming reminder that at the end of this game, people would be gone. That every time you looked up, the number would be smaller. And it could go down, because of you. 

Your breath came faster, shallow, uneven. This was psychological warfare. Just like the piggy bank, just like the first vote. Fear bred desperation, and desperation made people dangerous. You could already feel it in the air, in the tense way players glanced around, already sizing each other up like potential liabilities. Like obstacles.  

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt tight, constricted.  

No, no, no. Not now. Not again. 

But the panic was creeping in anyway, slithering under your skin, curling tight around your ribs. You barely heard the announcer’s voice over the ringing in your ears, your thoughts spiralling as the weight of the situation settled, reallysettled.  

What if I'm alone?  

Your breath hitched, and suddenly, the platform felt too small. The bodies pressing in around you, the hum of anxious murmurs, the overwhelming sense of being trapped—you couldn’t breathe.  

A touch. Warm. Steady. Grounding. Fingers curled around your waist, firm but not forceful.  

"Nothing will happen to you," Young-il murmured, voice low, meant only for you.

Your body locked up, but your breath stilled. He wasn’t looking at you, his attention still fixed forward, his grip not tight but assured. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just empty reassurance. Like he wouldn’t let anything happen to you, no matter the cost.  

And for the first time since stepping onto this platform, since seeing that goddamn screen, you felt like you could breathe.

“Let the game begin.”  

A sharp inhale caught in your throat as the platform beneath you jerked to life, moving with a slow, deliberate spin. Around you, players stumbled, muttered curses and sharp gasps filling the space as everyone fought to steady themselves. The motion wasn’t violent, but it was disorienting—just enough to throw you off balance, to remind you that you weren’t in control.  

And then the music started. Bright. Nostalgic. Sickly sweet.  

It snaked through the air, light and playful, curling through the space like a taunt. A melody pulled straight from childhood, but wrong, twisted in the way it didn’t belong here. A wave of nausea rolled through you.

“Round and round.  

Round and round we go.  

Turning, turning in a circle as we dance along.”  

Something cold settled deep in your stomach. The song continued, high-pitched and cheery, the kind of thing meant for playgrounds and skipping ropes—not for this. Not for this nightmare dressed up in carnival lights. The overhead bulbs flickered in a rhythmic pattern, casting shifting colours across the room, making everything feel even more surreal.  

The dizziness clawed at you, the spin, the lights, the music— It was too much.  

Your eyes darted around, searching for something, anything to ground yourself, until they landed on him. Young-il.  

He was standing right beside you, steady as ever. Completely unfazed. His shoulders were relaxed, his posture loose. The artificial glow from above carved sharp shadows across his face, making him look impossibly calm.  

How was he so calm?  

His eyes met yours before you even realised you had been staring. You forced yourself to swallow, to breathe, but it wasn’t working. The numbers on the screen above the entrance loomed in the back of your mind, a constant, gnawing reminder of what was coming. They wanted you to see it. The number of players dwindling. A visible countdown to ensure panic and desperation.  

It was working, at least on me. Good for them.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Your breath came too fast, too shallow, and you knew what was happening, you knew, but that didn’t make it stop. You reached for him before you could think about it. Fingers curling around his sleeve. Holding on. Tight.  

Young-il glanced down immediately, his gaze flickering to your grip, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on. Then, after a beat, he nodded once.  

Your heart slammed against your ribs. That nod was everything. The music carried on.  

“We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round

Ring-a Ring-a Ring”  

Your grip tightened. You weren’t sure if you were steadying yourself or clinging to the only thing that felt solid in this moment. Maybe both. 

“You’re breathing too fast,” he murmured, voice low, even. “Slow down.”  

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you forced yourself to follow his words, pulling in a shaky inhale, then another. His fingers pressed just slightly against your waist, grounding. “Good. Just like that.”  

Then—everything stopped. The music. The platform. Everything.  

The sudden halt sent a jolt through your body, your balance thrown before you could react. You stumbled, the ground feeling like it had been ripped out from under you, panic crashing through your chest in a violent wave. But before you could fall, a hand caught you. Warm against your waist. His other hand caught your elbow, his grip solid, keeping you upright. His thumb brushed against the dip of your waist, a barely-there motion, but enough. Enough to anchor you.  

A second passed. And then the voice of the announcer rang through the silence.  

“Ten.”  

The overhead lights pulsed in rapid bursts of red and purple, casting the arena in a dizzying, disorienting blur. Your pulse spiked, as the urgency in the air thickened, heavy and suffocating. Then, chaos.  

Voices rose around you, sharp and desperate. Bodies moved in frantic bursts, hands grabbing, pulling, shoving as players scrambled to form their groups. The panic was contagious, spreading through the crowd like wildfire, feeding into itself, turning rational thought into raw desperation. 

A sudden grip on your arm made you jolt. You turned sharply, breath catching, only to find Young-il’s hand wrapped firmly around your forearm. His fingers pressed just enough to ground you, to remind you he was there with you.

Around you, your group was already moving. Gi-hun’s gaze snapped toward Hyun-ju and her people nearby. Without hesitation, he stepped toward her, hand brushing against her shoulder.  

“How many are you?” he asked, voice steady despite the rising panic.  

“Four,” Hyun-ju shot back immediately.  

Gi-hun’s head turned sharply toward the rest of you. “We’re ten now!” he called out, his voice slicing through the noise.  

“Come with me and don’t let go,” Young-il commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. Then, he moved. Fast.  

Before you could think, before you could process, his grip tightened, pulling you with him as he cut through the crowd. You barely had time to register the others falling in step behind you, Hyun-ju’s team blending seamlessly with your own as Young-il led the charge. Your feet barely kept up, your breath was sharp, uneven, but you focused on the tug of his hand, on the way his grip was certain.  

Ahead, a door loomed. One of many.  

Young-il reached it first, yanking it open with a sharp motion. His body twisted, gaze locking onto yours. “Get in.”  

You didn’t hesitate. You darted inside and stood near the entrance, the rush of bodies following closely behind. One by one, they poured into the room. Young-il was last.  

He lingered at the threshold for half a second longer than necessary, scanning the arena one last time before stepping inside and pulling the door shut with a firm, final click.

Silence.  

The room was small, barely large enough to hold all ten of you, but compared to the chaos outside, it felt like a fortress.

Overhead, a timer glowed on the wall, the numbers ticking down in bright, merciless red.  

2… 1…  

Your chest rose and fell too fast. You couldn’t look away. The sound of your heartbeat thundered in your ears.  

0.  

Young-il’s hand reached out to you and gave the faintest squeeze. A long, piercing beep rang out, the finality of it sinking into your bones. Then, the lock clicked into place.  

The screams started almost immediately.  

Muffled cries and sobs seeped through the thick wood of the door, bleeding into the tense silence of the room. You barely had a second to process before your gaze caught on something—a rectangular slot near the centre of the door. A viewing panel.  

Gi-hun stepped forward and looked through. You hesitated. You knew you shouldn’t look. But morbid curiosity clawed at you, sinking its hooks in deep. Before you could stop yourself, your feet carried you forward. You peered through the slot, alongside Gi-hun.  

The sight outside turned your blood to ice.  

They’re dying.

That was the first thought that cut through the static in your brain. The first thing you managed to grasp in the overwhelming, suffocating chaos.  

They’re dying. One by one.  

Collapsing like puppets with their strings severed, bodies hitting the pristine floor with dull, wet thuds. The sound was barely audible over the gunfire, but you could feel it. The way the ground beneath you seemed to tremble. The way something inside your chest coiled so tightly you thought you might snap in half. Your and Gi-hun’s body jolted as if you had been the one hit.  

They’re dying.

Not players. Not numbers on a screen. People. People who were just standing there moments ago, eyes darting, hands scrambling, looking for an escape that didn’t exist. Now they were still.  

The first few had been too fast, too sudden for your mind to register. But then you saw one—really saw one.  

A man. Maybe in his forties. You hadn’t spoken to him. Hadn’t even noticed him before now. He had his hands pressed against a door that wouldn’t open, his nails digging into the metal like he could pry his way inside if he just tried hard enough. You could see the desperation in the set of his shoulders, in the way his breath hitched.  

And then a single shot. He jerked violently. Then crumpled. Just like that. 

A high-pitched scream cut through the air, raw and wrong. You flinched. Someone stumbled. Fell. Their hands outstretched toward nothing, their lips forming words they never got the chance to say. Another shot. Another body.  

The number on the screen was already dropping.  

Don’t look.

You forced yourself to turn away, to stare at the floor in front of you, at the people in the room with you. The ones who made it. The ones still breathing. Your legs felt locked in place, stiff, heavy. Your hands trembled where they curled at your sides.  

I made it.

That should have been enough. But the thought lingered, curling around your ribs like something rotten.

What if I hadn’t? What if my foot had slipped? What if my hand had missed his? Would I still be out there? Would he have even turned back?

The gunfire was slowing now. The screams were fading.  The arena outside was quieting. Bodies littered the floor, unmoving. Not players. People. And you watched.

You stumbled off to the side, your shoulder slamming into the wall. You didn’t realise your legs were shaking until you nearly lost your balance. The images were already burned into the back of your eyelids. You couldn’t stop hearing it. The shots. The screams. The silence that followed.  

A firm hand found your waist. Fingers pressed lightly into your side, just enough to remind you where you were. Who you were with.  

“Breathe.”  

The voice was low, even. But when you looked up, Young-il’s face was full of concern, his lips pressed in a firm line. His grip on you didn’t tighten, didn’t waver. Just remained there—present, unwavering. His voice dipped lower, quieter. Just for you.  

“None of that is happening to you,” he murmured. “Do you understand?”  

You swallowed, throat tight, nodding slightly.  

“Say it,” he pressed, not unkindly.  

You swallowed hard, forcing the words past your lips in a mere whisper. “It’s not happening to me.”  

Young-il held your gaze for a beat longer before giving a small, approving nod. And just like that, the moment passed. His hand fell away, taking his warmth with it. But the steadiness it left in its wake remained.

“The following players have been eliminated: Player 013, 043, 049, 054, 060…”

You try to drown out the mechanical voice as best as you could. Minutes passed in heavy silence, the only sounds filtering through the door were the distant shuffling of boots, the scrape of bodies being dragged, the wet splatter of something you refused to name. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, even from behind closed doors, seeping into your lungs, clinging to your skin like something permanent.   

Click.   

The lock disengaged with a dull, mechanical sound, the finality of it settling over you like a weight. One by one, your group stepped forward, filing out into the arena. You followed, your legs stiff, your pulse drumming against your ribs.  

The moment you crossed the threshold, the smell hit you harder. Coppery. Sharp. It clung to everything—the floors, the walls, the very air you breathed. And then you saw it.  

The blood. It was everywhere.  

Dark pools stretching across the pristine floor, smeared in streaks where bodies had been dragged away. Some of it had begun to dry, thickening in ugly patches, while fresh streaks still glistened under the harsh lights. Footsteps tracked through it, careless and indifferent, as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience to be wiped away. A fresh wave of nausea curled in your stomach, but you shoved it down, locked it up, buried it beneath something colder.  

Get it together.  Focus on your breathing. In. Out. Keep it steady. Don’t let them see. Don’t make yourself an easy target.

You squared your shoulders, forced your muscles to relax, forced your face into something neutral—something unreadable. The same way you always had. The same way you always would. Fake it till you make it.  

You stepped forward, deliberately avoiding the larger pools of blood, careful not to let your shoes smear through it. Not because it mattered—it was already everywhere—but because you refused to let it touch you. Not more than it already had. You exhaled a loud sigh, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well. That sucked.”  

Young-il’s gaze flickered to you. He didn’t answer right away, just studied you with that quiet, infuriating patience of his. Like he was waiting for you to drop the act.  

Then, finally, he hummed. “That's what we’re calling it?”  

You stepped over a streak of blood without breaking stride. “What else am I supposed to call it?” Your voice was steady. Casual. Too casual. “We didn’t die. Could’ve been worse.”  

His eyes didn’t leave you. “You were shaking.”  

Your jaw tightened for half a second. Then, with a careless shrug, you shot him a look. “And now I’m not.”  

It was a lie. You were still shaking. Just… on the inside. He tilted his head slightly. You caught the way his jaw ticked, the way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides before curling into a loose fist. He saw right through you. Of course he did. But he didn’t call you on it.   

He saw the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands twitched like they wanted to curl into something solid. He saw the way your breath came just a little too fast, the way your muscles were coiled just a little too tight. Instead, he let out a low hum. “Guess that’s one way to look at it.”  

The rest of the group moved forward. You kept your chin up. Kept your steps steady.  No one had to know that every inch of you was still trembling beneath the mask.

The second round passed in a blur, tension clawing at the edges of your mind even as you forced yourself to move, to react, to survive. The number had been four. Your group didn’t stay together and you were forced to part ways with Young-il and Gi-hun. It all happened too fast. The moment the number was called, the platform erupted into chaos, bodies moving in every direction, scrambling for safety. Young-il shoved you in Dae-ho’s arms and told you to go. His face said everything; Don’t argue and go. 

But he promised me? 

No time to think about that right now. You grabbed the nearest person—Jun-hee—and barely had time to latch onto Jung-bae before the frantic rush toward the doors began. In those thirty seconds, you lost sight of everything but the desperate need to make it through. Not everyone would. The buzzer blared. The doors slammed shut. Gunshots soon followed.  

You stopped flinching at the sound—mostly. But as you leaned against the closed door, breathing hard, the weight of it pressed down on you. It was impossible not to think about who was still out there. Who might not have made it.  

Young-il. Gi-hun.  

You hadn’t seen where they went. You hadn’t seen if they found two more people. The thought made you want to throw up, panic gnawing at the edges of your mind. Your pulse was a hammer, each second stretching unbearably. You tried to tell yourself they were fine. That they had to be fine. That people like Young-il didn’t just disappear in an instant. But you knew that wasn’t true.  

The seconds bled into minutes. The screaming outside died down. Then, silence. The mechanical whirr of the clean-up. The guards moving with calculated efficiency. You barely registered it. You needed the doors to open. You needed to see them.  

Finally, the locks clicked open. You swung the door open, and you pushed through, your head snapping up, eyes scanning the thinning crowd with frantic precision.  

Jun-hee was by your side, holding her belly and trying to control her frantic breathing.  Soon, Dae-ho appeared by your side, ”Do you see them?"  

No. No.  

The empty spaces where bodies had once stood made the room feel impossibly vast. Your gaze swept over every face, your heart slamming harder with every second that passed.  

"(Y/N)!"  

You held your breath. You spun around so fast you almost lost your footing. There. Across the arena. Young-il, standing at the edge of the crowd, Gi-hun beside him. The relief hit you so hard it was almost painful.  

You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t stop yourself. You ran.  

Not like yesterday. Not like after the second game, when you had forced yourself to freeze, to pull back at the last second, to pretend that the instinct wasn’t there. This time, you didn’t stop. Your feet barely touched the ground as you closed the distance, pushing past other players without care. And then—finally—you reached him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in before you could think twice. Warm. Alive. 

Young-il stiffened for a half-second, caught off guard, but then he pulled you in. 

His grip was firm, grounding, one arm tight around your waist while the other slid up, fingers threading through your hair, cradling the back of your head.

He wasn’t a man easily shaken, but the way he pulled you in, the way his hand curled just slightly against your spine, told you enough. He had been just as scared as you were.  

You buried your face against his chest, breathing him in, heart still racing against your ribs. You didn’t care how it looked. Didn’t care if anyone saw.  

Young-il exhaled, a slow, steady breath against your ear. His voice was quieter than usual. Less controlled. "I told you not to worry."  

“Doesn't work like that. Not with you. Don’t ever do that again. You promised.” 

Young-il's grip on you tightened just slightly, the warmth of his palm pressing firm against your back. His breath hitched—barely, but you felt it.

"I know," he murmured, his voice lower now, edged with something almost regretful. "I know."

You clenched your fists against his jacket. "Then why the hell did you let go?"

"I had to," he admitted, his voice quiet but unwavering. "But I won’t again."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your pulse still hammering in your ears. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—dark, sharp, searching—were anything but indifferent. He was watching you too closely, like he needed to make sure you believed him.

And maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t.

Either way, he deserved this. Without thinking, your fist shot out and smacked his arm—hard.

Young-il lurched back slightly, like you’d just stabbed him instead of hit him. He grabbed his arm with an exaggerated wince, staring at you in open-mouthed betrayal, eyes widening in mock betrayal. "Ow—what the hell?!”

"You deserved that." You flexed your fingers, shaking out your knuckles. "And if you ever pull that shit again, I swear I’ll make it worse."

Young-il blinked, still clutching his arm like you’d actually done damage. "I just risked my life getting us both through that round, and this is my reward?"

"Your reward is that I didn’t aim for your face."

He scoffed, rubbing his arm in slow, exaggerated circles. "I think you fractured something. I can’t move my shoulder."

You rolled your eyes and laughed loudly. "You’re so full of shit."

He gasped, feigning offence, but you could tell that he was fighting a smirk. "You hit me with intent. I felt malice. There was rage in that punch."

You raised a brow. "You’re about to feel it again."

Young-il immediately dropped the act, hands up in surrender, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. "Okay, okay. Point made."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Good. Let’s keep it that way."

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer. Then, softer, quieter— "I really won’t leave you again."

You sighed, the weight of the moment settling between you. "You better not."

A sharp mechanical beep cut through the dormitory, signalling the next round was about to begin.

"Come on," he murmured, voice softer now. "We have to go again."

The words sent a fresh wave of unease rippling through you. Again. The game wasn’t over. Not even close. The fear that had gripped you moments ago wasn’t a one-time thing—it would happen again, and again, until there was no one left to lose.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move. To focus. To push past the lingering warmth of his embrace and the way your chest still ached from the last thirty seconds of sheer panic. Because the carousel was already spinning again, the music was starting, and another number would be called.

The third and fourth round was much worse. People weren’t just scrambling anymore—they were fighting. Someone shoved you in desperation, nearly sending you to the ground before Young-il pulled you back. The numbers were three and six this time, and you barely managed to make it inside a room before the buzzer blared both times.  And the gunshots on the other side were getting less and less per round.

The first time someone died in front of you, it had felt like your own lungs had been ripped out. The gunshots had echoed in your skull long after they stopped, rattling your bones, your breath hitching every time the trigger was pulled.

But now?

Now the sound barely registered. The fourth round had ended, another group of players executed in the middle of the arena, and you didn’t even flinch. You barely even looked. Just kept walking, stepping around the fresh blood without a second thought.

You caught Young-il watching you. His dark eyes flicked down to your hands, curled loosely at your sides—steady, not even trembling. He didn’t say anything. But you could feel the thought lingering between you.

When had you stopped reacting? You didn’t have an answer.

For hopefully the last time, all of you shifted back to the platform. This time, your group and Hyun-ju’s group stood together, with player 246, 280 and 333 joining you as well. But the relief of finding each other didn’t last. Something felt… off.

A quick scan of the faces around you sent a cold weight pressing into your chest. One was missing.

Young-mi.

Your stomach dropped.

“Where’s Young-mi?”

No one answered. A silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. 

Hyun-ju’s face said it all. 

Your stomach twisted, but it was distant. Muted. You should cry. You should feel something more than this quiet, dull acceptance. But the tears didn’t come.

Instead, you just nodded.

"Okay," you murmured under your breath, as if that was all there was to say.

Something inside you cracked.

The platform beneath you groaned as it started to rotate once more, the familiar, sickly sweet melody curling through the air. That same eerie, high-pitched cheerfulness, now warped by everything that had happened. The contrast was unbearable.  

The announcer’s voice rang out, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade.  

"Now, the final round will begin."  

For a second—just one fleeting second—relief crashed over you. Final.  

This was it. The last round. One more number. One last push. One last chance to survive. But relief was a fragile thing. It barely had time to settle in your chest before something colder, sharper, meaner replaced it. Because final didn’t mean safe.  

Final meant when this round ended, more people wouldn’t be standing here. That whatever number was called next would carve names into the floor in blood. That the game wasn’t ending—it was culling. One last round.  

Your gaze flickered up—drawn to the screen hanging above the entrance.  

126.  

Your stomach dropped.  

One hundred twenty-six players left. But only 50 rooms.  

A slow, creeping dread curled up your spine.  

Two. The last number is two. That means 26 people would die this round. Maybe more. If someone hesitated. If someone got left behind at the last second. Pairs.  

Your body moved before your mind caught up. Instinct. Pure, primal instinct. You reached for Young-il’s hand without a second thought, fingers latching onto his, tethering. Like hell you were letting him wander off again.  

Jung-bae stepped in closer, voice taut, strained. “What do you think it’ll be this time?”  

Gi-hun was already deep in thought, brows furrowed, but before he could open his mouth—  

“Two.”  The word left your lips at the exact same time as Young-il’s.  

A sharp pause. Like a crack in the air.  

Every pair of eyes in your group snapped to you both. But you were only looking at him.

Jung-bae frowned. “Why?”  

Young-il’s expression didn’t shift. His thumb caressed your hand. “There are 126 people left,” he said, voice even. “And only 50 rooms.”  

Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, finishing his thought, “That means there’s only enough space for 100 people.”  

Dae-ho stiffened. Jun-hee sucked in a sharp breath. The weight of it settled. Tangible. Crushing.  You swallowed hard, the words tasting like lead on your tongue, “The rest will be killed.”  

“Everyone pair up right now," Gi-hun urged, voice tight, sharp.

"And move to the edge of the platform so you can run as soon as they announce it.”, you added.

Everyone quickly grabbed someones hand. Without thinking, Player 333’s hand found Jun-hee’s, his fingers curling around hers. She went rigid for a moment, her eyes darting to his—uncertain, searching. But she didn’t pull away. You’d seen them talk before, distant. But never like this.

Was he the father of her child? God, how tragic.

Your own grip tightened around Young-il’s. His fingers curled back just as firmly, solid, grounding.  

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low, urgent. Then, he moved. And you followed, letting him pull you toward the edge of the platform, where the moment of truth awaited.

“Round and round

Round and round we go

Turning, turning in a circle as we dance along

We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round”  

Suddenly, the platform lurched to a stop.  

The rotation ceased so abruptly that it sent players stumbling, gasps ripping through the crowd as the music cut out. But the silence barely lasted a second before the fast-paced melody blared back to life, louder, shriller, more urgent.  

The overhead lights pulsed violently—red and purple, turning the arena into a dizzying, chaotic blur.  

Then, the voice.  

"Two."  

A tidal wave of movement exploded around you. Without hesitation, Young-il tighten his grasp on your hand and ran. The platform swarmed with bodies, the scramble for survival more violent than ever before. You barely had time to register anything beyond the crushing urgency in your chest, the way Young-il’s grip on your hand was unrelenting as he pulled you through the madness.  

From the corner of your eye, you saw the rest of your group scattering—Hyun-ju and 246 sprinting toward a blue door, Gi-hun and Jung-bae pushing through the crowd. Everyone was desperate to make it out.  

You could barely breathe. Could barely think. 

Suddenly, a force slammed into your side, so hard it sent you reeling. Your fingers slipped from Young-il’s grasp. You didn’t even have time to scream before you hit the ground. Your hands smacked against the cold, blood-slicked floor, the force rattling through your bones.

"Young-il!" The scream ripped from your throat, sheer terror clawing at your chest as you stumbled.  

He was there in an instant. His grip latched onto your arm like iron, hauling you forward with so much force that your feet barely touched the ground. You barely caught sight of his expression—livid—before he was dragging you through the chaos again.  

You blinked at him, slow. He was saying something, you could see his mouth moving, but your brain was sluggish, like your thoughts were wading through molasses.

Your arms ached. Your legs burned. Somewhere, you were pretty sure you had a gash along your shin, but you couldn’t feel it.

Actually, you couldn’t feel much of anything. Weird.

Then you came back to your senses. A door. You needed a door.  

You saw one ahead—a red one, slightly ajar. Relief surged. Then it slammed shut.

Occupied.  

You turned immediately, heading for a different one. A mustard yellow door stood open a few meters away. Two players were scrambling toward it—too far, too slow.

You could reach it first. But only if you—

The thought slithered in before you could stop it.

Shove them out of the way. Take the spot. They wouldn’t be fast enough anyway.

Your breath hitched. The moment you registered it, disgust curdled in your stomach.

What the hell was wrong with you?

But you didn’t shove them. You just ran. Still, the thought didn’t leave. It lingered, curling around your ribs, whispering. Next time, would you?

Once you reached it, you realised that a player was standing in the threshold. Player 285.  

Young-il let go of your arm and ripped him out. A choked gasp. A flash of panic in the man’s eyes. His hand clamped around his throat like a vice, and with terrifying ease, he tore him away from the doorway and threw him onto the floor.  

"Get in, (Y/N)!” His voice was steel.  

You didn’t argue. You bolted inside. Young-il followed a second later, slamming the door shut, locking it with a harsh, final click.  

The relief was so intense that it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. But then—you turned. And your blood ran cold.  

Player 343 was still inside.  

The man was already backing up against the farthest wall, eyes darting between the two of you, chest heaving. "Wait, please. We were here first." His voice cracked, raw with desperation.  

Young-il stepped forward. His stance was lethal.

"Get out."  

The timer above the door flickered.  

15 seconds.    

The man flinched, raising his hands in surrender. "Please."  

10 seconds.  

He stepped forward, fast. Before you could process what was happening, his arms snapped around the man’s throat. A strangled wheeze—the sound of air being cut off instantly.  

Player 285 lunged for the door, desperation twisting his face as he shoved against it with all his strength. But you were faster. You threw your entire weight forward, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle your bones. Your hands locked onto the handle, gripping it so tightly your knuckles burned.

A furious bang against the wood. Then another.

"Open the door, you bastards!" His voice cracked, raw with panic. "I was here first!"

Another sharp thud. The door trembled under the assault, but you didn’t budge. You pressed harder, chest heaving, every muscle locked in place.

Young-il crouched low, pivoting with terrifying precision, manoeuvring 343’s body into submission with ease.  

You froze, eyes wide, unable to do anything but watch.  

The man clawed at Young-il’s arms, his legs kicking wildly, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. His muscles flexed as he tightened his hold, squeezing.  

3 seconds.  

The world had narrowed down to the sharp, wet sound of Player 343’s gasps, to the way Young-il’s muscles flexed as he crushed the air from his lungs. But he was taking too long. The thought came out of nowhere—quick, instinctive, cold.

Just do it yourself.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath felt too slow, too steady, like your body had already decided before your brain caught up. You could end this in half a second—snap, clean, efficient.

One twist. It would be so easy.

And then it hit you. The sheer horror of what you were thinking. It crashed down like ice water, washing away the haze. You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to step back, fingers curling into fists at your sides. 

What the hell is wrong with me?

The man struggled, hands clawing at Young-il’s arms, eyes wide with pure, animal panic. It was instinct. Desperate. But it didn’t matter. Young-il adjusted his grip, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of his throat—tighter, harder. The gurgling turned to choking, then silence. It didn’t happen fast. That was the worst part.

Young-il’s grip shifted. Sharpened.  Then—crack. The man’s body jerked once. Then stilled. Your breathing stopped as Player 343’s head rolled to the side at a 120° angle.  

The timer hit zero. A piercing beep.  

"Game over."  

The silence after the snap was worse than the sound itself. For a second, neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was your own heartbeat, roaring in your ears like a war drum. Young-il let the body fall and pushed it off his own. It hit the floor with a dull, final thud.  

You lurched back, spine pressing into the wall—not because of him, but because of the thoughts twisting, snarling, sinking their teeth in.

What the fuck was wrong with you.  

Your eyes snapped to Young-il. He was only looking at you. His breathing was even, unlike your own. Like he hadn’t just snapped a man’s neck in three seconds flat.  

Then, the speaker crackled overhead.  

“Attention. Due to a technical error, the doors will remain locked for longer. Please remain calm as we fix this problem. Thank you."  

Trapped. In here. With him and your thoughts. And the body.

Oh, how nice. Fantastic.

You should feel something. Horror. Guilt. Revulsion. But you just… didn’t.

The exhaustion settled deep, thick and all-consuming, swallowing up whatever part of you was still supposed to care. It should have scared you, how easy it was to let go, how numb you felt.

You slowly turned your head to Young-il, who looked about as calm as someone waiting for a bus, then down at the very, very dead man at your feet. 

Your heartbeat was steady. Too steady.

The realisation was slow, creeping, like a sickness curling through your veins. You waited for the horror to hit. For your stomach to churn. For something, anything, to claw its way up your throat.

But it never came.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“Cool. Love that for us.”

“Why are you so calm?” His voice wasn’t mocking—just genuinely perplexed. “You usually have a panic attack.”

You stared at him. Then at the dead man. Then back at him.

And something in you just… cracked.

A laugh bubbled up, sharp and humourless, slipping past your lips before you could stop it. You ran a shaky hand down your face, exhaling hard.

“I don’t know, Young-il,” you muttered, voice hollow with exhaustion. “Maybe I ran out of tears to cry.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.

You let your head tip back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I think I just lost my last fuck to give. You choked the guy out, I didn’t stop you, and now we’re locked in here with a corpse like it’s just a normal Tuesday.” You let out a breathy, almost delirious chuckle. “So, honestly? I don’t even care anymore. Welcome to my breaking point.”

Silence. Too long.

You opened your eyes again, expecting another dry remark from him, another roll of his eyes. But what you found instead— It wasn’t that.

Young-il was staring at you. His expression had cracked, just slightly, just enough to let something else slip through the fractures. And then—he took a step back.

Not much. Barely an inch. But you noticed it. Young-il shook his head slowly, breath leaving him in something too soft, too unsteady.

“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.” His voice was lower now, rougher, like the words themselves scraped against his throat. “I knew you’d change in here. I knew you’d have to.” A pause, as if the weight of his own words hit him mid-sentence. “But not like this.”

His eyes flicked to the corpse. His fingers flexed at his sides. Then, finally, his gaze landed back on you.

"You were supposed to be the one thing that didn’t rot."

Something sharp twisted deep inside your chest. Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what could you possibly say to that?

Young-il dragged a hand down his face, eyes shutting for half a second before he let out a slow, measured breath. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“I didn’t want this.” His gaze flicked toward the body, the blood. Then back to you. “Not for you.”

A strange, uncomfortable lump formed in your throat. You swallowed it down. Or at least, you tried to. But it sat there, heavy, lodged deep in your chest.  

Because the thing was—he was wrong.  

You weren’t rotting. You weren’t turning into some hollowed-out thing, some soulless husk that no longer cared. You still felt everything. You just… couldn’t afford to let it swallow you whole. Not now. Not when you were still fighting to survive.  

But how could you explain that to him? How could you make him understand that this wasn’t you breaking, not really? That this numbness, this eerie calm, wasn’t some kind of irreversible descent into nothingness—but rather your brain’s last-ditch attempt to protect you?  

You couldn’t. So instead, you just exhaled slowly, your gaze flicking to his, searching.  

“You think I don’t care,” you said quietly. Not a question. A statement.  

Young-il’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.  

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That I’m just… gone. That I don’t feel anything anymore.”  

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. But the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands twitched at his sides—  That was enough.  

You inhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair before shaking your head. “I do care, Young-il. I’ve cared all my life. I care so fucking much it hurts.” Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “I just can’t afford to show it right now. Because if I do—if I let myself actually feel this—” Your voice wavered, just slightly. “It’s gonna break me.”  

Young-il’s gaze searched yours, like he was trying to pick apart your words, to find a lie hidden somewhere between them. But there wasn’t one.  

After a moment, his shoulders slumped slightly, tension bleeding out of him, but not completely.  He sighed, running a hand down his face.  

“So that’s it, then?” His voice was quieter now, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re just gonna go numb until it’s over?”  

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much.”  

Young-il exhaled a humourless chuckle, shaking his head. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I hate this place.”  

You huffed out something close to a laugh. “Yeah. Welcome to the club.”  

For a while, neither of you spoke. You weren’t sure how much time passed. The scent of blood clung to the air. The corpse remained between you, an unmoving reminder of how far you’d already gone. Then, finally—  Young-il stepped closer.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice steady now. “If that’s how you have to get through this—fine.” His eyes met yours, unwavering. “But don’t shut me out, alright?”  

Something about the way he said it made your throat tighten. Your lips parted, instinct telling you to crack a joke, to keep the mood light, to deflect. But for once, you didn’t.  Instead, you just nodded. “Okay.”  

Young-il held your gaze for a second longer. Then, he sighed. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled you in. It wasn’t careful, or hesitant, or any of the things you might have expected from him. It was rough, desperate—his arms wrapping tight around you, like he was holding onto something solid before the ground completely gave out beneath him.

Not because you needed it. But because he did.

You barely had time to react before your face was pressed against his chest, his scent surrounding you. You breathed him in. His fingers curled against the fabric of your clothes, grip unyielding. His breathing wasn’t steady. It wasn’t uneven either. It was just off. A fraction too deep. A second too slow. Like he was still trying to get control of something that had already slipped through his fingers.

You blinked, your hands hovering slightly at your sides, caught off guard. But only for a second. Slowly, you let your arms come up, hesitantly returning the embrace. 

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It just was. Then, finally—his voice, low and raw against your ear. 

“You don’t get to lose yourself in here.” The words were quiet, firm. “Not you.” 

You swallowed. “I’m not.” 

His grip tightened, just slightly. “You better not be.” 

You exhaled softly, letting your eyes slip shut for just a second. “I promise.” 

Another beat of silence. Then, a breath. A slow, heavy inhale. 

“I fucking hate this place.” His voice was strained now, rasping at the edges. “I hate what it does to people. I hate what it’s done to you.” 

You swallowed hard but didn’t answer. You hated it, too.

Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to look at you. A long, controlled inhale. Then, a slower exhale. His hands shifted—one sliding up, the other following, cupping your face with a carefulness that made your chest tighten. His thumbs brushed lightly along your cheekbones. His breath hitched, just barely, like he was fighting something back. 

“I won’t let you lose yourself in here.” he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher. “Not you.”

You swallowed, your hands instinctively gripping at his wrists, not to pull away, but to hold on. “I’m not losing myself.”

His fingers twitched against your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Dark. Intense. Like he was searching for something.

“You better not be,” he murmured

His grip tightened, just slightly, and something unspoken crackled between you—something thick, electric, thrumming under your skin. You were too close. His breath fanned across your lips, warm, uneven, and for a second, you weren’t sure if he was going to pull away or close the distance.  

The air between you was thin, charged. You could feel every inch of him, the way his chest rose and fell against yours, the heat of his hands on your skin.  

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”  

Your breath faltered. His grip on your face didn’t waver. Your heart pounded, too loud, too fast. He was still so close, his lips just barely parted, his fingers brushing lower, skimming the edge of your jaw.  His grip didn’t loosen. Neither did yours.

You weren’t sure which of you moved first—if it was him, if it was you, if it even mattered. But the space between you had never felt smaller.

"Attention all players. The technical issues have been resolved. You may now step out of your rooms and follow the instructions of the guards." 

The words sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. Young-il froze, just a mere centimetre away from your lips. For a moment—just a fraction of a second—his fingers twitched against your skin, like they weren’t sure whether to tighten or release. Then, as if burned, he let go.  

He stepped back. Once. Then again.  

His expression shifted. The heat in his gaze, the raw intensity that had been there just seconds ago, vanished. It was like watching a flame snuffed out in an instant. His posture stiffened, his face smoothing into something unreadable.

You blinked, your breath coming out in pants, your body still tense from the moment that had almost—almost—happened.  

But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He turned toward the door, his movements sharp, controlled, his back straight as if nothing had happened. As if none of it had meant anything.  

The sudden shift was jarring. Just seconds ago, he had been right there, holding onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to reality. And now? Now he looked at you like you were nothing at all.  

A lump formed in your throat, but you forced it down, watching as he reached for the door. His voice, when he finally spoke, was distant. Detached.  

"Let’s go."  

That was it. No explanation. No hesitation. Just a command. Without another glance, he stepped outside. The cold air of the arena seeped into your skin as you followed him, but it wasn’t just the room that felt empty. It was the space between you.  

Something had changed. Something had broken. And you had no idea how to fix it.  

[aoioozora]

Coorie Doon

>> John 'Soap' MacTavish, fluff, not properly proofread!!

You couldn't sleep no matter what you did. The earlier mission was long and difficult, and you, poor new recruit, felt more alert than tired. Your body ached and protested for rest, but your brain seemed to have other ideas. Counting sheep didn't work, neither did breathing exercises nor imagining peaceful sceneries. You tossed and turned restlessly all night, but Sgt. Soap, however, was conked out like the dead next to you.

You shifted slightly, struggling to get comfortable on the hard floor. It made your shoulder blade dig into your back. It hurt. You heard Soap's soft grunt as he turned; you felt his shoulder brush against yours and you assumed he was now laying on his back. A soft sigh followed. The chirp of distant crickets filled the silence until he spoke softly, his Scottish accented voice thick and deep with sleep, "Yer still awake?"

You looked at him, even though both of you were still in near pitch darkness and he was barely visible. "How'd you know?" you asked.

"Been feelin' ya movin' around." he answered. "Can't sleep?"

"Yeah."

"Whit's the matter?" he said through a yawn.

"I don't know. I just can't fall asleep."

"Hm..." he paused, as if pondering, and then offered, "I'll sing ye a song."

Being so desperate, any method to induce sleep seemed worthy of a shot. "Alright."

"Roll over on yer stomach," he instructed as he rolled onto his side to face you.

"Why?"

"C'mon," he urged, "Trust me here."

You rolled over and laid on your stomach. His large hand gently rested on your upper back, particularly on your shoulder blade. He began to softly pat you in a soft, rhythmic manner. And then he started crooning the chorus his rumbling voice,

Coorie doon, coorie doon, coorie doon, my darling

Coorie doon the day

It was amazing how instantly your body sagged, even if it was on hard ground. Soap felt the slight drop of your tense shoulder, and you could almost hear him smiling as he sang.

Coorie doon, coorie doon, coorie doon, my darling

Coorie doon the day

He repeated the chorus, his voice growing softer. His patting continued in the same steady, soothing rhythm. Under his hand, he felt your shoulders rising once and then dropping slowly as you let out a sigh.

Lie down, my dear, and in your ear

To help you close your eye

I'll sing a song, a slumber song

A miner's lullaby

The chorus followed, sweet and gentle like a softly rippling stream of water. Your eyes started to grow heavy. In the darkness, you could vaguely see the form of his tactical vest, but as your vision dimmed further, it grew more vague.

Your daddy's doon the mine, my darling

Doon in the curbly main

Your daddy's howkin' coal, my darling

For his ain wee wean

Fatigue and gravity worked together to weigh your body down, almost molding with the ground beneath you. It was cold, but it didn't seem to matter anymore; the Sergeant's hand provided sufficient warmth. Soap sung the chorus again, and his voice sounding softer and more distant.

He noticed your evident lack of movement and recognized that you were falling asleep. His voice continued to grow softer. The final pat gently laid on your back turned into soft caresses. He yawned as he sang, feeling sleepy from his own singing, if that was even possible. He too slumped back onto the ground slightly, coorieing down close next to you to share his warmth.

His voice trailed off to silence, leaving the crickets outside to continue their song. His caressing slowed down and eased away until he ensured you were fast asleep. His shoulder and arm laxed slightly, pulling his hand down along with it, but it remained touching your back, assuring you even in your slumber that he was still nearby.

Your daddy coories doon, my darling

Doon in a three foot seam

So you can coorie doon my darling

Coorie doon and dream

"Coorie doon and dream..." he finally crooned, closing his own eyes.

[sugarplumkneecaps]

hihihi could I ask for a Shadow x Reader and they're spending the day ice skating on Valentine's day maybe with a reader who can't skate and Shadow helps them out? thank you!

A/N: This is such a cute idea! I could immediately picture this <3 I hope you enjoy! Happy Valentine’s day!

Love on Ice

Pairing: Shadow x Reader C/W: none Genre: Wholesome, fluff

Your legs wobbled violently as you struggled to gather your bearings on the ice. Even after weeks of practicing ice skating with Shadow, the ice and you were decidedly not friends. Your uncertain feet shifted in a slippery fashion along the freezing surface as you gripped the sides of the wall as hard as you could manage.

“Hold onto me,” Shadow’s low voice hummed close to your ear, causing a shiver to run down your spine. You looked over your shoulder just as Shadow’s hand found your waist, pulling you off the wall. Panicked, you quickly grabbed onto him, preparing to fall flat on your bottom just as you had done countless times before. A soft chuckle came from his chest as he took your hands in his to steady you.

“Look up, I got you,” he cooed sweetly, a smile stretching across his lips.

No matter how many times you had fallen over previously, your cheeks still burned from embarrassment. Shadow was determined to get you skating comfortably by today. While he had made impressive strides towards this goal, you still found that you lacked the confidence to truly perform. While you feared most other instructors might have given up on you by now, he had stayed head strong and reassured you each time that you were doing well.

All of this training had been leading up to this moment, after all. Shadow had rented out the ice rink in the town square for a couple hours for Valentine’s day, which was an impressive feat for anyone to accomplish. But since this was a popular activity, especially for the holiday, hundreds of eyes watched you struggle on the ice. This did nothing to help with your confidence, making you instead wish you had the ability to shrivel up and disappear each time you fumbled a step forward.

“Don’t worry about them,” Shadow whispered, his voice barely above an audible level. “Focus on me.”

You obeyed, looking up at him sheepishly as he adjusted himself to be in front of you. He held your hands out before you, giving them a reassuring squeeze before pushing off to skate with you. Many things about Shadow impressed you, but you found his ability to skate backwards was such a simple and yet mindboggling skill of his that he utilized frequently to hold your gaze. Even with the verbal instruction to look ahead, you could not follow it unless he was present to hold your gaze steady with his crimson eyes.

“That’s it,” he looked you over before returning his gaze to yours, “you’re doing great.”

With one swift motion, you both were off, skating around the rink at a speed you were certain you would never comfortably reach on your own. The wind blew through Shadow’s quills and across your cheek as snow picked up around you. Still, Shadow did not falter. In between compliments and soft words, you were able to complete your first lap around the rink without a hitch. Upon realization, excitement filled you from your core outward, causing you to lose your balance for a moment. The trip shot you into Shadow’s arms with unexpected force, causing you to let out a small gasp as you both made contact with the ice.

“Oh, oh! I’m so sorry!” you scrambled to get up unsuccessfully before turning your full attention to your partner before you. Flicks of orange and yellow peppered his iris, the intense red of them enveloping you in their loving gaze. You hand lay pressed against his chest, where his heart thumped rapidly against his chest cavity. A sheepish smile played at his lips as he helped you both to your feet once more.

“You are so precious,” he whispered, reaching up to caress your cheek against his palm. A familiar heat rose to greet his touch, blush forming on your cheeks. He let his hand drop, reaching for your own once more. “One more lap. Ready?”

You nodded, doing your best to collect yourself. Once more, another lap around the rink went without issue. And, again, Shadow admired you after before convincing you to go once more.

By the end, you were able to skate with him by your side, moving somewhat freely as you felt your confidence building with each step. A bell rung through a large speaker, signifying other skaters permission to resume their own skating. Shadow tugged on your arm lightly, bringing you both to a stop. He positioned himself close to you, his warm breath brushing against your skin as he spoke, “I wanted today to be something we could hold dear and cherish.”

His thumb ran across your own, your eyes locked on each other as the world flew by around you. He smiled sweetly, bringing your hand to his lips as he planted a kiss along your knuckles.

“Will you be my Valentine?”

[starsreminisce]

SJM Romance Week Day Five Favorite Trope

Koi no Yokan

Word count: 4800 for @sjmromanceweek

Summary: When Elain saw Eris's red scarf, it triggered a memory of a red-haired fae who had once shown her a kindness she had never experienced before. Only then did she realize she had met her mate before their bond had ever snapped.

Read on AO3 or Continue Below

It was the red scarf wrapped around Eris’s neck that Elain couldn’t stop staring at. She barely heard the conversation—Eris’s irritated tone as he tugged the scarf loose, Rhysand’s low drawl as he led him into the office.

The scarf reminded her of another winter. Another life.

Back when her ears were still rounded. When threadbare clothes clung to her too-thin frame, her stomach growling from days of hunger. It was the winter she had schemed to cross the wall, to save her family. Feyre had come home with nothing, and Nesta spoke of Tomas taking them in. The forest had seemed endless then, the cold sharper than a blade, but Elain had been determined. If the Children of the Blessed were right, if the fae were truly so easily swayed by beauty, then she would use hers to save her family.

She shivered beneath her flimsy cloak, the trees creaking around her. Somewhere ahead, voices rose-deep, otherworldly. Fae. She froze, pressing herself behind the nearest trunk.

“Andras,” a deep voice, as cutting as the cold, instructed, “this is as far as I can take you.”

Elain’s heart pounded as she peered out from her hiding spot. Three of them with ornate masks. Too tall, too perfect to be human. One of them—a blonde male with ethereal handsome features—flicked his hand, and the second fae shifted into a massive wolf. Elain’s held her breath as the creature shook and then darted into the woods.

“Tam,” the third fae—the red-haired one with a beauty so precise it felt like a punishment—snapped.

But the blonde cut him off with just a look; his emerald eyes were cold, commanding. Then, with a jerk of his head, he was gone, disappearing amongst the trees and leaving the red-haired fae to follow.

The glade was quiet once more, thick with silence. There was only the faint whisper of branches in the chill breeze. The redheaded fae remained standing, jaw clenched as he stared after Andras, his hands curled to fists. One long weighted moment, it seemed almost as though he would give chase, but he did not budge.

Elain’s heart thundered in her ears; her breath was shallow and came fast. She had moments, mere moments before he, too, disappeared. Her mind racing, she fought through the haze of hunger and fear.

Do it.

“Wait!” she called, stepping into the open.

The fae turned, and her breath caught. He was beautiful in the way a wildfire was beautiful—impossible to look away from, but every instinct in her screamed to run. His sharp grin sent a chill down her spine.

“Well, hello,” he drawled, like honey dripping from a blade.

Elain swallowed hard. “Take me with you,” she said, her voice trembling even as she fought to sound brave. Her knees shook beneath her, but she forced her chin high, refusing to let him see her fear. “Take me, and I’ll do anything you want.”

His scarred brow arched, and his grin stretched wider, pulling the brutal mark across his eye into something cruel—mocking.

“Anything?” he purred, the word dripping with wicked amusement, as though savoring it.

Elain forced herself to nod, the cold biting her cheeks as the word slipped from her lips. “Anything.”

He stepped closer. Instinctively, she moved back, her breath clouding the air between them. His grin only deepened, sharp and vicious, as if her fear was the gift he’d been waiting for.

His boots crunched against the frozen ground, and she froze, the icy earth beneath her feet anchoring her in place. She couldn’t retreat further—not from him. His russet eye gleamed as he watched her, a molten light flickering there. He tilted his head, the motion eerily animalistic, his sharp teeth flashing in the fading light.

“Do you hate us?” he asked, his voice low and velvety, the words curling through the cold air like smoke.

She shivered as warmth radiated off him, her body betraying her resolve as she swayed toward him. His scent—rich and earthy, like roasted chestnuts—filled her senses. Her mind flickered to a memory: her father, smiling by the fire, pressing a warm handful of chestnuts into her palm. A time when she was safe. A time when she was loved.

“No,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. Not him, anyway.

“That’s too bad,” he murmured, his breath brushing her lips. “Because that’s the only way I can take you with me.”

And then, just like that, the warmth vanished.

Her eyes flew open, the cold rushing in as if to punish her for the brief reprieve. He had stepped back, his head tilted as he studied her with narrowed eyes. For the first time, his grin faltered. Confusion flickered there, cutting through the cruel confidence that had been so effortless moments before.

“I don’t understand,” he said, almost to himself.

She blinked, her breath curling in the air between them. “Don’t understand what?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, her stomach growled loudly, the sound breaking through the charged silence.

“You’re hungry,” he said flatly, his voice unreadable.

An icy breeze passed between them and she shivered.

“And cold.”

“Please,” she said, her voice breaking, “please take me with you.”

For a moment, his expression softened, something like kindness threading through the sharp lines of his features. Then it vanished, replaced by something painful.

“I can’t.”

Elain’s throat tightened, and she couldn’t stop the words that spilled out. “Am I not beautiful enough for you to take me?”

The words burned her throat as she said them, humiliating and hollow. But what else did she have to offer? What else did she have left to barter?

He let out a bitter laugh, his head tipping back slightly. “Extremely for a human,” he said, “but that’s not what we need.”

She inhaled sharply, her nails digging into her palms. “I can be what you need.”

His jaw clenched, frustration flaring in his russet eye as he stepped closer. “I need you to hate us,” he said, his voice low and taut, like a cord pulled too tight. “I need you to hate us enough to kill me right now.”

The idea struck her like a blow to the chest. Kill him? She couldn’t—not because she wasn’t strong enough, but because the thought of harming him, of snuffing out this strange, painful kindness, made her stomach twist. The cruelty he wore like armor didn’t fool her. She could see the cracks underneath, the shadows of something far more human.

He knew it, too. The tension in his jaw eased, his russet eye flickering with something unreadable—something almost tender—as the metallic one whirred softly. His grin lingered, but it wasn’t cruel anymore. It was weary, resigned, a shadow of what it had been moments before.

With a quiet sigh, he pulled the red scarf from around his neck, hesitating for a moment as though deciding whether to go through with it. Then, slowly, he draped it over her shoulders, his fingers brushing against the cold skin of her collarbone.

“The least I can do,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, as though the weight of the gesture was something even he didn’t fully understand.

She clutched the scarf tightly, feeling the burn of tears she wouldn’t let fall.

“Let’s find you something to eat,” he said, his earlier drawl replaced with something gentler.

“That won’t be enough to save my family,” she said, her voice trembling.

He considered what she had said. “No. But it’ll be enough to get you through today.”

He glanced around, his sharp gaze sweeping the forest before he took her hand. His grip was firm, and she stumbled after him, too cold and too empty to resist. The forest around them was still, the snow muffling their steps, but she barely noticed.

When they reached a clearing, he let go of her hand and knelt, his movements quick as he began gathering sticks. The clearing was small, ringed with ancient trees whose gnarled branches clawed at the sky, their shadows stretching long across the snow.

“Do you know how to build a fire?” he asked without looking at her.

She shook her head, her fingers too frozen to even try.

He lit it effortlessly. The small flame burst to life, crackling as it spread through the wood. She leaned toward it as she closed her eyes, her trembling fingers outstretched, letting the warmth seep into her skin. For the first time in hours—maybe days—she could feel her hands again.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone, the trees swallowing him. She stared into the flames, the flickering light dancing over her pale hands. Her stomach growled loudly, but she ignored it, guilt twisting inside her. What would Nesta and Feyre think if they could see her now, warming herself at a fae’s fire? Taking food from a fae that she knows she shouldn’t but desperate enough she had to?

He returned a few moments later, his movements silent except for the faint crunch of snow beneath his boots. A small rabbit swung from his hand, its body limp, its fur already matted. She looked up at him, her stomach clenching with hunger and guilt alike.

The fae took no notice of her hesitation as he prepared the rabbit, working with a quiet precision. When the smell of roasting meat wafted toward her, her mouth watered despite herself.

She shivered violently, pulling her knees to her chest as the cold seeped into her again. He looked at her, his sharp eyes softening as he moved closer. Without a word, he slid his arms around her, cradling her against his chest as if she were his to protect.

When he pulled her close, she stiffened, unsure if she could allow herself this comfort. But the heat of him—the solid, unyielding warmth—was irresistible. Slowly, she let herself sink into his chest, her head pressing against the soft fabric of his tunic. His steady breath rumbled through her, and the tension in her body began to melt, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion she hadn’t allowed herself to feel until now.

She knew fae were mercurial. Temperamental. Cruel.

And yet, he was the first to ever show her this brand of kindness.

She blinked hard, willing the tears to stay hidden. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry—not in front of him, not in front of anyone. But the fire was warm, and his arms were warmer, and something in her cracked. The tears spilled silently, unbidden, sliding down her cheeks as she burrowed closer to him, trying to hide the evidence of her weakness.

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice soft against her hair.

“Why not?” she choked out.

“It’s breaking a heart I’ve forgotten I had,” he murmured, his voice raw, as though the admission cost him something. “You shouldn’t let someone like me see you cry.”

She looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears. He was the most beautiful being she had ever seen. His mismatched eyes—one gleaming russet, the other whirring softly as though it could see through her—lingered on her with a strange mix of regret and something warmer, something softer.

Her trembling fingers rose of their own accord, tracing his jawline. She had never seen kindness on a face before. Fae faces were meant for cruelty, weren’t they? But as her touch skimmed the scar cutting through his eye, she realized how wrong she had been.

“I didn’t mean to cry,” she whispered. “It’s been a long time since someone was this kind to me.”

His lips parted slightly, looking through her through half-lidded eyes. “And it’s been a long time since I wanted to care for someone like this.”

Elain swallowed hard, her stomach twisting at his words. He shouldn’t have cared for her. She shouldn’t have cared for him. She thought she could use this to her advantage. Let him ruin her so thoroughly that he’d have no choice but to take her with him. It was a small, desperate hope—but it was enough to keep her upright.

And yet, as his thumb brushed her cheek and his warmth seeped into her frozen bones, another part of her whispered: this wasn’t just a lie. Some selfish, quiet part of her wanted to be held, wanted to be wanted—for herself, not for what she could offer. She didn’t know which part of her was worse.

But she couldn’t think like that—not now, not when her family was hungry and desperate. 

“I thought the fae didn’t care,” she said softly.

“We don’t,” he replied, though his voice had softened, low and unsure. “That’s why I don’t understand… but you… you would have someone who does care for you.”

She did. But not like this.

Not in this open, quiet way this strange fae had shown her. Not when Nesta’s care was wrapped in anger or Feyre’s love came laced with resentment. Not even her father, who seemed to drift between worlds, half there and half lost.

Definitely not in the way he held her now—with his scarf wrapped around her neck, the rabbit roasting over the fire he built for her, his gaze on her like she was something precious.

And all of it given freely. All of it without asking for anything in return. Because he refused to take her with him.

Her breath hitched as his gaze dropped to her lips.

“My sister,” she said, trying to break the invisible pull between them. “She hunts for us, but this has been a harsh winter.”

“Is that why you want me to take you?” he asked, his voice a lover’s caress.

Elain bit her lip, and his reaction was immediate—his russet eye darkened, his gaze snapping to the movement as though it had struck him. She could feel the shift in him, the tension coiling tighter in the small space between them. He furrowed his brows, his focus never leaving her mouth, as if he were being denied just as much as she was.

“If she doesn’t come back with something tonight,” he said after a moment, “I’ll make sure you and your family will have something by the morning.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of his promise settling over her. “What’s the cost?” she whispered, unsure if she wanted to know the answer.

“No cost at all.”

The words fell between them like a lifeline, unasked for but freely given. Her throat burned, a thousand words threatening to escape—gratitude, disbelief, apology—but she swallowed them down, refusing to let them break the fragile silence between them.

She watched the realization dawn on his face, saw it settle in the slight furrow of his brows and the way his tongue swept over his lips, as though he were already anticipating how she intended to pay. And yet, hesitation lingered in his mismatched gaze, thin and taut, like a thread about to snap.

She had already spoken to him, had already been held by him. Now, food roasted over the fire, its scent curling through the cold air, waiting to be consumed. Would it be so wrong, then?

Her propriety was the only thing she had left—the final shred of status she clung to, the last remnant of the life she had once known. And she had already decided she was willing to give it up.

She was lowly now. She had been for a long time. Did it even matter anymore?

Could she let it go completely? Let it fall away like ash in the wind, if it meant convincing him? If it meant saving her family?

Even knowing she might fail?

“You do that,” he warned, “and I absolutely cannot bring you with me.”

Her breath caught. But there was still a chance he could.

She closed her eyes, her heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. She leaned in, hesitant at first, inch by inch, giving him every chance to stop her.

He didn’t move.

Her lips trembling as the space between them disappeared, as though the pull was stronger than either of them could resist. She hesitated, hovering so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin.

Still, he didn’t move.

Her stomach twisted, a knot of fear and need tightening inside her. What if this was too much? What if it wasn’t enough? She couldn’t tell anymore—couldn’t think past the roaring in her ears, the ache in her chest.

It would be her first kiss.

The thought nearly stopped her. A piece of herself begged her to hold on to it, to keep this one part of her untouched, untainted. But another voice—a louder one—rose up, fierce and aching. She wanted this. Wanted him.

It wasn’t just desperation, not entirely. It was something deeper. Something she couldn’t name.

And he stayed there, so still it was almost painful, as though waiting for her to decide.

And so she did.

She leaned in the final inch and gave him the only thing she could.

A kiss.

It wasn’t payment. It wasn’t a transaction. It wasn’t about convincing him to stay or take her with him.

It was something she wanted.

The touch of his lips was softer than she expected, hesitant at first, but the kiss deepened as his hand slid into her hair. He tasted exactly as he smelled—roasted chestnuts, woodsmoke, and a sweetness she couldn’t name. It warmed her, wrapped around her like his scarf still tied at her throat, and made her feel things she hadn’t felt in years.

Safe. Wanted. Unburdened. Loved.

Her fingers curled into his tunic, desperate to keep him close. When a small, helpless moan escaped her lips, he groaned in response, pulling her tighter, deeper, as if he couldn’t stop himself.

She had been starved before, in more ways than one. But this—this was a different kind of hunger, something she hadn’t even known she could feel. She understood his desperation now, the way their hands clutched at each other, the way their lips pressed harder, seeking more. They were tasting something sweeter than they had ever imagined was possible.

But then he pulled away. His breaths came ragged, his chest rising and falling as if it physically hurt him to stop.

He rested his forehead against hers, his mismatched eyes fluttering shut. When he spoke, his voice was a broken whisper.

“You’ll ruin everything if I bring you with me.”

She didn’t know how she could ruin him when he already had.

His breath was shaky as he leaned into the curve of her neck, his lips brushing against the soft skin beneath her jaw. Elain sucked in a breath, the sensation unraveling her nerves, and leaned back, baring her throat to him as a breathless sigh escaped her lips.

She could feel the dampness pooling between her thighs, the ache coiling deep at her core, and her hips began to roll against whatever was pressing into her, seeking relief. The movement was instinctive, desperate, as though her body was responding to what she couldn’t admit.

Her head lolled toward him, and their lips met for a second time. This kiss wasn’t like the first—there was no timidness, no hesitation. It burned between them, consuming, as if they both knew they were stealing a moment that was never meant to last.

And yet, even as their mouths moved together, she felt it: a sharp pinch beneath her lower left rib, like a string pulled taut. She gasped softly at the sensation, but it didn’t stop her. If anything, it rooted her deeper in the moment.

It wouldn’t be a bad life, she thought hazily, her mind scattering as his hand buried in her hair. To leave her family behind, knowing they’d be taken care of, if only she could stay here—in his arms, for the rest of her days.

But then, he pulled away.

She saw it the moment their eyes met—longing and pain, a depth of feeling she couldn’t fully understand but that shattered her all the same. He looked at her as though their kiss had destroyed him, as though it had splintered something fragile and irreplaceable inside him.

“You can’t ruin this for us,” his voice hoarse, as if it was all he could manage.

And then he was gone.

The cold rushed in to replace him, leaving her unmoored, untethered. His absence hit her like a blow, the warmth of his body still lingering against her skin, the ghost of his lips still brushing her neck. She sank to her knees by the fire, clutching the red scarf he’d left behind as though it was the only thing keeping her upright.

The rabbit roasted over the flames, its scent mingling with the sharp winter air, but Elain barely noticed.

She blinked back tears, the ache in her chest heavy and unrelenting. She had come so close—so close to convincing him, so close to achieving her goal—and yet she’d failed.

Her stomach growled, sharp and insistent, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat. The guilt gnawed at her, sharp as the winter cold. Guilt because she was being fed while her family starved. Punishment because she hadn’t succeeded in securing more for them. Wariness because it had been a fae who had built this fire, hunted this rabbit.

Her fingers trembled as she reached toward the rabbit, then stopped. She couldn’t. Instead, she decided to save it for her father. He would need it more. He would need the strength to survive another day, another failure.

The fire crackled softly in front of her, its warmth doing little to thaw the frost clinging to her chest. She stayed there long after he vanished, staring into the flames, her fingers gripping the red scarf as though holding on to it might bring him back.

Elain blinked, the memory shattering like glass, leaving her floundering. The phantom weight of the scarf was still heavy around her neck.

And there it was. Hanging neatly by the door. An afterthought. Forgotten—yet waiting.

She felt it.

Her head snapped toward the sound of the door swinging open, and she sensed him before she saw him.

Lucien entered, his russet gaze locking on hers almost immediately. A ripple of awareness passed between them, swift and undeniable.

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, she knew.

Recognition. Understanding. A truth she hadn’t wanted to face.

Her gaze flicked to the scarf, and the memory came rushing back all at once.

“It was yours,” she said softly, the words falling from her lips before she could stop them.

Lucien frowned and turned to follow her gaze. His mechanical eye whirred, narrowing in focus as though piecing together a puzzle he hadn’t realized existed. Then he froze. His shoulders stiffened, and something flickered across his face—regret.

“It was,” he said at last, his voice quiet.

Her throat tightened. Her eyes started to burn. Her fingers trembled, and her nails bit into her palms as she tried to keep the tears at bay. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget. I swore I wouldn’t forget him.

And yet she had.

Lucien’s lips quirked into a small, apologetic smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then you’ll remember what I said to you.”

Her breath hitched. You shouldn’t let someone like me see you cry.

Her voice was a whisper. “A mate, you meant.”

Lucien hesitated, the weight of the word hanging between them like an unspoken vow. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a murmur. “I didn’t know then. But yes.”

Elain let out a shaky breath, her chest tight with the weight of his words. A mate. He was her mate, and yet he had left her. She felt the ache of it spreading through her ribs, too big, too much. She needed to feel something else. Something sharp. Something that would cut him the way he had cut her. She settled on anger.

“You left me,” she said suddenly, the words spoken as she thought of them. “You left me there.”

“I had no choice,” Lucien said softly, his eyes searching hers. “Tamlin needed Feyre. Someone like Feyre. We all did. You weren’t…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “You weren’t what he was looking for. But I made sure you were safe, Lady. I insisted. Once I realized who you were to Feyre, I couldn’t—” He stopped, the words catching in his throat.

She shook her head, her throat burning with the tears she refused to shed. “You didn’t even give me a chance,” she said, her voice trembling. “I hated the fae enough to do whatever it took, and you didn’t even let me try. I didn’t need to kill you. I could have killed any of Tamlin’s men.”

The truth hung in the air between them: for him. She would have done it for him.

Lucien flinched, as though her words had struck him like a blow. His shoulders sagged, the weight of her anger pressing him down. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

“But now I’m just someone who would have ruined it,” she said bitterly as they cracked, her pain sharpening into accusation.

Lucien’s jaw tightened, and his mismatched eyes flashed with something fierce—something she couldn’t quite name. The softness in his face disappeared, burning away like a candle’s flame flaring too high, fed by an unseen, simmering heat.

“Because I didn’t want to see you fall for someone who wasn’t me!” he snapped.

Her breath caught, his words landing like a blow. But she refused to let her own anger falter, refused to give him the satisfaction. “And now you would?” she shot back sharply. It wasn’t a question—it was an accusation, a challenge.

His face hardened, his golden eye whirred, the tension in his jaw sharpening until it looked as though it might shatter. When he spoke, his voice was low and bitter, but there was something hollow at the edges, something almost broken.

“I’m better at accepting it now than I was back then.”

The words cut through her, though she couldn’t tell if it was because of the quiet finality in them or the resignation that darkened his gaze.

He exhaled harshly and closed his eyes, running a hand through his now-molten red hair. He cursed softly under his breath, his voice little more than a growl.

“I have to go,” he muttered, his tone quieter now but still brimming with something unresolved—something raw.

He walked past her without another word, his footsteps soft and measured, though the tension in his shoulders made her want to call out, to stop him. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

As he passed, she caught the whiff of roasted chestnuts, the same scent she remembered from another time, another place. The scent sent the memories rushing back, too sharp, too sudden—the warmth of a fire, the brush of lips that had tasted like safety, the weight of a red scarf settling around her neck like a promise unspoken.

The tears she’d been holding back finally spilled over, slipping silently down her cheeks. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, forcing herself to stay rooted in place even as her heart begged her to move, to follow him.

When her gaze fell on the scarf hanging by the door, its red threads frayed at the edges, a weight pressed down on her chest.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t forget—not the firelight, not the taste of roasted chestnuts, not the way the scarf had wrapped around her like a lifeline in the cold. And yet, she had forgotten. Time had blurred the edges of those memories, tucking them away in the quiet corners of her mind where grief and desperation lived.

But now, as she stared at the scarf, its color as vivid as the day he had placed it around her shoulders, the memory now fresh in her mind. She thought of what she had told herself then, being cradled in his arms in that snowy clearing: that it wouldn’t be a bad life for her, not if her sisters were taken care of.

And now—now, as the past collided with the present, she wondered if she had always been ready to accept the bond she hadn’t realized she had.

A bond that had waited for her, patient and unyielding, as though it had known she would need to find it on her own.

[devouredlamb]

" wrong choice, " he muttered, but that was hardly boomi's problem, or maybe it was now. it was all their problem now. he wiped his hands down his face and took a seat beside the younger man, looking around the room, " you okay? " it was a stupid question but one he asked anyway, boomi may have been grown up now, but it was hard not to see him as the child he'd carried on his shoulders and pulled out of trees.

hawk blinked, " do I look like I give a shit? " she asked, she didn't care who ran all of this, she just wanted answers, answers nobody else was around to give her. she sighed, rolling her eyes and stepping away from the woman, sinking into the nearest seat, " this is bullshit. "

matteo stood close to eli, even when he was surrounded by people he'd come to appreciate. he did feel for them, children without fathers, women without their siblings or their brothers or their lovers. it was cruel, watching them shake and cry in one another's arms. he frowned, then looked down at his feet, " beta is more loyal to eric than dalton, he's the big guy... if eric falls in line, so will he. "

solaris smirked, glancing between the two, " told ya. " he pushed himself up, " dalton has decided to join us, better than dyin', huh? " his lips remained turned up, his gaze barely able to stay away from eric for longer than a minute at a time, " eric's gonna show me around, and you're gonna go face the people who you let down. " he stepped out of the rv, dragging dalton with him and pushing him down the steps, " throw him in with the others, " he instructed link, a couple of his other guys following behind. solaris turned to eric, " let's go. "

beta nodded, " yeah, for however long that lasts. " he knew he'd be first, he was honestly surprised that sol had let him live, but he didn't think that leniency would last forever. the man straightened up, wiping his hands down his face, " so these were the people that took you both? " he itched his beard, " assholes. "

hawk felt the eyes on her, her gaze drifted across the room until she met copper's eyes. she crossed her arms but didn't hesitate to close their distance, " what happens now? " she asked simply, " do we get to go to our homes or are you going to keep us locked in here all night? you've already got our weapons. "

matteo nodded and reached for the door, pulling it open and pausing as he glanced between hawk and copper. he gave a thin smile and stepped around them, " you should know, there's a couple people that are out on runs, they're due back any day now. " he paused, " there's only one I can think of that you might want to keep around, he's useful... quiet. name's josh. "

solaris nodded, " to be fair, you always brought that out in him, " he pointed out. " eric was with me for some time, till he decided he couldn't deal with things anymore, I suppose. " he glanced to the blood on the other's hands, " but now he don't got a choice, you kill the right hand, you become it. "

[bittersweetstargazer]

people will be like oh yeah making things together is a great way to bond!!! don't talk to me like that. last time I willingly baked with another person I was so irritated and barely held back on the passive aggressive behavior. don't take a single step in my direction when I'm baking. back away.

[parab0mb]

Really love the vibe of the first-person cutscenes/sections, feels like something straight out of an ENA animation.

What the fuck man?

[teruthecreator]

guess whose oliver plush got stolen because the delivery driver cant follow instructions or even bother looking at the address AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[vampmilf]

[arolesbianism]

I’ve been thinking abt one of my older oni colonies and decided to doodle my first three dupes in that save