#not that i haven’t done the same thing but you know

[kitten4sannie]

ᴄᴀꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴄᴏᴜᴄʜ

ᴄᴏʀʀᴜᴘᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ ➠ ꜱᴀɴ

pairing: frat boy! san x fem! reader feat. yungi

genre: frat au, smut

summary: san and his boys are more than grateful when you help them with their newest ‘feature film.’

w.c: 3k

warnings: they’re making porn okay, nasty mean dom! san, subby aloof! reader, san knowingly takes advantage of reader’s romantic feelings for him…. (bro’s the king of douchebags), manipulation/corruption, brief implied mxm bc i love fruity frat boys <3, praise/false praise, name calling/degradation, major voyeurism/exhibitionism kink, mind break ig?, double penetration in one hole, oral (giving), brief hair pulling, throat-fucking, tit fucking, facial, rough sex, bulge kink, breeding kink, dacryphilia, gang bang !!, it’s all unprotected btw, multiple orgasms, creampies <33

a/n: this is so fucking insane you guys….like idk why frat aus have me in such a chokehold but here we are🧍🏻‍♀️also this is totally random (and essential) info but san’s signature frat party look would be a ‘don’t hate me it turns me on’ shirt and a backwards red cap hwjhw anyways happy reading~ and please lemme know if you liked it uwu

p.s: we’re at 6.5k followers HELLO???? that’s insane 🫣 thank you so very much!!!

song rec: i like the way you kiss me - artemas (✨ male manipulation: the song ✨)

ᴘʀᴇᴠ | ꜰꜰꜰ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ

“Smile for the camera, pretty girl,” San, the frat boy you’ve been in love with for ages, encouraged you from behind the lens of the camcorder he was holding, his smooth baritone voice like saccharine, artificial, yet sweet enough to keep you coming back for another taste. It was when you offered him a small, shy smile through the camera lense, despite the shamelessness of your current position, that he knew he had struck gold. 

San was filming one of the first of many future encounters you would be having on the expansive black leather couch inside their crowded frat den. You were stuffed to the absolute brim by two of his closest colleagues, Yunho and Mingi, who always refused to participate unless they were working together as a duo. 

“Stop looking at me like that, dude,” Mingi huffed up at Yunho from below the both of you, his shoulders and back routinely getting stuck to the couch with sweat. 

“Like what?” Yunho scoffed back, leaning further down onto your body to get closer to Mingi, essentially folding you in half, his hands closing around your ankles.

“Like you wanna kiss me. You’re gonna make me soft.” Mingi grimaced, pushing Yunho’s hands out of the way to hold onto your ankles instead, driving himself into you like a well oiled machine. He was throbbing nonstop, but there was absolutely no proof that it was because of his friend’s heavy cock rubbing along his inside the cunt they were sharing. 

You could feel Yunho’s breath hit your shoulder when he laughed. “Skill issue,” Yunho simply replied, delighted when Mingi bucked up into you even harder, encouraging him to do the same. 

Clearly, there was something vaguely homoerotic going on there, but it wasn’t San’s business, and he definitely had better things to focus on — you, his newest pupil. He watched you with dollar signs in his bright brown eyes and the taste of cheap vodka on his tongue, unable to keep himself from licking repeatedly at his chapped lips, especially now that the innocent classmate he had recently taken a liking to had no problem taking two cocks at once inside her puffy, used cunt, while he, his bros, and his trusty camcorder had a front row seat to her mutually beneficial destruction.  

“Look at you, so flexible…Are you sure you haven’t done this before, Y/N?” San teased, lowering the camera down until his sharp feline eyes were visible.

“N-no, I swear!” you squeaked out, the growing embarrassment you felt only spurring all of this newfound pleasure you were drunk on. “Just wanna, nnngh–be good for you…”

“Oh, that’s right. Silly me. You’re being a very good girl right now, baby, Don’t worry.” San couldn’t help but smile at the way you seemed to melt in front of him. It was just too easy. He glanced down at the camera, zooming in and capturing the moment his friends filled you up with their hot loads, the bliss evident on your fucked-out face. “That’s it, baby. Are you happy you stuck around here with us instead of going back to your dorm to do homework? Taking cock is much more fun, isn’t it, beautiful?” 

“So much more fun,” you sighed out, your pupils blown out just from looking at his devastatingly handsome face. It was then that you pouted. You were only here because you were in love with San, and yet, it wasn’t even his dick inside you. It wasn’t fair. “But, I’d have even more fun with you, Sannie~” 

“Is that so…?” San offered a brief shit-eating smirk to one of his boys nearby, reaching down to grab at himself through his sweatpants, like he was weighing it. “It’s right here, baby. Why don’t you show us what that pretty mouth can do?” 

Both Mingi and Yunho slowed down their thrusts, but didn’t completely pull out, choosing to leisurely fuck their cum back into you, as they fought to catch their breath.

“What a loser, cumming first like that,” Mingi insulted Yunho, licking at the saliva left on his lips. 

“Your mom doesn’t have a problem with it,” Yunho chided back, reaching down past your body to smack his hand into the side of Mingi’s ass. 

“Goddamn it, you guys, I’m gonna have to edit that gay shit out.” San brought a hand up to scratch at his head in frustration. “You know what, both of you, get out of my shot and sword fight somewhere else. I’m not doing this right now,” San grumbled, shooing the two panting men away from the couch they had just made a mess on. 

“Bro acts like we don’t know about his late night tutoring sessions with Wooyoung,” Yunho whispered to Mingi, trying to stifle his laughter. 

Mingi almost choked on his breath. “Don’t forget, Yeosang. San doesn’t even take physics anymore, either. Yet, he still visits that nerd every Friday like clockwork.” 

“Dude, aren’t they roommates?” Yunho cupped his hand around the side of his mouth, still using a hushed tone, “Do you think they run a train on–”

“Hey! Don’t make me haze the two of you again just for fun…” San warned from the center of the room, glaring daggers at the two men who went quiet almost immediately. His annoyance abruptly melted away once you gingerly reached up to pull his sweatpants down until the frat emblem that was stitched into the thigh pocket was no longer visible. It was when San smacked his heavy length down onto your face, that you let out a pornstar worthy moan. Cha-ching. “Oh, you like that? Hm? Want my cock?”   

“Mm-hmm…” San’s cock slapped down onto your face a second time. You quickly squeezed your thighs together to keep yourself from cumming right then and there, biting back a moan all the while. You wondered if it was obvious how truly desperate you were for the man standing above. Fuck it. You were already here, so you might as well get what you came for. “Please, give it to me, Sannie, f-fuck my mouth.” 

San could not believe his luck. His loyal fanbase would absolutely have a field day with this as soon as he uploaded it. He could already see the cash flowing in, and it made him rock hard. He sighed happily to himself, running his fingers through your hair, carefully tucking a few strands behind your ear. “It’s really true what they say…the shy ones are always the most slutty.”  

*“I’m not a slut, I just–” you cut yourself off, not wanting to confess to San right before you were about to suck him off in front of his fraternity and whichever degenerate that would be watching it back later on. You pouted again, looking up at him with wide, sparkly eyes. “I want to be useful to you, like a doll~”  

“Did you hear that, everyone? Y/N here is a real life doll. Let’s treat her as such,” San reminded his friends and housemates who couldn’t help but hover around the couch, a few of them sharing knowing smiles with one another. 

Your heart began to thump away inside your chest, unable to believe that your long-time crush was giving you so much of his attention and affection. It was like a dream come true. As soon as your lips parted to take in a shaky breath, San tightened his grip around your hair, yanking you forward and stuffing your mouth full of cock. “Mmnnf…!” 

Clutching the camera with one hand and the makeshift ponytail he created near the back of your head, San began thrusting sloppily into your open mouth, groaning at the slick sensation of your throat routinely closing around his moving cockhead. “Come on, doll, let me in, yeah? So Sannie can fuck your throat raw.” 

San wasn’t lying. With each wet, rough thrust, he got closer and closer to doing what he promised you. “Mmmn…nnn…” You couldn’t tell if the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes were the result of San’s dizzying performance or the burning arousal you felt stirring inside your core simply from being watched by a room full of men you didn’t know. 

“Aww, crying already, princess? I’ll give you something to really cry about when I’m breeding that pretty cunt of yours,” San chuckled darkly, his strong hips snapping relentlessly, his pace only beginning to falter once he saw escaping drool mixed with his pre-cum dripping down past your chin and down in between your tits. You were becoming a mess. It was going to make the frat leader bust any second. The borderline obsessive look you had inside your teary eyes didn’t help either. “Fuck, oh god– Somebody take the goddamn camera!” 

The youngest of the group fumbled to grab the camera, using his jacket sleeve to rub the fingerprints off of the lens, before lifting it up, capturing the exact moment San pulled out of your mouth with a loud ‘pop’ and slid his cock along in between your glistening tits. 

San turned to face the camera for a second, dimples flashing, squishing your tits in between his thick fingers as he fucked them. “See, you guys? This is how you use a doll to her maximum potential,” he explained as though he were a professor on campus. “Just look at her face. She loves it.” 

Instead of trying to focus on the camera, you gazed directly up at him, your cheeks warm to the touch, still love-struck, even when San’s load landed all over your face. You simply licked away what had landed on your lips, sucking the rest off the frat leader’s fingers once he so lovingly fed it to you. 

San nodded his head in approval, patting yours in an effort to reward you for your hard work. “That’s a good girl…” He tilted his head to the side. “Let’s see what else our pretty doll can do. Sound good?” 

“Really good,” you chimed, licking at your swollen lips, savoring San’s essence. 

Wedding bells were ringing in the distance. You would do anything for San, and that meant letting him treat you like a sex doll and fuck you in any position he saw fit for the next hour. By the time your knees gave out from cumming for the nth time, San had you in a full nelson in the middle of the couch, positioned behind you with his arms locked around your upper half, making sure your used, feverish body was on complete display. 

“Sannie…gonna…cum…again,” you breathed out in between a few heavy moans, your head feeling so heavy that you just let it hang for a second. 

San repositioned himself so that he could clutch your chin, tilting it upwards. His free hand snaked around your waist, laying his palm flat on your tummy, suddenly driving his cock up into you so hard, you couldn’t even speak if you wanted to. “Hey, be a good slut and let them see what you look like when you’re cumming your brains out.” 

You simply looked up at the blurry camera past your teary lashes, letting out a choked gasp once you barreled over the edge of ecstasy. You didn’t have a chance to recover from the overwhelming pleasure, especially not when San pressed his hand down firmly onto the bulge his cock was routinely making inside your stomach. “P-please..! Sannie..!” 

You want another load? Fuck, baby.” Groaning, San took a second to lick one of the tears that was rolling along your cheek before it dropped, his hips slamming against yours so quick, you were already developing bruises, ones that would accompany the bright red love bites scattered across your slick skin. He pressed his lips directly to your ear, nibbling on your earlobe. “You know, seeing you in class and on campus, I never would’ve pegged you as a cumslut, but everyone enjoys a good surprise every now and then…don’t they?”

“Yes–yes, yes, yes,” you chanted back, too cockdrunk to even fully process what San was saying, just focused on how full you felt, and how you needed more. 

“Good, because I got a surprise for you too.” Grunting loudly, San lowered his hips and slammed them up into you one last time, holding your trembling body still, painting your pulsing walls white. “Now, say ‘thank you, Sannie.’”

“Thank you, Sannie.” You leaned your head back to nuzzle the side of his cheek, placing your hands over his, feeling him rubbing your lower stomach in small circles, his cock still fully sheathed inside you. 

“Anytime, sugar.” San gave your hair a few strokes as a reward, before pulling out and climbing off of the couch. He took the camera back from the new guy and snapped his fingers at a few of the bricked up housemates standing nearby, pointing in your direction. “Now, show me what you’re really made of.” San gave you a charming, dimpled smile. “Make me proud, okay?” 

As a few half naked strangers surrounded you on all sides of the couch, some of them reaching out to grope your warm body, you returned San’s smile, your heart skipping a beat or two. “I’ll give it my best just for you~” 

Throughout the night, San, alongside his fraternity, conditioned you with care, meticulously molded you into a star, one they eagerly passed around, easily making your tape one of the longest in their exclusive film collection. It wasn’t difficult, by any means. You were, of course, the perfect specimen: passive, pliant, and poisoned by the oxytocin that turned your brain into mush.

Even when you were being used by more men than you could count, you couldn’t keep your attention off of Sannie, his handsome face only growing blurry when someone would make you gag on their cock, as you didn’t have the most experience with men of their size. You wanted San to yourself again, desperately wishing you could reach out for him instead of another stranger’s twitching erection — but you endured it all, falling further into the rabbit hole of pleasure for the sake of your whirlwind infatuation. 

Everyone in the frat house deeply appreciated your dedication to their amateur film, especially San, who, by the end of it, secured the perfect spot to capture the finality of your desecration. Two of his older friends had just finished inside you, their spent cocks slipping out of your used hole and revealing the beautiful mess they left.

Crouched down in front of the couch, San reached out past the camcorder to spread your puffy lips apart, each and every load you took over the past hour now slowly spilling out onto his veined hand. “Look at this pretty cunt, you guys…so full of cum, it won’t stop coming out…” He panned up to your face with the camera, giving you a wicked smile from behind it. “You’ll be pregnant in no time, won’t you, doll? With whose baby, I wonder…”

After all that, you somehow managed to act shy, covering your flushed face, giving San heart eyes past your trembling fingers. “Hopefully yours…” 

“Oh, princess.” San gently rubbed his fingers over your reddened cunt and clit, cum still dribbling out of you all the while. “I don’t think you realize how cute you’re being right now~ Almost like you didn’t just slut yourself out for everyone to see, huh? Mm, do you feel cute, Y/N?” San asked in a babying tone, as he slowly stood up and towered over you. 

“You make me feel cute…” You nuzzled your cheek into the palm of San’s warm hand once he offered it to you, hoping you secured a spot inside his heart after all the hard work you put in. “I would keep going for you if I could still feel my legs.” 

“Aww, there’s always next time, isn’t there?” he suggested slyly, rubbing away some leftover cum from your cheek before caressing the side of your face. “Do you have anything to say to our loyal fanbase, baby?” 

“I love cock, especially yours, Sannie,” you slurred lovingly up at San, through the camera lens, licking your lips, mouth watering at the thought of being invited again to film another movie. “So give me a call, okay?” 

“Oh, I will, believe me.” A smug laugh erupted from San’s puffed-out chest, as he aimed the camera at his pretty boy face for a second to announce, “We’ve officially turned another good girl into a filthy cumslut. If you’d like to watch the transformation happen in real time, feel free to stop by our frat. For extra, we’ll let you have a go.” And with that, he shut the camcorder off and pushed it into the youngest member’s chest, who looked at him with wide eyes. “Fuck it, we might even give you a turn.” 

The freshman choked on his spit. “R-really?” 

“I’m feeling nice today.” San sighed, running his fingers through his gelled up hair to fix it. When the young man just stood there drooling, the frat leader grimaced. “Upload this to all our sites ASAP, and don’t forget about our twitter page this time,” he demanded, rolling his eyes when he saw the cum stains the embarrassed student left behind on his pants. “And, for fuck’s sake, will you take care of that?” 

As another member brought a can of beer over to San, the frat leader took it and cracked it open. “Can you believe that guy? He’s been here for, what, a month now? And he’s still creaming his pants like a virgin? Unbelievable.”

As you gingerly put your clothes back on, you watched San move around the frat to dab up his friends and clink their beer cans together in celebration of another successful shoot. You couldn’t help but let out a long, lovesick sigh. He would be yours one day. Until then, you would take what you could get, and of course, become a star. 

fff taglist: @yutasbutterfly02 @wisejudgedragonhairdo @dawn-iscozy @bbdeongi @multistanbaby @crazyf0rm @kittenfrostt @magicshop1913 @enbysforhongjoong @londonbridges01 @mingisdimple @motherseonghwa23 @wwooyology @everyonewooeverywhere @leo-seonghwa @yourfatherlucifer @hwallazia @vampzity

© kitten4sannie, 2024.

[honourablejester]

I was going to say, I haven’t played either the AP or the CRPG, but just going by the lore, the Mendevian Crusades haven’t exactly been portrayed as uncomplicatedly good and virtuous.

The first crusade was launched nearly 20 years late, after all of Sarkoris, the country they’re theoretically trying to save, as well as a good chunk of neighbouring Mendev, was already overrun, owing to the continent-wide social upheaval following the same death of a god that caused the demonic invasion to happen in the first place. Said first crusade was at least partially organised as a proving ground for the two churches most badly affected by said god’s death, to prove their continuing relevance/new importance in the vacuum, and was supported by several nations who were neck deep in their own civil wars/independence movements at least partially as a way to handily dispose of their own bad apples/inconvenient mercenary forces as their internal situations devolved. While there were a lot of people who joined the crusade out of a genuine desire to save the people affected and stop the demonic incursion, on a political level, it was a significantly more cynical effort. And, you know. Also necessary, on account of the demon army that is in fact invading the world.

The second crusade resulted from the crusaders of the initial crusade being suckered by the demons, thinking them rampaging brutes attacking without reason, and failing to realise that they were a fully functional intelligent enemy deliberately acting that way to dupe them. As a result, the second crusade was basically a loss, with the end result that the crusaders just fully wrote off the nation of Sarkoris as unsalvageable and sealed the demons inside its boundaries.

The third crusade resulted from the demons trying more subtle infiltration tactics once the magical wards of the second crusade went up, meaning that this was the crusade that within three years completely devolved into witch hunts and paranoia, a lot of it pointed at the Sarkorian people themselves, who you may have noticed have been shat on at basically every single stage of this endeavour. The Mendevian government had to essentially just shut that crusade down as it was doing more harm than good.

The fourth crusade, more than 20 years later, resulted from a new demon leader managing to punch a hole in the ward wall and start invading again. This lead to a 15-year-long slugfest that basically exhausted all resources on both sides. It also saw a whole new organisation within the crusader forces called the Order of Heralds who were there to basically function as the crusade’s internal affairs agency to try and stop it fully devolving into hate crimes and witch hunts the way the previous crusade had done. Because they realised they needed that.

By the time we get to the fifth crusade, the one featured in the AP/CRPG, this slugfest has been going on for literally a hundred years, Sarkoris as a nation has been essentially obliterated, most of Mendev’s government is reliant on a foreign military hierarchy to function, and the crusader forces themselves have been such a mixed bag of zealots, opportunists and genuinely good people for five crusades now that they’ve developed an internal police force to try to curb the worst of the excesses.

And, the thing is, the crusade, or at least some form of defending force, has been necessary. As OP says, the demons are genuinely invading. They are infiltrating surrounding nations and crusader forces, they are trying to conquer, infiltrate and suborn everything around them. Crusaders and inquisitors are genuinely necessary. But excesses happen, and witch hunts happen, and zealotry gets pointed in the wrong place, at the people who have been most victimised in the whole mess. But that’s not a confused narrative. It’s entirely consistent, because the crusades have been this way from the start. They are necessary, yes, but that has, from the first, never prevented them from being taken advantage of by governments, zealots, opportunists, and general bad actors. Nothing at this scale can be. That’s a coherent narrative.

The fight may be necessary, it may have a moral core of repelling brutal and otherworldly invaders, but that doesn’t make the fight pure. It’s a massed endeavour on a logistical, political and religious scale, involving thousands upon thousands of people, from all over a continent, and all that combines to make it a mess of personal, political, military, religious and organisational goals, with people involved ranging from shining paladins determined to do right to brutal warlords who would compare favourably to the demons themselves on their best day (and sometimes those are the same person). The demons may have been variously contained, beaten back, and eventually triumphed over, but it has come at the cost of more than a century of continuous warfare, internal purges, and pretty much the outright destruction of one nation and the complete military occupation of another.

There is a thing in fantasy … The alignment system, hard-coded morality, I do get it, I have so many issues with the alignment system myself. The demons being an inherently evil force that it is inherently morally correct to fight and kill is an issue, especially in light of the genocidal and colonial roots of the real world crusades and their religious justification. But there’s also …

If we are positing a world where the demons are real. Where the gods are real. Where a literal extraplanar army is invading. Where that is a concrete, factual threat, requiring no religious mummery to manufacture. Yes, question the motives of setting up the fictional universe that way, but once you’re there. And there are reasons to go there. There is a romance to the image of a knight, there is a reason people want to play paladins, and once the real world origins and issues with that image are acknowledged … sometimes you want to play a hero fighting something evil.

But for all that, Pathfinder still did attempt to show at least some of the moral and political complexity of that kind of endeavour. The Mendevian crusades aren’t a pure and holy endeavour, they’re a complicated moral and political mess that has embroiled half a continent in zealotry and warfare for a full century now, and for large chunks of it, the demons were only half of anyone’s problems. Cheliax is one of the supporter nations for the crusades. And while Cheliax wasn’t an openly Satan-worshipping nation for the first crusade, it certainly was by the fifth.

There’s also the little detail that the second crusade was a result of the crusaders completely failing to realise that the demons were more than just rampaging brutes and were actually intelligent beings, fully capable of strategically out-thinking them, which resulted in a lot of them just going home after the first crusade, leaving a full nation to have to be sacrificed later on. So even if they are portrayed as evil, the demons do still get a lot more out-of-universe credit for interiority and intelligence than the in-universe crusaders gave them.

I don’t like the alignment-based worldbuilding that both Pathfinder and D&D have going on (though all credit to Paizo for working on it during the remaster). The morally hard-coded planar cosmology itches at me. But there is, to be fair to them, a lot more going on in this particular instance than ‘crusades good’, you know?

kind of concerning how married the fantasy genre is to "crusades as a basically good thing"

[wonallofme]

pinching!

tw and tags: bully!heeseung x plus size!fem!reader, descriptions of bullying, a lot of physical contact, noncon then heavy dubcon, oral sex (f receiving). word count: 2.3k note: originally written with a different idol in mind, this fic was already posted in my old blog. while talking to one of my best friends in the app we decided to re-post old fics for fun and idk why but while checking some of them I felt this one fitted Hee. I changed it a lot tho. anyway, hope someone here likes the concept. i’m a big fan of plus size/chubby reader but haven’t had the opportunity to talk about it here in the blog yet so, if you like it too, please don’t hesitate to hit my (empty) inbox! special thanks to fairy for being my first-ever beta reader ❤️

You have a couple of memories from that place, like how good it felt to hug your grandmother before bed, how there was a little stall in front of your school that always had tasty sweets, and how there was a little boy you used to walk home with after classes finished.

There wasn’t much objection once your mother said you would go back and live together in your grandmother's place not to leave the house empty. You had a couple of friends, but it was nothing special, so you said goodbye to them and moved with your mother without problem.

You had to admit you were kind of happy to move. Yeah, you wouldn’t be able to hug your grandmother, but at least you would feel her presence with the old floors and flower decorations that surrounded every room. Perhaps you could eat those sweets again, and there was the chance of making new friends too. Good things could come, you thought.

If you’re honest, you just hoped you could see him again.

You should've known at that point in your life that having expectations only leaves the sour aftertaste of disappointments.

The stall wasn’t there anymore, the entire house had changed because of your mother's decision, leaving no trace of your grandmother behind, and the sweet boy that used to follow you with a smile now followed you to make fun of you.

It was easy to recognize him. He had the same eyes and shiny smile, and you were elated to see a good, old friend all grow up into a real man. Sadly, he wasn’t as happy as you to see you again, showing you a disgusted face once you told him who you were.

‘’Don’t fucking talk to me,’’ he said, and you didn’t understand what you had done wrong. Perhaps you were too confident, your perfume wasn’t to his liking, or your hand was sweating too much when you touched him. You honestly had no idea why he reacted like that, but you understood that, just like his appearance, he had changed too. 

After all, that sweet boy you used to know would’ve never talked to you that way.

That interaction alone was enough to make you never want to approach him again. You didn’t want to hear that tone or see that expression again, so you did your best. You avoided him in the hallway, you stayed in your seat not to cross his way during breaks, and you didn’t look his way when you recognized his voice. 

It was all useless though.

You had become his new favourite thing.

At first, he was all words and no bite. He’d throw comments every now and then about your physical appearance, like comparing you to a pig when you ate your lunch in the cafeteria or mocking your uniform for being bigger than normal because of your size. 

His friends only laughed at these comments, and those who weren’t his friends stayed silent. They were different groups but shared one same trait– None dared to approach you, afraid of receiving the same treatment from him.

Then, he started to touch you.

He pinched your arm, telling you to give him your homework to copy it. Later, it was your cheeks, telling you to stop eating if you didn’t want to gain weight. Finally, one day, when everyone had left for the PE class while you were searching for your towel in your seat, approaching you silently from behind, he pinched your waist.

Scared, you turned to him. It had hurt a lot more than when he did it to your cheeks. You knew that, more than to bother you or call your attention, like on the other occasions, he had done it with all the intention of hurting you.

When you looked at his face, you noticed that his typical grin wasn’t there, replaced by a surprised expression and curious eyes instead. Somehow, you felt that something bad was about to happen, so you pushed him out of the way and walked out of there as soon as you could without caring that you were leaving with empty hands.

‘’Where’s your towel?’’ your teacher asked you.

‘’I forgot it,’’ you answered, not wanting to return to the classroom.

Later, Heeseung arrived with your towel in his hand, and you got punished for not bringing all the obligatory material.

He got worse.

if he crossed you in the hallways, he would shamelessly pinch your waist until you hissed, and when he found you in the library, between shelves, he would pinch your ass, grinning from ear to ear at the picture of you biting your lips not to make a sound so you wouldn’t get in trouble again.

As if everything he did was an innocent game, he smiled at you after nipping different parts of your body, like the side of your ribcage when you decided to walk away from his teasing, the back of your hand when you tried to push him away, or your thighs when he sat beside you in the cafeteria or the study room.

‘’Why are you doing this?’’ you whispered, pushing his hand away from prying under your skirt and pinching your upper leg.

‘’Look at all that skin,’’ he answered, grabbing your round hand with force to stop you from getting away. ‘’Your body is begging for it.’’

When you tried to do it again, to get away from his hands, he pinched the space of your chest that your bra didn’t cover.

Making you whimper in pain, he laughed at your hurt expression.

‘’It really hurts!’’ you tried to reason with him, but he was a lost cause. It didn’t matter that you were full of little purple and green spots, flinching at the mere sight of him lurking around, he wanted more.

This is going to end at one point, you tried to tell yourself.

He’d get tired and leave you alone when he found a new toy. It was impossible he only focused on you the entire time, and even if it was like that, it was your last year. After that, you prayed, you’d never see him again.

Everything comes to an end.

Your house was the only safe space you had. Even if it wasn’t anything like the warm memory you had about it, it was a place that had never been tainted by Heeseung, unlike your school, or the streets you walked to arrive there.

Sometimes, he would follow you while murmuring insults, pretending to be a good friend walking you home. Nonetheless, once you opened your entrance door and saw that he stayed feet away, you would exhale, relieved that he didn’t try to follow you inside, too.

‘’Your friend is waiting for you in your room,’’ your mother smiled. ‘’I’ll go and buy something for you to eat later’’ 

She, unlike you, was excited to have him there, and you, trying to breathe properly not to show how the panic was consuming you, nodded.

‘’He’s become such a handsome man,’’ she murmured before leaving.

There was nothing you could do to run away, it was your house, and opening your room door, you saw him calmly looking at your stuff.

Your pillow wasn’t where you left it, so it was impossible to deny he had been roaming around for a while, invading your space and doing whatever he wanted, like he always did.

Standing in front of your bookshelf, one of your diaries open in his hands, he sensed your presence.

‘’Didn’t know you took so many walks, thought you would never come,’’ he said, passing the page and inspecting its content as if there was something in particular he was looking for. ‘’It doesn’t explain why you still look like that though.’’

‘’Heeseung, I’ve done nothing to you,’’ you sounded as if you were begging at that point. ‘’Why– I just don’t get why.’’

‘’I have my reasons,’’ he answered, closing the book and leaving it where it previously was.

You flinched when he showed the intention of getting close to you. Your hands became fists behind you, fully alert, one of them gripping the knob, ready to run into another room in case he tried to hurt you again.

‘’We were friends,’’ you said, lower lip slightly trembling. ‘’Please, stop. It hurts, Heeseung. It hurts a lot.’’

He saw you like that, broken, vulnerable, and he beamed.

Walking towards you, you thought your body would listen to you and escape, but it didn’t.

As you remained frozen in your place, caging you with his body, he finished closing the door behind you. Too late, you only reacted after hearing the loud click the secure did.

You started trembling as you realised he had blocked the only way of running away you had.

‘’But if I don’t touch you, who else will?’’ he whispered, taking your shaking hand in his. 

Not pinching it this time, he interlocked his fingers with yours and pulled you closer to him. Your torso compacting his made you more conscious of how you were completely alone in your room, and, therefore, of how unrestrained he was allowed to act.

‘’If you’re good, I’ll stop being so hard on you. What do you think about that?’’ he offered.

You didn’t understand him. Being good with what? 

Looking up at him, you couldn’t move your chest from pressing his because his other hand, forcing you to stay in your place, went to rest over the small of your back, the generous curve from your ass to your waist that was the object of so many of his jokes.

You could see where his actions were going. 

You felt yourself get nauseous with his body temperature and his aroma suffocating you due to the inexistent distance between your bodies.

‘’My mom will come back in any second…’’ you didn’t know what other excuse to use.

‘’I’ll be quick,’’ he smiled, wetting his lips, unconsciously sending a signal to your brain that screamed for you to just be good and get it over with.

‘’Will it hurt?’’ Your face betrayed you, plainly showing all the fears you had, giving him, once again, the upper hand.

‘’Not anymore,’’ he assured you. His hand that used to bring you so much pain suddenly became gentle and trailed up, caressing your arm with multiple marks created by him before finding your chest, and groping it with obvious satisfaction a few times, he felt them until he decided he wanted to touch more of you.

His hands continued their way until he found his new goal.

He cupped your face with a tenderness you had never met from him before, and not wanting to provoke him in any way, you muted yourself. 

To his unpleasant care, thumbs caressing your cheeks, you didn’t make a single noise, not the hiss you always let out when he pinched you, nor the cry when he painfully rubbed your soft skin.

‘’Well done,’’ he praised you, proud of what he recognised as your acceptance.

He expected you to continue being so obedient when he obliged your thighs to open with his knee.

Quickly, he found his place.

You didn’t know what to expect, but you never imagined the situation would end with him ditching your pants somewhere in your room and desperately dropping to his knees so he could accommodate between your trembling legs, slurping all the involuntary wetness your body made you drip not to suffer when the moment of taking him arrived.

Not being able to call his name properly, you whined when his palms gripped your meaty thighs a bit too hard and his tongue found your entrance, penetrating it with sloppy stabs.

The sensation of the tip of his nose bumping against your clit and his fingers separating your plump folds made you bite your lips to stop what felt like a moan.

He was eating you out like a starved man.

Your hands went to his hair, and you have no idea what flooded you, but you felt free to hurt him too. 

You wanted him to suffer too.

Full of unknown courage, you pulled his hair and moved your hips to crush his face, using him instead of the other way around.

Then, it felt good– To hurt him felt way too good. 

You thought, maybe this is why he does it, because you had never felt so powerful and in control before, especially, with him.

Looking down, you two made eye contact even with your chubby stomach prodding out. 

His eyes had nothing of the mockery they always showed. Instead, they were completely lost, drunk and unfocused. You couldn’t contain your moans anymore when his eyes batted and he seemed pleased to have your attention on him.

Not much after he started fucking you harder with his tongue, the knot in your stomach started to feel so tight you knew it would snap in any second.

Without intention, or maybe with all the intention, you closed your large legs around his head, not caring that you were crushing his face as you strongly came over his mouth and nose. 

He mewled, hugging your legs as you asphyxiated him for many seconds before your orgasm finished and you inevitably relaxed. 

Just after giving him everything you had, you finally allowed him to breathe. 

You freed him from your hold, but he didn’t move away immediately.

Gulping your remaining juices, he hardly inhaled once through his nose before he started licking the drops of your orgasm inside your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses along the way until he found his new favourite thing.

With both hands on the back of your thighs, he blinked multiple times before his tongue found its way between your folds, searching for your clit to leave a last loving lick.

As if he was proud you had abused him, only separating forcedly because of your hands pushing his head away from your sensitive clit, he took open-mouthed deep breaths with a still dazed expression.

Regaining some of his senses, he talked with the lower half of his face glistening.

‘’See? This didn’t hurt, right?’’ he smiled.

[suzukiblu]

okay I SLIGHTLY dragged my ass writing/getting this up, it's been kind of A Day(tm), BUT: first day of the first February weekly WIP behind the cut; "the puzzle trap sex-room". content warnings: past grooming, past sexual abuse, past statutory rape, past dubious consent, CURRENT unhealthy coping mechanisms, immediate fallout of sex pollen/death trap-induced sexual coercion, and a POV character who does not understand what the problem with any of that is, he's FINE, Jesus, lay off already and let him live his life. So uh, you know, just Kon's . . . entire pre-YJ dating history, pretty much? Pretty much that, yeah. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Is the possibility of having given Robin an STI the only reason you can think of to be concerned about the events of the night?” Batman asks, perfectly neutral like another fucking trap–like he thinks Superboy’s the stupidest thing alive and gonna fucking fall for that again–and Superboy actually almost does disassemble this whole stupid cave. Or at least that huge-ass computer Batman’s got taking up half a wall over there or maybe some of those fancy Batsuits and all their utility belts full of souped-up gear, anyway. 

He’s real fuckin’ tempted to disassemble the Batmobile. 

Besides, if anyone gave–gave anyone a fucking STI, it was obviously the fucking prick who lied about not having fucking condoms on him. 

“I saved your fucking sidekick’s fucking life, asshole,” Superboy bites off roughly, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. The muscles that try to tense under Superman’s grip can’t–not as much as normal, anyway. Superman’s grip is just–it’s not something Superboy can do anything about, and that is pissing him the fuck off right now. “You could at least pretend to be, I dunno, fuckin’ grateful instead of just being a dick about my goddamn personal life.” 

“You haven’t described your personal life,” Batman says in that same bullshit neutral tone. “Or your dating history, or anything similar. You’ve described predatory adult women taking advantage of their age and experience to manipulate and take advantage of you.” 

“Let the fuck go of me or I’m gonna fucking make somebody sorry about it,” Superboy says to Superman, his voice flatter than the goddamn floor. Like–very literally flatter, since some of the floor’s clearly kinda just hacked out of the rock. 

He is actually about to go fucking nuclear on this bullshit non-conversation where no one’s fucking listening to him. 

Getting fucking lectured is not, in fact, any kind of a conversation. 

And he’s not–like, what the fuck is this bullshit, where they’re pretending like they’re asking him things and all they’re actually doing is making fucking assumptions and twisting everything he does say and not even fucking listening to him! 

“Kid, we just–” Superman starts in that bullshit voice like he’s trying to sound concerned instead of ever fucking listening to him or, you know, letting him the fuck go, and well–Superboy fucking warned him, didn’t he. 

So he grabs every single piece of the Batmobile down to the absolute last, and then he rips it all apart all at once and drops it. 

Though once he’s done that, he just to rip apart a whole lot more. 

The Batmobile collapses every which way and all its parts and pieces hit the floor in a massive cacophony of clattering and crashing and Robin jerks in alarm, whipping his head towards the pieces of it as they scatter across the floor. Superman startles a little too, and Superboy’s still not done being fucking pissed, actually, so he just–he still wants to rip apart this whole fucking cave and everything in it and just–just rip it apart, just–just–

“Let me go, you fucking prick,” he hisses up at Superman. “You have literally never cared before and I don’t give a fuck about your opinion about who I’m fucking anyway!” 

“Superboy,” Robin interjects carefully as he glances back towards them–fucking carefully, like he thinks Superboy’s somebody who needs handled carefully, who can’t handle his own shit, the patronizing piece of–“You did describe crimes. Legally, like . . . at least a couple of those situations are crimes.” 

Of course that’s what the asshole decides to fucking speak up about, Superboy thinks as a spike of fury stabs into his gut. 

[formula-ghost]

The Driver (FC43 x fem!reader)

SUMMARY: After years of being with your boyfriend, Franco Colapinto, you should feel secure and ready for your budding future. When old anxieties creep in, will your relationship withstand the pressure?

WORD COUNT: 9.5k 

WARNINGS: Semi-public car sex (reader and Franco are both switches, fingering, p in v). Angst, mentions of cheating. Heavy mentions of marriage, incredibly Champagne Problems coded but I have to stick to the Måneskin theme. Probably incorrect geographical depictions of Spain. Reader has an anxiety disorder/struggles with mental health. Same universe as Supermodel/RYD (in RYD, Franco’s Aston Martin contract is only one year, so we’re just skipping ahead here). 

A/N: You all asked for Franco car sex and instead I gave you emotional pain :) I don’t think I’ll ever stop writing for RYD!Franco, I just love him too much. After this I’ll keep writing for Wildflower and then maybe do a few one shots before the next series perhaps? Either way, hope you enjoy!

TAGLIST: [COMMENT TO BE ADDED TO MY FRANCO TAGLIST!]  @scopeiguess @storyteller-le @xivilivix @htpssgavi @wierdflowerpower @justsisse @uncreativetm  @ncrsbrg @tillyt04 @amz824 @ellelabelle @aliwritex

If you gonna set fire to the night, baby let me be the lighter

If you’re already high and you wanna fly, I’ll be the hit that takes you higher

If you wanna love when you touch the sky, you can be my midnight rider

If there’s nowhere to go when you wanna go wild, I wanna be the driver

After getting his first multi-year Formula 1 contract—complete with a hefty sign-on bonus—there were three things that Franco Colapinto needed to buy. 

The first was a house for his parents. 

He led his mother around the massive home, showing her every little detail that he had noticed when he chose it, all perfectly arranged according to her taste. At first, she wasn’t sure what her son was doing; he had wanted it to be a surprise, so he didn’t tell her anything. 

“Yes, Franquito, the home is beautiful,” she said, craning her neck to look at the high ceilings, the sunlight from the massive windows illuminating her face. “But why would you buy a house here in Argentina? You’re hardly ever home, you can just stay with us in the off season.”

Franco, like his mother, was a pragmatist. He’d never buy himself a mansion in Argentina unless he had retired from F1 and decided to settle down. But his career was just getting started. 

She continued, “I mean, you and YN don’t need this much space—”

“It’s not for us, Mami,” he said, finally letting loose the smile that he’d be fighting all day. He was never able to keep secrets, too much of a chatterbox. “It’s for you.”

“Franco—”

“Mami,” he said, already anticipating her hesitation. “It is the least I can do. I can never repay you for all you’ve done for me.”

“That’s my job. You don’t need to repay me.”

“Maybe I don’t need to, but I want to.”

Tears had begun to well up in his mother’s eyes. She knew it was impossible to stop him. It was every athlete’s dream to make enough money to buy their mother a house one day; she wouldn’t take that from him.  “I’m so proud of you, mijo,” he said, enveloping her son in her arms. “You have made me proud beyond measure.”

It was Franco’s turn now to tear up, though he blinked them away and smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I figured something was up,” she laughed, “this house is too much my style for you to buy it. I think YN would like it, though. How is she doing?”

“She’s good,” he answered, unsure of how to proceed. His mother let him pause, knowing he was about to say something. “I’m… thinking about asking her to marry me.”

“Oh, wonderful!” she replied, her smile now stretching ear to ear. 

“We haven’t talked about it yet, though. So don’t get your hopes up. She might not say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” his mother questioned. “You’ve been together for years, through thick and thin.”

“I don’t know,” he said, scratching the back of his neck in nervousness. “We just…haven’t talked about it. I’m nervous.”

“Well, don’t ask her until you’ve talked about it. But I see no reason why she’d say no.” She reached out to smooth over a piece of his hair that was stuck up at an odd angle. “Take your time,” she continued. “If you all aren’t ready now, there’s no harm in waiting. You have the entire rest of your lives to be together.”

Franco gave her a weak smile, his expression still plastered with nervousness. “But when you do get married,” she continued, as if it was a fact, “I expect grandbabies.”

He laughed, despite knowing that she was dead serious. That would be a bridge to cross later.

For now, he had a second purchase to make: his first real car. 

Franco, despite being a Formula 1 driver, had always been down to earth. When he drove for Williams, they had to fight him over taking the bus every day. Even in his early days, his future had been too unstable to spend all his hard-earned money on something like a flashy car, especially since he’d be away so often that he’d hardly be able to use it.

But now, he knew that the time was right, and he’d more than earned it. So, when Franco woke you up at the crack of dawn to go to the luxury dealership in Madrid to pick up his new car the second that they opened, you obliged him despite the hour being far too early. 

As the salesman handed him the keys, Franco beamed as if he was holding his newborn child, his eyes wide with love and anticipation.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, running his hands up and down along the hood of the flashy luxury car.

You stood back, afraid to even touch this car that was more expensive than your net worth. 

“She’s perfect. She’s the most perfect car I’ve ever seen.” He looked up at you, smiling like a giddy child. “Isn’t she perfect?”

You smiled back, amused by Franco’s happiness. “It certainly is a nice car.”

“It’s not just a nice car. She’s a machine.” You chuckled back at him. “Let’s go for a ride.”

You were honestly a little scared of getting in the car. But when Franco crossed over to open your door for you and help you inside, you couldn’t tell him no.

Sitting inside, you had to admit that it was a really nice car. Franco yapped on about the technical abilities of the engine, but it was in one ear and out the other—despite his many years in F1, you couldn’t say you had learned anything about the machines that your longtime boyfriend drove for a living. But you loved to hear him talk, especially when he was this happy, so you nodded as if you were listening intently. 

Franco went to back up the car, putting his hand on your headrest and leaning over his shoulder. The move showed off his prominent muscles and instantly melted you. Even after all these years, it was the little things that you never got tired of. 

He sped along the highways, giggling to himself as he heard the engine rev and felt the smoothness of the ride. His smile never wavered as he increased his speed and weaved through the slower cars. 

He skipped the exit that would lead back to your home, though. “Where are we going?” you asked.

“I want to show you something,” he said, being intentionally vague with his intentions. 

You raised an eyebrow. Franco wasn’t one for surprises; he talked too damn much to ever keep them. If he hadn’t told you before now, it must be something serious. 

He moved his hand over to hold your thigh, another one of those little things he did that still made you crazy no matter how many times he did it. “Trust me, amor,” he said.

Of course, you trusted him. So when he exited the highway and began driving into the Spanish countryside, you said nothing, instead choosing to enjoy the feeling of his hand rubbing soft circles into your thigh as the trees blurred past you and the engine purred.

After a while he finally slowed his speed, bringing the car up to an empty overlook off the main road. Through the tinted windows, you could see that this place was hidden, nestled off by the trees so that you could only get here if you knew where you were going. The view was gorgeous; miles and miles of lush greenery, and in the far off distance, the city that you had just left. 

“Wow..” you whispered. “How’d you find this place?”

“I used to run on these roads out here when I was younger,” he said, admiring you as you admired the view. 

“It’s beautiful.”

“I don’t get to come here much anymore,” he said. “I never thought I’d come back here one day as a Formula 1 driver.”

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. His face had the slightest tinge of blush, so subtle that only you could see it. 

“Come on, let’s get a good look,” he said, turning off the engine and opening his door.

You got out of the car and softly gasped again when you saw the view with your own two eyes, rather than through the tinted glass. It left you breathless.

You sat cross legged next to Franco on the grass, taking in the sights of the countryside around you. For a while you were quiet, just soaking in the sounds of nature. 

Then Franco broke the calmness. “Have you ever thought about getting married?”

His voice was soft, but his words startled you. “Married?”

“I mean, we’ve been together for a while. About time, no?”

Truthfully, you had thought about marriage quite a bit. The mere idea of it scared you. And talking about it scared you even more. 

“You sound enthusiastic,” you joked. 

“You know what I mean.” He looked down, clearly also nervous for this momentous discussion. Still, he kept his voice light and steady. “I love you. I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“I’d hope not,” you chuckled. But your attempts at diffusing the tension with humor failed.

He adopted a more serious tone. “YN, I want to marry you,” he said. His eyes looked up to meet yours, and for some reason, you felt your heart drop into your stomach. “I’m not proposing right now, but it’s something we should start thinking and talking about.”

You looked out into the distance and took a shaky breath. Why was this so difficult?

“So, talk to me, amor,” he said. 

“You want to marry me?” you asked, your voice small and squeaky.

“Of course I do,” he replied, brushing your hair out of your face. Now there were no barriers between you. “You’re the love of my life.”

You wanted to cry. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know. It’s just so…final. What if something goes wrong?”

“Then we work through it, like we always do.” He was right. Your relationship with Franco had certainly had its rocky patches, but he treated you like a queen. You two overcame every obstacle, including your own mind that often worked against you. You often felt like you didn’t deserve someone so patient and kind. 

“Things change when you get married.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m not saying any of this lightly. I’ve thought about it a lot.”

Even after years of loving him, it still surprised you whenever Franco told you that he thought of you. You could never get used to existing in his head when you physically weren’t there.

“What do you think about?” you asked, moving closer to him.

He reached his arm around your waist, resting his hand on your hip. “I think about you, in a white dress. We’d be in the church in Argentina.” You knew the one. He’d gone there growing up, and had shown it to you several times when you went to visit his family. “And we’d have a ridiculous party, into the morning,” he said smiling, leaning his head down closer to you. “And, a while after that, maybe a few months or a year or so, you’d be eating for two.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop your eyes from watering. “That sounds…”

“Perfect?”

No. You were going to say real. That sounds real. And it scared you. 

Truthfully, you could imagine the wedding, and the babies, and the many happy years of being Franco’s wife.

But you could also imagine the distance. The exhaustion. The bitterness. 

“Growing up, I never thought I’d get married,” you said, shifting the conversation. “I just… I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to marry me,” you laughed. 

“I do,” he said. The effect of his words weren’t lost on you; the same words he would say to take the vow. “I want to marry you.”

You had told him a long time ago that your insecurities weren’t something he could fix. He remembered that, and he respected it. But still, it always broke his heart when he realized that even after years of loving you, those old wounds refused to heal. 

“Why?” you asked. Your head was beginning to hurt from holding in all the tears. 

“Why?” he echoed, incredulous at why you’d even need to ask such a ridiculous question. His voice held no malice, though. “Because I love you.”

“Don’t you get tired of this?”

“Of what?”

“Of…me being difficult for no good reason?”

“You’re not being difficult. Marriage is a huge deal, obviously. I don’t want us to rush into it if you’re not ready.”

“What if I’m never ready?”

He sighed. “Then…well, honestly, that would break my heart. I’d want you to work through whatever is holding you back. But I’d be with you every step of the way.”

You looked away into the distance. Part of you wanted to run and disappear in the thick foliage of the Spanish countryside. The other part of you wanted to bury your head in Franco’s chest, finally letting go of all the reservations that had haunted you for years. 

You knew Franco. You loved Franco. You trusted Franco.

So why were you still so afraid?

“Mi amor,” he said, gently guiding your head so you had to look at him. “Do you want to get married?” He tilted his head closer to you. 

You knew what he was asking. Not if you were ready right now, not if you were scared; but deep down, in your heart of hearts, did you want to marry Franco Colapinto?

“Yes,” you whispered. Just as he didn’t have to explain, neither did you. He knew what you meant; yes, but I’m scared. Yes, but I’m not ready. Yes, but I’m afraid I’ll never be ready.

He brought his lips to yours, gently kissing you as you let the few tears that had been welling up in your eyes finally go. When he pulled back, he wiped them away.

“We don’t have to make a decision now,” he said. “We’ve got time. I want us both to be ready.”

You kissed him again, this time more forceful. There was nothing sexier than a man with emotional intelligence. 

He pulled away again to finish his thought. “Just keep thinking on it, okay? We can talk about it as much as you want.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling as he looked at you.

“What?” he asked, his own playful smile dancing across his face.

“You’re so hot when you respect my boundaries.”

He laughed. “Mi amor, that’s the bare minimum.”

“Keep going,” you joked, “I’m so close.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, leaning down to kiss your neck. “I’ll start misbehaving.”

“Maybe I want you to,” he said, sharply inhaling as he gently bit the skin on your neck, sure to leave a mark.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he whispered in your ear, sending shivers down your spine as he nibbled on your earlobe. 

“Get me home and show me how horrible I am, then,” you teased, reaching out to touch his waist. 

“We don’t even need to get home.” He reached up to hold your neck with one hand as he continued kissing up and down your jaw.

“Here?” you said, darting your eyes around. 

“In the car,” he said, his voice already getting breathy. 

“No,” you urged. “It’s new.”

“Exactly. We have to break it in, no? Or bless it,” he said. His hands were beginning to roam underneath the hem of your shirt now.

“You’d never forgive me if I messed up the seats.”

“They’re leather, it cleans easy. I can get it detailed.” He stifled your next complaint with a deep kiss. “No one is ever around here. And the windows are tinted,” he whispered into your mouth. 

You laughed. “You’re a freak.”

“I’m your freak. And don’t lie, you love it,” he said, snaking his hand down to tease its way under your skirt. “I can tell how much you love it.”

You stopped him before his hand could go any further—after all, you were technically still in public. 

“Get in the car, whore,” you joked, before Franco hopped up and nearly sprinted to open the car door and set his seat back as far as it could go. 

He sat in the seat and patted his lap. “You joining me?”

You playfully rolled your eyes, getting up to meet your lover at the car and carefully climb onto his lap, occupying his lips with a deep kiss that he moaned into. 

“Did you plan this?” you asked. 

“Plan what?” he said, a devilish grin across his face. 

“Bringing me out to your scenic spot to fuck me in your new sports car?”

“Wasn’t planned at all. I’m a spontaneous man.”

“Mhm. How many other girls did you bring here before we started dating?”

“Less talking, more fucking, yeah?” he said. You probably didn’t want to know the answer. But that was all in the past. Franco was yours—he had been for years now, and he wanted to be yours forever.

There would be time to think about that later. Right now, all you could think about was the beautiful boy sitting beneath you, looking at you as if he needed you as simply as he needed air. You could feel him hardening beneath you. 

You shifted your weight to straddle him, grinding down on his length, eliciting a sharp exhale from him. 

“You’re so needy today, Franco,” you said as you ran your fingers through his soft curls.

“I’m always needy for you.” He brought his lips back to yours, hungry for the taste of you. His lips trailed down to your jaw and neck. “YN, you don’t know what you do to me…”

“I think I can feel it,” you joked, softly grinding your clothed pussy over the growing bulge in his jeans. 

“Don’t tease me,” he begged, roaming his hands up the hem of your blouse.

“But it’s so fun,” you said, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “I love to see you fall apart underneath me.”

“Fuck, YN—”

“Less talking, more fucking, no?” you said, mocking his statement from earlier. You met his mouth in a kiss, and he moved his hands down under your skirt, running up and down the soft skin of your thighs. When he finally teased his fingers over the wet spot that was already growing in your panties, you softly inhaled, showing your desire for him. 

“I’m not the only needy one,” he teased, breathing in the smell of your perfume and shampoo, his head buried in your neck. 

You softly moaned as he moved your panties to the side and began circling his fingers around your clit. 

“Franco, fuck…”

“What happened to all that talk, huh? Or are you too busy trying not to cum on my fingers?”

All you could do was breathe as his fingers found their way inside of you, pumping in and out to prepare you for his cock. 

“Don’t try to stop it,” he said, “let go. Cum for me.”

You obeyed, your legs shaking as your walls pulsated on his fingers. You whimpered into his neck, steadying yourself by holding him. 

He kissed your cheek, but wasted no time in unzipping his jeans and plunging into you while you rode out the waves of your orgasm. He let out a breathy moan as he felt the sweet warmth of you wrapped around him. 

You were overcome with sensation; the burn of his cock stretching you out, the last dregs of pleasure now mixed with the pain, and the burn in your legs from sitting in the same position for too long.

It was all the more motivation to bounce up and down on his cock, finding a steady rhythm as he guided his hands to your hips.

You rested your head next to his, moaning into his ear with every thrust. The small space of the car may be cramped, but you couldn’t help but appreciate the intimacy of the moment. Franco’s eyes were closed in sensual bliss, his breath ragged as you increased your speed.

You wanted to watch him come undone from the sinful pleasure that your pussy brought him. 

“YN—” he moaned, his hands digging hard enough into your hips to leave bruises, “Oh, God, YN, you always feel so fucking good. So good for me.”

You whimpered from both the praise and the pleasure. You had to slow down—the fast stamina was too much on your legs, which were now burning from the awkward position you were stuck in. 

“I think you were made for me,” Franco whispered. “And I was made for you. See how well we fit together?” He took control, lifting you up as if you were weightless and bouncing you up and down on his own. You yelped at first, then your surprise gave way to bliss as you both chased your release. 

But Franco was relentless in his praise. “You’re my fucking soulmate. I wanna fuck you every day for the rest of our lives.”

“Franco, I’m so close—”

“Cum for me, mi amor. Again.” His own voice was strangled with desire, so close to his own peak.

With a high pitched whine, you obeyed, and the heavenly feeling of your walls contracted around him brought your lover to the edge soon after. 

And when you did both finish, you held each other, too tired to even move from the uncomfortable position from the car. 

Franco was a talker. You always knew that. He loved nothing more than to fill your ears with sweet nothings when you made love. But the context of the conversation that just transpired weighed on you, even with the comfort of Franco’s hands rubbing small circles into your back as you both tried to catch your breath. 

“You okay?” he asked, and you murmured in response, unable to form any coherent words in the aftermath of everything. “Let’s get home and we can take a shower, yeah?”

A warm shower sounded heavenly right now. You awkwardly shimmied your way into the passenger seat and took one last look at the view, thankful that the overlook was still deserted. You sighed as you settled in and buckled your seatbelt, relishing the relief of finally being able to stretch your legs. 

“Hey,” Franco asked as he readjusted his seat and turned on the car. “Are you okay, really?”

“Yeah,” you said. It was true; you were exhausted, overwhelmed, and hurting, but it was all worth it for him. 

He leaned over to kiss your cheek and smiled before putting the car in reverse. 

The third item that Franco had to buy was the ring. 

Truthfully, the conversation hadn’t gone as smoothly as he would have liked. In his dreams, you'd jumped for joy when he’d broached the subject, and you’d live happily ever after.

But despite his disappointment, he understood your hesitancy. He was just as afraid to ask the question as you were to say yes. He knew that your struggles with self esteem and anxiety were lifelong. He knew all this about you from the very beginning, and he loved you anyway. 

Still, it was times like this when it broke his heart that he couldn’t fix it. 

It didn’t matter. You’d come around eventually, you always did. And you had been honest when you said you wanted to marry him—there was just a lot of stuff in the way, mentally and emotionally. 

So yes, he’d wait a while before he popped the question. But that didn’t mean he had to wait to buy the ring. 

He knew the exact one. You had fallen in love with it years ago, when you had worn it in a PR shoot for one of his high profile sponsors. Though time had passed, he still remembered the sadness in your eyes when you had to give it back after the photoshoot. He had vowed to himself that day that he’d earn enough to get you that ring.

And now he finally had. 

A few days after your conversation, he found the now faded card that he had stuck in his wallet and called the number. When the same brand rep picked up, he exhaled, letting go of his fear.

“Franco! How nice to hear from you. I was beginning to think we’d scared you away.”

“No,” he laughed. “The opposite, actually.”

“Let me guess. You’re ready for that ring?”

‘How’d you know?”

“I’ve been doing this a long time. When a woman looks at a ring like that, and she’s with a man that truly loves her, it’s just a matter of time.”

He had swiped another ring of yours to get the measurements, and he completed the entire order over the phone on his drive back home from a day of pre-season meetings. He had three months before the beginning of the new season, and he wanted to propose before that so you could start wedding planning once the season started. Would three months be enough time for you to think about it? He didn’t know. 

But he couldn’t wait any longer. The giddiness was eating him alive. 

You could tell something was amiss, but the idea of a proposal was the last thing on your mind. 

Franco was hiding his phone from you. Which meant that Franco was hiding something important from you, and he was doing a horrible job of it. 

Your lover was never the type to be quiet or secretive about…anything really. He talked too much. You had to physically restrain him every Christmas from spoiling what he got you weeks in advance. So if there was something that he was truly trying to hide, it was something major. 

And it scared you. 

The thought that you had been holding back for years finally broke through one night where he put his phone face down at the dinner table after his phone lit up with several notifications. 

“Who’s texting you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice innocent despite the rush of dread that was rising in your stomach.

“No one,” he answered, too quickly for your liking. You didn’t respond. 

You knew Franco was attractive. Every girl would kill to have him. He was kind, funny, beautiful, and flirtatious. But he was yours. Right?

Franco had never crossed the line before. You trusted him with your life. But something within you just felt deeply, deeply wrong, and it came spilling out later that night when he tried to touch you. 

His phone was left on the nightstand, untouched since dinner; his focus was on you, running his hand up and down your side, gently dressing his lips to your shoulder as you faced away from him.

“Not tonight,” you whispered, unable to keep your voice from shaking. 

“All you alright, mi amor?” he asked, pulling back your shoulder to make you face him, seeing how you were desperately trying to keep the tears at bay. 

“I’m fine,” you said, biting the inside of your cheek.

Even after all your years together, Franco never quite knew when to press on and when to keep quiet when you said those two infamous words. And he didn’t have much time to think, because you rose from the bed and left the room, mumbling about needing a minute to get fresh air. 

You stepped onto the back porch and took a deep breath, steadying your heart rate and calming your nerves, if only for a moment. The night air was serene; you felt vile contaminating the peace with your anxiety.

Would this last forever? You couldn’t remember a time when you hadn’t felt this push and pull. You wanted to tell Franco to go, to relieve himself of the burden of your mental illness. You wanted to bottle up every insecurity, every doubt, every negative thought into a vault that you didn’t share with anyone. 

But you couldn’t. If Franco left you’d be broken. You couldn’t stop yourself from letting these thoughts and fears control you. In the past, therapy had helped, but you knew this was a weight you’d always have to carry. And that made you miserable. 

So yes, maybe it was for the better that Franco move on, find someone better, more stable, and build a life with her. 

“Mi amor?”

Franco’s voice broke your hopeless contemplation. 

“Talk to me,” he said. 

You just shook your head. He must be so tired of reassuring you, endlessly, knowing that it didn’t help one bit. 

“YN,” he urged, “you know I don’t like it when you try to shoulder everything alone.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. That was all you could say. “I’m sorry that I’m like this.”

“Like what?”

“Impossible.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean. We have the same conversation over and over again. Don’t you get tired of it? Of having to reassure me and it never helping? Of me crying over every little thing? Franco, I’m a mess!”

“YN…” he sighed, “When have I ever said any of that?”

He was right. He had never expressed any frustration regarding your mental struggles. He had always been there when you needed him. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Have you just been up in your head, or did something happen?”

You contemplated lying, but you knew better. “You set your phone face down at dinner.”

“I— did you think I was…?”

“It’s not you, Franco. It’s never you. That’s the worst part. You have to deal with all of this and it’s not your fault at all,” you said, not even allowing him to say aloud what you both knew was true. 

Franco took a deep breath. “YN,” he said, calmly, “let’s go back inside and go through my phone.”

“No—”

“Yes,” he commanded. “I want you to be 100% confident that I love you and only you.”

“Franco—”

“Let’s go.”

He had a firmness in his voice that only made your anxiety worse, and immediately you felt horrible for even insinuating anything to the opposite. But he was your rock of reason in times like these when your anxiety took over, and so you followed his command, unlocking his phone when he handed it to you. 

As expected, there was no incriminating evidence, just far too many unopened emails and messages left on delivered. Even his recently deleted texts showed nothing. 

The buzzing that you had been so afraid of turning out to be…emails from a jewelry company?

“I ordered a custom necklace for your birthday,” Franco explained. “They’ve been so difficult, though. They lost the order and then sent me the wrong thing. It’s been hell.”

You handed back the phone with your head hung low, ashamed. “I’m sorry I ruined the surprise.”

“You know I would have ruined it beforehand anyway,” he said. “I’m not upset at you.”

“You should be. You deserve someone who trusts you.”

“You do trust me,” he said, “I know you do. It’s not you that’s saying this.” 

Fuck. Franco really did know you too well. 

“You know why I stay with you, even with all this?” You looked up at him, curious for the answer. He had never been this direct before. He continued, “Well, first of all, because I love you. But even during times when I’m frustrated, I remember everything we’ve been through, when you forgave me and were there for me when I didn’t deserve it. I was so close to losing you and it terrified me.”

Once again, your eyes were watering. He said, “I promised myself that if you really gave me a chance, I’d never forget it. I’d be there for you and be the best boyfriend I could be. Because…” he paused, searching for the right words, “I know that some of why you feel these things is because of how I acted in the past. I’ve done my best to make it right, but some things never leave you.”

“When did you become so damn wise?” you said, laughing through the tears as he smiled and wiped them away. 

“You bring out the best in me.”

The conversation was laid to rest then. Franco held you until you fell asleep, safe in his arms. As he heard your soft breaths even out, he grabbed his phone and frantically searched for a necklace to buy to cover his lie.

He hated lying to you, but in this case, what else was he to do?

The necklace and the ring arrived a few weeks later, right before you all were scheduled to take a flight to Buenos Aires to spend the rest of the break with his family. 

But he had a plan. The break in Buenos Aires would be one to remember—for your “birthday” he was also flying out your friends and family for a few days. He had the whole idea plotted out, with help from many others, to plan a surprise karting birthday celebration, with all your loved ones there. Then, he would propose.

It seemed so perfect—surrounded by all your loved ones, doing a fun activity, the perfect balance between public and private. He knew you’d love it. He knew you’d say yes. 

He was giddy as he carefully packed the two jewelry boxes in his luggage, surrounded by clothes for safe keeping. 

And as the day of the birthday party came closer and closer, he could barely hold in his excitement. Everyone knew but you; he had colluded with every guest, telling them his plan and getting their blessing to finally ask you to spend the rest of your life with him.

Everything was perfect. The day before, you parents and friends arrived, and Franco told you everything but the grand reveal. 

He gave you the present, a beautiful necklace that complimented your tastes perfectly. You split a bottle of wine amongst loved ones, and your parents brought out their own gift: a photo album of pictures that they’d never been able to show Franco. 

You cringed at the embarrassing baby photos and records of bad middle school haircuts, but you couldn’t help the tipsy smile on your face. You leaned your head on Franco’s shoulder as he flipped through the pages.

Franco’s mother got out her own photo albums, showing picture after picture of him as a baby, his blonde curls and toothy grin smiling from ear to ear. 

“You were such a cute baby,” you giggled, and he blushed.

“Were? I’m still a cute baby,” he joked, kissing you on the cheek.  You scrunched your nose and smiled.

You were so in love with this man that it hurt.

That night, when you all retired to your room, he rubbed your back, enjoying the simple quiet between you two.

“I love you,” you said to him out of the blue. He smiled; he said those words often, and you always said them back, but it was rarer, more meaningful, for you to say them unprompted. 

“But it’s not fair. You were a cute baby and you’re cute now. You can’t have both,” you giggled. 

“We’d make cute babies,” he teased, and you blushed. 

“You trying to find out?” you responded, the alcohol in your veins giving you more boldness.

“Not when you’re this tipsy,” he said. “Besides, I need to put a ring on your finger first.”

At the mention of marriage, you sobered up quickly. You hadn’t really been thinking about that conversation you’d had back in Spain—in fact, every time you thought about it, it just made you more anxious, so it had the opposite effect of you actively avoiding it. 

Of course, you were still scared. You loved Franco more than words could say, and that was the problem—it was so good that eventually, it would have to not be good. It was a backwards logic, yes, you had convinced yourself that at some point, things would only be able to go down. 

You didn’t want to lose this beautiful thing you had created. But Franco had said he wasn’t planning to propose any time soon, right? In your mind, you still had plenty of time. 

But Franco did not, and the next morning was chaos.

His phone was blowing up with last minute organizing and words of encouragement from your friends and family in the proposal plan group chat. He was sweating bullets, constantly checking his pockets before you all left for the kart track to make sure that yes, he had the ring. He contemplated putting it in his bag instead, but he didn’t want to lose it, so he ultimately settled on his pockets.

He knew that he needed to stop checking them or else you’d notice and ask. You were always observant, in that way. 

But every time he sat down, the stupid box kept falling out of his shorts. The pockets were too small. He’d just have to check one last time before he left the house and be careful. Yes, everything was going to go according to plan. 

And as you all arrived and he changed into his race suit quickly, all he could think about was the speech he had tried to memorize. You were a woman who appreciated words; he wanted to express how you made him feel, but in his head, he kept stumbling over them. 

YN, you make me so happy. No, too simple.

YN, will you make me the happiest man in the world? No, too cliche.

YN, I never knew happiness until I saw your smile. No, too melodramatic. 

He’d have to figure out the words as he said them. For now, he’d just focus on enjoying the moment with you. 

And that wasn’t hard; you were as giddy as a child as you sped around the track, spinning out and pushing the poor kart to go faster and faster. 

Franco had arranged a tournament of sorts; of course, he had spoken with everyone beforehand to rig you as the winner. 

On your end, you knew everyone was letting you win. You were awful at karting. But it was your birthday event, after all. You didn’t care, you were having fun. 

It came down to the “championship” battle: you versus Franco. Of course, you knew your boyfriend would let you win, as he always did, but you loved the rush of adrenaline as the wind whipped past you anyway. You couldn’t stop smiling as you crossed the finish line and took off your helmet, flipping your hair out. 

You heard Franco stop his car behind you and get out, too. 

“I can’t believe YN won!” Franco’s mother said, smiling wide. 

“Thank you all for so graciously giving me that win,” you joked, looking to all your family and friends circled round, cheering for you. Franco was behind you still. You almost turned to him, but his mother interrupted. “Let me take a picture!”

This was the moment. All he had to do was take the ring out of his pocket and get down on one knee. 

He reached in his pocket and pulled out… nothing. 

His pockets were empty. 

He looked back at his father, the fear of God in his eyes, and patted his empty pockets. No one said a word. 

His mother, now done with taking the picture, leaned over to give you a hug. She sent a death glare to Franco over your shoulder, but still gave him the time to sprint back to the locker room to try and find the goddamn thing. 

He ran faster than his F1 car could drive, cursing under his breath at how stupid he could be. He could still save this, though. 

He found his bag and shook out the contents, frantically searching, until finally, at the bottom of the bag, he saw the box. He must have stuck it there while changing and forgot about it.

He let out a breath with enough power to shake the entire building. He opened the box to get a quick glance just to make sure everything was okay.

Except, everything wasn’t. There was no ring in the box.

He had grabbed the empty necklace box. 

Knowing you were far enough away to not hear him, he sweared very, very loudly. Unbeknownst to Franco, his father had followed him back to the locker room.

“Did you find it, mijo?” 

“I brought the wrong box,” he said, “This is for the necklace.”

His father sighed. “Franco…”

“I know, I know.”

“We can still fix this. Give her the ring at dinner!”

“I guess I’ll have to,” Franco said. He had never been more disappointed in himself. He had ruined everything. 

“Hey,” his father said, “chin up. You’ve still got this. The ring will be the perfect end to the perfect day, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, still not entirely convinced. But you would be wondering where he went soon; he couldn’t stay and mope too long.

His father left him to go relay the information to the rest of the group. Franco took a few deep breaths as he changed, mentally readying himself to see you again. He put on a smile as he saw you waiting for him outside the track with the others. 

“So, we’ll all head back and get ready, then meet for dinner tonight?” his mother said.

“Sounds good,” Franco answered, wrapping his arm around you as he walked you back to the car. 

Thankfully, when you got back to his parent’s house, you immediately wanted to take a shower and wash your hair, giving him time to search the entire room. Which he did, from top to bottom, and he still couldn’t find the ring.

It was just…gone. He had gone through every compartment of his suitcase, every pocket in his clothes, every hiding space. Still, it was nowhere to be found. 

His parents even helped him look, carefully parsing through every possible place until it was too late. You were nearly ready for dinner, and they all had to rush to get ready to make it to the restaurant in time for the reservation. 

Franco texted the groupchat the horrible news—he had fucked up. He had lost the ring. There would be no proposal. 

Kind words flooded his phone, but they meant nothing to the depressed Argentine. He had planned this out so perfectly; how did it end so badly?

And the worst part? He couldn’t even tell you. 

The atmosphere at dinner was more somber than usual. His sister had bought a bottle of nice champagne that would now have to go unopened. He would just have to propose some other time.

That’s what he reminded himself, every time the thought came up and threatened to choke him. Maybe next time he would fly his family out to Spain instead. He wasn’t in any rush. And you’d never have to know how badly he fumbled. 

Well, while you didn’t know the details, you could tell something was up. You mentioned it to Franco on the way home.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, and Franco cringed internally. He was always bad about hiding his emotions. 

“No, I’m fine,” he answered. 

“Well, everyone at dinner just seemed…off.”

“Probably just tired.”

You just hummed to yourself, refusing to allow your thoughts to wander any further. You, too, were tired. When you got back to the house, you both started to get undressed, taking off your fancy heels and jewelry.

You took off your necklace—the beautiful gift that Franco had given you, that you’d now treasure forever—but the box wasn’t on the nightstand where you had left it yesterday.

“Franco, have you seen my necklace box?” you asked from the bedroom. He was in the bathroom washing his face, and only barely heard you over the running of water. The mention of the box just made the whole night worse.

“Yeah, it’s in my bag,” he said, and you raised an eyebrow. How had your necklace box ended up there?

You leaned down to his bag, rustling around until you found the familiar box, though it was heavier than you remembered. 

When you opened it, you were nearly blinded by the glint of a beautiful diamond engagement ring. 

It was familiar; the same ring you had fallen in love with years ago. And it was in Franco’s bag. He had…bought you an engagement ring.

He was going to propose.

You could feel your heart rate increasing by the second. But you weren’t ready. You had only talked about it a few weeks ago. You were scared. 

It was okay, though. It was okay. You would just put the ring back. You’d find a way to hint to him that it wasn’t the right time. You could just fake it. He’d never have to—

“YN?”

You looked up at Franco’s face, widened with shock. You didn’t respond.

“Where did you find that?”

“In your bag.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. 

“I—” Franco was too stunned to speak. You quickly closed the box and put it back in the bag.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see anything. This never happened,” you said, your voice rapidly talking without even thinking. You got up to leave the room, too anxious to stay seated, talking to yourself even after you were out of earshot of your lover.

Franco sat on the bed and sighed. Now he had majorly fucked up. First of all, how had no one found the ring in his bag, even after 3 people looked in there? And second of all, how did you find it?

But that wasn’t the biggest issue anymore. His plan had already been ruined, but he knew by the look on your face that your surprise was not a good one. He saw that fear that nestled itself into every crevice of your expression. 

You weren’t happy to find that ring. Not because it had ruined the surprise element—you just didn’t want him to propose.

He now had two options. He could do what he knew you’d want: act as if nothing ever happened and never broach the subject of marriage for several years to come, allowing you to shove away all those scary feelings until you’d deluded yourself into thinking you were over it. 

Or, he could do what he needed to do, and talk to you. 

He took a deep breath and followed you outside.

You were sitting on the back porch. Not crying, just quiet, looking out into the backyard. When Franco sat next to you, you didn’t say anything. He reached out to grab your hand, and you let him, softly admiring how he curled his thumb around your palm in soothing circles. 

“The plan,” he began, “was to ask you today. At the karting track. But I brought the wrong box.” He softly smiled at the absurdity of it. “When you were getting ready we were all frantically looking for it. I don’t know how we missed it.”

You just hummed in response, unsure of what to say. You needed to be honest. You needed to say the difficult things.

You began, though your voice felt choked. “Franco, if you would have asked me today, I would have said no.” You felt his hand tense up. “I mean, I would have said yes, because everyone was there. But…”

You trailed off, your words fleeing from you now. 

“I don’t understand,” Franco confessed. “We’re happy. You’re happy with me, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Then why don’t you want to marry me?” His voice dripped with sadness, and all you wanted to do was hold him. You turned your head to face him, and the deep sorrow in his eyes nearly brought you to tears.

“I do want to. I just…”

“I’ve done everything I can to be good to you. I’ve tried to always be there. I know I’m not perfect, but—”

“It’s not you, Franco. It was never you.”

“Then why? What can I do?” His voice cracked, seeping with hopelessness and frustration. “If it’s not because of me, then what am I supposed to do?” 

You got up. “Come here,” you said, and led him to the living room. The home was quiet; his parents were asleep, and the vast emptiness of the home was eerie. 

You grabbed the photo album that your parents had given you, and sat down on the couch, motioning for Franco to sit next to you. 

You opened it to a picture of you at your 4th birthday party. In the photo, you grimaced though the uncomfortable sensation of a plastic party hat. “Do you see her?” you asked him. He nodded. 

“I remember feeling like this when I was that little. This…fear. I desperately wanted friends but was too afraid to talk to anyone.”

You flipped to the next page, pointing to a photo of you sitting alone in a park, a forced smile across your face. “What do you notice about this picture?” you asked him.

Franco leaned in closer to look. “I don’t know,” he said. 

“I’m alone. See all the other kids in the background?” 

You kept flipping until you found the first photo of you when Franco knew you. You were fifteen, smack in the middle of your awkward teenage years, in the stands at one of his races. 

“I remember that,” he said. 

“That’s me, spending time with my first real friend,” you said. “I didn’t know it yet, but I had a huge crush on him,” you joked.

“He was going to ask you to marry him today. And you just told him you would have said no.”  

“I know,” you said, trying to be gentle with your tone. “But what I’m trying to say is that you’re not just asking me. You’re asking her. And she feels so alone, and she’s scared to trust anyone.”

Franco sat with the thought for a moment, before getting up to grab his own photo book. He opened it to the first page, and pointed to a photo of him as a toddler, wrapped in a scarf, toothy grin spread wide. 

“And that’s who asked you.”

You felt a knot of emotion in your stomach break. All you wanted was to cry. 

“This goes both ways, YN,” Franco continued. “I understand that you’re scared. But I can’t fix that fear. Only you can.”

The dam broke, your tears flooding forth. He was right. So you told him.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” you said, and he wrapped his arm around you, rubbing your back through the tears. 

“I’m not perfect either. I shouldn’t have rushed it, I was just excited.”

“Don’t apologize for being excited to propose,” you laughed through your tears. “I should probably go back to therapy.”

“If you think that’ll help,” he said.

“It will,” you sniffled. “I just… I’ve been so afraid that I’ve been ignoring all the signs. I should have seen this coming. You’re never that excited to let me beat you in karting.”

He smiled at your banter. You continued, “But really, you’re right. I’ve just been avoiding this because I’m scared, getting up in my head. I just feel so happy and that scares me, because at some point it has to fall apart, right? You’re never happy forever.”

“You’re not unhappy forever, either. Of course we’d have rough spots. But that’s the beauty of marriage,” he said, “you vow to be there for each other through it all.”

“How did I get so lucky to have you?” you asked, meeting his gaze. 

His eyes were full of compassion and love. “I’m the lucky one.” He leaned down to kiss you. 

You didn’t really believe him. You still didn’t understand how someone so perfect could love you, someone so…broken. But one day you would. You had to.

The next year was difficult. You began your healing journey again—a journey you were convinced you’d be on your entire life. But you’d do it for him, and for you. 

And slowly, bit by bit, the wounds began to heal. 

It wasn’t linear. With Franco’s new contract, he had lots of attention and responsibilities. He was away from home more. He was tired, stressed, more short-tempered. There were arguments. Some days it felt like you took one step forward and two steps back. 

But you made it through. For every argument there was an honest conversation. For every night away there was a sweet gesture or text message to remind you that he still loved you, and from it grew a solid, blooming trust. For every mistake—on both ends—there was an apology and a commitment to be better. For every night of tears, there was a night of laughter with the man you loved most in the world. 

And by the end of the season, you and the relationship were stronger than ever. 

Of course, things weren’t perfect. But the fear that had once held you hostage was an adversary you knew you could overcome. 

Franco kept the ring in his nightstand. You had found it again one day while cleaning. It wasn’t really hidden, as if to say, we’ll get to this later. It was no secret now.  You just put it back in its place and smiled, going on about your day. 

But Franco had been giving the proposal much thought. He decided against inviting anyone again, wanting it to be a tender moment of vulnerability between you and him.

No, he wanted this time to be simple. Honest. 

He just hoped you were ready. 

A few weeks before the beginning of the next season, he took you out to the place where all this had begun; the outlook in the countryside, where he first told you that he wanted to marry you.

This time, he double and triple checked to make sure the ring was there in his pocket. 

The sun was setting over the Spanish countryside, painting the sky rich shades of orange and yellow. The air had cooled with the impending coming of night. 

He opened your car door and set up a blanket on the ground, where you sat and he laid his head in your lap, letting your fingers run through his hair as a way to calm his nerves. 

He took a deep breath as he sat up, and you knew what was coming. Again, he had rehearsed a speech, but almost instantly forgot it the second he opened his mouth. 

“YN,” he began, looking you directly in the eyes, “I… I love you. So much. More than words can say.” He was nervous, swallowing before he continued, letting his eyes wander off to the picturesque view. But he had more important things to be looking at. 

“I can’t imagine a version of my life without you in it. I grew up with you. I want to grow old with you. You’ve made me into the best version of myself. We’ve gone through so many things and come out on the other side so much stronger. And I want this,” he said, reaching out to wipe away the happy tears that now flowed down your cheeks. “I want to be with you. Even though we’re both imperfect, even though we both have our problems to work through, YN, I want to do this with you, forever. I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up next to you. I want to have children and grandchildren with you. I…” he trailed off, not knowing how to finally say what he really wanted to say.

You smiled through the tears. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring, flipping it open and showing it to you. 

“Marry me,” he whispered. 

Your smile widened. “Yes,” you answered. “Yes.” 

He kissed you with a fervent passion. When he pulled away, his smile couldn’t be contained.

“She said yes!” he cried out, though you both were alone. “I did it! She said yes!” You laughed at his antics.

In a few weeks, you’d have the official photo shoot where he got down on one knee. You’d show the world the carefully constructed version that was all they got to see.

But this was real. And maybe it was imperfect; maybe he hadn’t really asked, more instructed, and maybe he hadn’t gotten down on one knee, and maybe, yes, you had found the ring beforehand. 

But this was real. In all the ups and downs, the hurt and healing, this love you shared with your now fiance was real. The world didn’t get to see that. 

And maybe that fear was still within you. It was smaller now. And when you had seen that shine of the ring, maybe you had felt it rise within you again. But you knew now that it was just a feeling, something you could control. You didn’t have to ignore it or let it reign you. It was just there. 

It wasn't real though. And this was. The cold metal of the ring slid onto your finger. The feeling of Franco’s lips on yours. The strain in your face muscles from all the smiling. His hand around your waist, pulling you closer as the sun dipped below the sky, leaving you and your lover alone in the dark—yes, this was real. 

And this was yours; he was yours.

For the first time in a long time, you knew you had nothing to fear. 

[aspenmissing]

hiii~ could you please write the arcane mains (especially jayvik) with an asexual reader? thank you~~

ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʙꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ɴᴇᴇᴅ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 3401 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴜᴘ?, ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜɪʏᴀ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ~ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴʟʏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ!

ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ᴀꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ɴᴏ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜱʜᴀᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ.

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JAYCE

Jayce had always been patient. More than patient, really. He adored Y/N, cherished every moment with her. From the way she absentmindedly played with his fingers when they held hands to the way she always found the perfect words to comfort him after a stressful day at the Council.

She was his anchor, the one person who made all the chaos bearable.

But he wasn’t oblivious. He noticed things.

They’d been together for a while now, and while Jayce was never one to rush things, a quiet curiosity had begun to settle in the back of his mind. It wasn’t just the absence of intimacy in the way most people defined it—he never minded taking things slow—but there was something unspoken between them. A line Y/N never seemed to want to cross, even when they were wrapped up in each other, bathed in soft candlelight and whispered affections.

Had he done something wrong? Was she simply not ready, or was there something deeper that she wasn’t telling him?

Jayce had tried not to dwell on it too much. He loved her, that much was certain. But the uncertainty was starting to gnaw at him, and he didn’t want to be left in the dark any longer.

So, one evening, when they were curled up together on the couch in their shared home, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, he finally gathered the courage to ask.

"Hey, Y/N?"

His voice was gentle, hesitant. He didn’t want to ruin the moment—didn’t want her to feel cornered—but the words had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for far too long.

Y/N hummed, shifting slightly so she could look at him.

Jayce hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his. "I just—" He let out a soft chuckle, trying to ease the weight in his chest. "I guess I've been wondering... is there a reason we haven’t, you know, gone further?"

The moment the words left his mouth, he felt Y/N stiffen slightly against him. It was subtle, but enough for him to notice.

Jayce’s heart clenched. He immediately backtracked. "Not that I’m upset or anything!" he rushed to say, his grip on her hand tightening as if to reassure her. "I just—if it’s me, if I’ve done something wrong, you can tell me. I want to understand."

A silence settled between them, thick and heavy with unspoken words. The light from the fire flickered against Y/N’s face, casting shadows that danced across her features as she looked down at her hands, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

"Jayce, it’s not you," she finally said, voice quiet but firm. "It’s not anything you’ve done."

Jayce felt a strange mix of relief and confusion at the same time. "Then… what is it?"

Y/N took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for something difficult. "I just... I’m asexual."

The words hung between them for a moment, and Jayce blinked, his expression shifting from confusion to curiosity.

"Asexual?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly. "What does that mean?"

Y/N hesitated, gathering her thoughts. "It means I don’t experience sexual attraction," she explained carefully. "It’s not that I don’t love you, because I do—so much. But I don’t feel the same kind of... need for intimacy that most people do." She swallowed, watching him closely for his reaction. "It doesn’t mean I don’t want to be close to you, or that I don’t want to share my life with you. It’s just... different for me."

Jayce was silent for a moment, processing her words. And then, he nodded slowly.

"...Oh."

It wasn’t a bad "oh." It wasn’t one of disappointment or rejection. It was an "oh" of understanding—of something clicking into place.

Y/N offered a small, somewhat sad smile, her eyes searching his face for any sign of a reaction she feared. "I get if that’s not what you expected," she murmured. "And if that’s something you need in a relationship, I understand. If—if you want to leave, I won’t hold it against you."

Jayce frowned, his brows knitting together as his chest tightened. "Leave?" He immediately reached out, taking her hands in his, squeezing them gently. "Y/N, I love you. That’s not changing because of this."

She looked at him, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. "Jayce, I don’t want to hold you back from something you might need."

Jayce shook his head. "Y/N, being with you isn’t about that for me. I love you—everything about you. The way you challenge me, the way you make me laugh, the way you make all the stress fade away just by being here." He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. "Being Asexual won't make me love you any less. It just means I understand you more now."

Y/N’s eyes softened, the tension in her shoulders easing. "...Really?"

Jayce let out a chuckle, pressing his forehead against hers. "Of course." His voice was warm, reassuring. "I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was confused for a bit—I thought maybe I was doing something wrong. But now that I know, it’s just... part of who you are. And I love every part of you."

Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, leaning into his touch. "You’re the best, you know that?"

Jayce grinned. "I do try."

She laughed, the weight on her chest finally disappearing. And as Jayce wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, she knew—he wasn’t going anywhere.

He never would.

VIKTOR

Y/N sat at her workbench, fingers absently tracing the worn edge of a blueprint, though she wasn't really reading it. The dim candlelight flickered, casting wavering shadows along the walls of their shared workshop. The quiet hum of the city outside felt distant, drowned beneath the steady thrum of her thoughts.

She needed to tell Viktor.

It had been weighing on her for months, an invisible wall between them that she felt responsible for. Every time she tried to gather the words, shame curled in her throat, swallowing them whole before they could pass her lips. It wasn't as though Viktor had ever pressured her—far from it. He was patient, ever understanding, but that only made the guilt press down on her harder. She felt like she was keeping a secret, a fundamental piece of herself, and the longer she held it in, the more suffocating it became.

Y/N exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of the workbench before pushing herself to stand. She turned, eyes landing on Viktor where he sat by his own desk, scribbling away in his journal. His brow was furrowed in thought, the soft glow of the lamp outlining his sharp features in gold. The sight of him made her heart ache in the best way.

“Viktor,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced up immediately, always attuned to her voice, to the slightest change in her tone. “Yes, Drahý?” (Dear)

Y/N swallowed hard. “There’s… there’s something I need to tell you.”

Viktor set his pen down, turning his full attention to her. “Of course.” He gestured for her to sit beside him, and after a moment’s hesitation, she did.

She wrung her hands in her lap, staring down at them as if they held the answers she sought. “I—” Her throat tightened. She tried again. “I’m asexual.” The words felt foreign leaving her mouth, like they belonged to someone else, someone braver.

A beat of silence passed, and she dared to lift her gaze to meet his. He wasn’t surprised. There was no confusion, no rejection in his expression. If anything, there was something warm in his eyes—something soft.

“I know,” Viktor said gently.

Her breath hitched. “You… you do?”

He smiled, a little sad but mostly fond. “I suspected for some time.” He reached out, his fingers brushing over hers with care, an invitation rather than a demand. “You hesitate before touch. You flinch when people assume intimacy is something expected. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable, so I waited.”

She blinked, stunned. “Waited for what?”

“For you to reach for me first.” His fingers curled around hers, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “For you to decide what you need, what you want.”

Tears pricked at her eyes. The weight in her chest loosened, something inside her cracking open in relief. “You’re not… disappointed?” she asked, voice unsteady.

“Why would I be?” Viktor chuckled, shaking his head. “You are the most brilliant, kind-hearted person I have ever met. My feelings for you are not dependent on physical expectations. I love you, Y/N. As you are.”

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, and Viktor reached up, brushing it away with his thumb. She let out a shaky laugh, leaning into his touch.

“I love you too,” she whispered.

Viktor pulled her close, careful, always careful. She buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, breathing him in, letting the warmth of his presence steady her. For the first time in a long time, she felt whole.

And she knew, with unwavering certainty, that she was safe in his hands.

JAYVIK

Jayce had noticed it first—how Y/N would always stop when things got too heated. It wasn’t abrupt or panicked, but there was a moment, a breath, where her body tensed, her hands stilled, and she pulled away with a nervous chuckle or a soft excuse. It had happened enough times that doubt began to creep into his mind. Had he done something wrong? Had Viktor?

He hated the thought. The last thing he ever wanted was to make her uncomfortable.

One evening, after another moment where Y/N had hesitated before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips and retreating to the safety of their bed, Jayce finally voiced his concerns to Viktor. They sat together in Viktor’s study, the dim glow of the Hextech crystal casting long shadows across the walls. Viktor, ever perceptive, had noticed as well—but he had not drawn the same conclusions as Jayce.

“She is happy with us,” Viktor murmured, fingers absentmindedly tapping against the edge of his cane. “I do not believe we have done something wrong, Jayce.”

“Then why does she always stop?” Jayce sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t want to push her, but… I need to understand.”

Viktor hummed in thought, gaze flickering toward the door leading to their shared bedroom. “Perhaps we should ask?”

Jayce blinked, then let out a short, breathy laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

Viktor gave him a wry smile. “Because it is. We trust her. And she trusts us.”

With a nod, Jayce followed Viktor into the bedroom, where Y/N lay curled beneath the blankets, a book resting open on her lap. She looked up at them as they entered, a small, sleepy smile on her lips. “You two look serious,” she teased, setting the book aside. “Did something happen?”

Jayce hesitated, but Viktor, always the one to cut straight to the heart of things, sat beside her and took her hand. “Y/N, we have noticed… a pattern.”

Her fingers twitched in his grasp, and she glanced between them, wariness creeping into her eyes. “What do you mean?”

Jayce sat on her other side, rubbing the back of his neck. “You always stop when things start to get, well… heated.” He exhaled sharply. “Did we do something? Did I do something? If we made you uncomfortable, please tell us.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, and she sat up properly, reaching out to take Jayce’s hand in her free one. “No! No, you haven’t done anything wrong.” She glanced away, chewing on her lip before taking a steadying breath. “It’s me.”

Viktor squeezed her hand gently. “Go on, Lásko’.” (Love)

She exhaled slowly, meeting their eyes with quiet resolve. “I’m asexual.”

Jayce and Viktor remained silent, not out of shock, but to give her the space to explain in her own time. She searched their faces for any signs of discomfort or rejection, but all she found was quiet understanding and patience.

“I love you both. So much.” Her voice softened. “But I don’t feel… that kind of attraction. I like being close, I like kissing, I love being with you—but when it starts going beyond that, it’s like a wall goes up in my head, and I just… I can’t.”

Jayce’s shoulders relaxed, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “You should have told us sooner, sweetheart.”

“I was scared,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want you to feel like I didn’t want you. Or that I wasn’t enough.”

Viktor sighed, shaking his head as he pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “You are more than enough, Lásko.”

Jayce cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly over her skin. “We love you, Y/N. You don’t have to prove anything to us.”

She swallowed thickly, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “You’re really okay with this?”

“Of course we are,” Viktor murmured, nudging his forehead against hers.

Jayce grinned, wrapping his arms around both of them and pulling them into a tight embrace. “You’re stuck with us, love. Whether you like it or not.”

A watery laugh escaped her as she melted into their warmth, holding onto them as tightly as they held onto her. “I think I can live with that.”

And as they lay together that night, wrapped in each other’s arms, she knew—with absolute certainty—that she was loved.

VANDER

The Last Drop was quiet that evening, a rare moment of peace in the Undercity. Most of the regulars had already turned in, leaving only a few stragglers nursing their drinks. Vander sat at the bar, his large hands wrapped around a mug of ale, watching Y/N as they moved around the tavern, straightening chairs and wiping down tables.

Vander had always admired Y/N. From the moment they’d stepped into his life, they had been a steady presence—a sharp mind, a warm heart, and a will stronger than steel. He’d never been one for grand speeches, but with Y/N, he’d never needed to be. They understood each other in ways words couldn’t quite capture.

Tonight, though, something lingered between them, an unspoken weight. Y/N had been quieter than usual, their usual lightness subdued. Vander frowned, setting his mug down with a soft clink. “You alright, love?” he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

Y/N paused, fingers tightening around the cloth in their hands before exhaling slowly. “I… there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Vander straightened, nodding. “Of course.” He gestured for them to sit beside him. Y/N hesitated for a moment before slipping onto the stool, their fingers fidgeting with the hem of their sleeve.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Y/N began, their voice steady despite the nervous energy in their hands. “About us.”

Vander’s heart gave a small, uncertain lurch, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Alright.”

Y/N took a breath. “I love you, Vander. You mean the world to me. But… I need you to know that I’m asexual.”

The words hung between them for a moment, and Vander saw the way Y/N braced themselves, as if expecting something to break.

He blinked, letting the words settle, rolling them over in his mind. Then, carefully, he reached out, covering Y/N’s restless hands with his own. “Alright,” he said again, softer this time.

Y/N looked up at him, eyes searching. “You… you understand?”

Vander offered a small smile, his thumb brushing over their knuckles. “I won’t pretend I know everything about it. But I don’t need to understand every detail to know what matters.” He squeezed their hand. “You love me. And I love you. That’s enough.”

A breath of relief escaped Y/N, their shoulders easing. “It’s just… I know for some people, that’s a deal-breaker.”

Vander chuckled, shaking his head. “Love, I’m not ‘some people.’” His expression softened. “Being with you, having you beside me—that’s what I care about. Doesn’t matter what shape that takes.”

Y/N stared at him for a moment before a small, genuine smile broke across their face. Vander swore the weight in the room lifted, the tension dissolving like mist under sunlight.

He reached for his ale again, taking a sip before smirking. “Though I gotta admit, I was worried for a second there. Thought you were about to tell me you were leaving me for someone else.”

Y/N laughed, shaking their head. “No chance.”

“Good,” Vander murmured, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to their forehead. “Because you’re stuck with me now.”

And just like that, the night felt a little warmer, the quiet a little kinder. Vander didn’t need to understand everything to know what was important—Y/N was his, and he was theirs. Nothing else mattered.

SILCO

The dim glow of The Last Drop’s lanterns cast flickering shadows across the room, the usual hum of the bar distant in the background. Silco sat across from Y/N in his office, his sharp gaze softened, though his fingers still toyed with a cigar he had yet to light. The revelation had settled between them like a delicate thread—fragile, but not broken.

He had always prided himself on being a man who understood people, who could read between the lines and predict their motives. But this? This was uncharted waters.

“Asexual,” he repeated, more to himself than to her. The word sat foreign on his tongue, not in a distasteful way, but in a way that demanded understanding. Y/N sat calmly, her expression unreadable, though he knew her well enough to notice the slight tension in her shoulders. Not from fear—but anticipation. Waiting for his reaction.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. “And this means…?”

She let out a breath, her fingers tracing absent patterns on the wooden surface between them. “It means I don’t experience sexual attraction. Or at least, not in the way most people do.” Her voice was steady, but he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “I love you, Silco. That hasn’t changed. But… that part of relationships? It’s never been something I’ve needed.”

Silco watched her, expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he reached across the desk and took her hand in his. A rare gesture of intimacy from him. His thumb ran slow, deliberate circles over her knuckles, grounding, thoughtful.

“I see,” he murmured. He wasn’t angry. Not disappointed. No, if anything, he felt—what was the word? Protective? No, that didn’t quite fit. Devoted? That was closer. He had given up everything for power, had built himself into something to be feared, respected. And yet, here she was, someone who had demanded nothing of him but to simply be. And she was looking at him now, searching for something—acceptance, reassurance.

A smirk ghosted the corner of his lips. “You think I’d love you any less?”

Y/N blinked. “I don’t know.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re a fool, then.”

Her lips twitched into a reluctant smile, and he squeezed her hand. “Tell me,” he continued, voice softer now, careful, “what can I do to make things… comfortable for you?”

Y/N swallowed, surprised by the question. She had prepared for resistance, maybe frustration. But this? This quiet, considerate patience? It nearly undid her.

“You already are,” she admitted, squeezing his hand back. “Just knowing you don’t see me differently—that’s enough.”

Silco studied her, then stood, rounding the desk with slow, deliberate steps. He cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs brushing just beneath her eyes, tracing the warmth of her skin. His touch was always precise, never wasted, and now it spoke volumes where words might fail.

“You are mine, my dear,” he murmured, his forehead resting against hers. “That hasn’t changed. Nor will it.”

A weight she hadn’t realised she was carrying lifted from her chest. Y/N exhaled softly, closing her eyes, leaning into the certainty of his touch. And in that moment, with the low hum of Zaun beneath them, she knew that love—real love—had never been defined by the expectations of others.

And neither were they.

[booliuu]

˗ˏˋToby Headcanons..PT2ˎˊ˗

ꪆৎ 𝙰/𝙽 : this is a continuation of my first headcanons oh him. Here’s the * link* if you haven’t check it out yet, btw thanks for almost 50 likes😭😭 you guys are so sweet!! anyways enjoy of me rambling about this man again :DD🫶🏼

• my inbox is open for ask and requests!!

🪓 . . He’s a taurus baaabies ( b-day April 28th!) .. may i add something too👉👈 i just know in the bottom of my heart my man def has a sagittarius moon placement or lots of fire signs placements in his birth chart. SCORPIO VENUS TOO 👀👀 he loves so intenselyyy. okok anyways-

🪓 . . He has so many piercings!! I can definitely say on his face he has a septum , nostril , bridge ,and a snake bite 😮‍💨. And for his ears he has industrial, lobes ( thought about stretching his lobes but is too scared lol) and conches done.

➯ went a bit crazy with his piercing bc his parents were so against him getting them done during his high school years. But now that he’s an adult he goes all out.

➯ takes great care of them too! ^^

🪓 . . wears fingerless gloves to mange with his rlly bad hand picking habit. don’t have nails bc how bad his his habits are :((.

🪓 . . Owns a lot of graphic tee’s and most of them are bands that he never heard of before lmao same🥲. Whatever shirt he’s wearing that day a creep or random ppl ask him what’s his favorite song or album is , he gets all awkward and he’s stands like an idiot like🧍.

➯ all sorts of baggy and ripped jeans as well ! Not a fan of tight clothes. Absolutely despises them.

🪓 . . has LOTS of scars that goes all the way back from his childhood.

🪓 . . Him & Tim before DID NOT get along at all. MAJOR BEEF WITH EACH OTHER 😭. whenever both of them were assigned on missions together, they ALWAYS be arguing about the littlest things.

* this is looong sorry ><i just love the idea that tim cares for toby. so bare with meee🥹🥹

➯ Mainly because tim behavior rubs toby the wrong way. It reminds him of his father in some ways and gets highly defensive whenever tim tells him what to do or criticizes him.

➯ Tim thinks toby as a ruthless teenager ( even though he clearly knows he an adult.) thinks he needs to be told what to do at all times . Even though he a rough exterior … little does toby know he cares about toby a lot. But of course there both to stubborn as hell to tell each that 😑.

➯ until one day toby accidentally let a victim loose. when tim found out got extremely upset at toby. The yelling definitely brought Toby thoughts of his father, as a defense mechanism toby argued back . Got a bit physical but overall LOTS of yelling, brian ( the savior-) had to step in and tell them to get over it and be nice to each for once.

➯ took a WHILE for them to apologize but they did eventually. was a bit awkward but hey at least there over it :,D . Now of days they almost have a father and son dynamic. Sometimes when both of have free time tim will show toby how to fix up a car, how to cook on a grill , yk bonding.

➯ brings Toby lots of nostalgia and confusion because he never treated like this by man before bc the only nice people he was surrounded by in his whole life was just is his mom and his sister . so surely his inner child is slowly healing. when he actually took a chance and thought about tim’s behavior towards him one night, he had to sit down for bit , beer in hand ( definitely not given by tim-) cry for a bit while tim rubs his back in comforting way while smoking a cigarette ofc.

🪓 . . owns torn up converse and doc martens. TONS of hoodies, leather jackets and winter jackets!

🪓 . . HIS ROOM!! oh good god…it’s so unorganized. mostly because his collection of clothes he picked up over the years that he borrowed TvT iykyk… never bothers to clean it. his own words not mine

Toby: “ it’s my man c-cave. my rules.”

Tim: *SIGHS*“ jesus fucking christ….. your a mess.”

🪓 . . Speaking of his room it has lots of band posters and tapestry’s!

🪓 . . Knows so much animals facts.. it’s actually scary but entertaining.he literally bring up in random ways possible. that’s toby for yea..!! :DD

🪓 . . His favorite animals consists of what’s around him in the slender forest. such deers, raccoons, fox & wolf , birds , bears and has a love for reptiles as well.

🪓 . . lol if your scared of bugs i feel sorry for you , reptiles or just any animals i have listed…he’s def the type of friend that has it cupped in his hand and shoving it in your face. Lives for your reaction. 🩷

🪓 . . a bit awkward and has a cold front when you first meet him. he likes to observe, doesn’t trust ppl easily. If he likes you slowly opens his shell and he shows his true colors such being a little shit, teasing you playful ofc, butting head with you 24/7. eeehh..but if he hates you good luck with this one… he make it known he doesn’t like you . you won’t know but others who know him do.

🪓 . . Growing up he was known for being the shy quiet kid that never speaks up for himself. He thinks about it now and really started changing meaning slowly and eventually he became more confident. like throwing sarcastic comments , knows lots of good clap backs or calling out’s if someone offended him or something. he’s changed man guys nothing like his younger self. proud of him 🥹

🪓 . . I see ppl saying that he’s the kind of friend that wants to be around you 24/7. 100% agree 👍 . yk hanging out in yours or his rooms for like smoke breaks, joining you during missions, watching tiktok’s & sending them to you even though your in the same room as he is , or even just simply pure silent and just basking in each others presence.

Toby: t-t-this is so you…

Toby: * sents you a tiktok*

You: bruh wtfff

* cue him laughing his ass off

🪓 . . Going to the local drug store to grab some slushes and junk food. HE LIVES FOR THOSE HANGS OUTS. TELL ME IM WRONG.

› › › i’ll make sure to be more in depth with this one :3 so be in a look out for some platonic toby headcanons in the future!!! ^^

🪓 . . Everytime someone says toby loves waffles sighs…. man i’m telling you right now an angel loses it wings ☹️ 👎. He has extended food palette than that y’all c’mon.

🪓 . . i mean it’s not the best diet… it literally just energy drinks but at least his friends look out for him and leave him take out because they know he doesn’t feel hunger like we do.

🪓 . . due to that, he has a lean built. Has a bit of a 6 pack ( you have to squint to see em ) and has muscles on his arms . He’s really proud of his arms lol. Has a bit of beard?? Scruff?? idk what’s it’s called going on too ^^ shaves ones in a while. aaaand..hehe has a happy trail situation... ANYWAYSSSS that’s for next time 😉.

🪓 . . yk how how i said he has a collection of phones he… collected *cough🪓🪓 cough*… firm believer he has playlist in each phone of them that consists of western emo music. also.. DAD ROCK .

🪓 . . his favorite weather has to be autumn because the animals around forest comes out more and he hangs out and pets all of them. likes looking at the trees and how each of the leaves are changing colors.

🪓 . . his joints pop loud real bad whenever he stretching , walking , or running . it pisses him so badly lolll.

🪓 . . loves sleeping and taking naps🫶🏼 whenever or whatever. like tree tops , his bed, closet, ect. hates mornings with passion prefers to sleep in. toby 🤞power naps . downside being that he snores like no one business and moves around his sleep.

🪓 . . blind on his left eye and that same eye has a permanent split eyebrow from the car crash.

🪓 . . Even though i want say he smells like vanilla or something sweet naaah …. srry bby😔. he gotta smell like the woods , dirt, bl*od.. sometimes , or even pinewood. From time to time smells like cheap shampoo and conditioner when he remembers to shower.

🪓 . . lastly his hair.. HIS 👏HAIR 😭😭 it’s so soft…he’s rocking shaggy haircut that tim trims once in a while.

𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚜: @bloodibambiidol & @kodaswrld ✨ there stuff is cool check it out!

ꪆৎ 𝙰/𝙽 : HEEEEY IM BACK, i know posted 2-3?? days ago and honestly im so happy to it has so many likes already. thank you so much 🫶🏼 it means so much to me!! i’ll try to post as consistent as i can but no promises. 😣As of right now my wips are a bunch of toby headcanons and one shots i need to finish and post and dw other characters too dww🤍🤍.

* feedback is always welcome. if you like my content please don’t get to like or reblog ^^.

liuuboo2025 do not copy , translate or plagiarize any of my works. thank you ♡ﾟ

[adumbratrapedme]

Atsumu Miya x reader | teen pregnancy. pt 1 the news.

Synopsis. a teen pregnancy storie between atsumu and reader.

wc. | genre. angst to fluff |cw/tags. angst, teen pregnancy mentions, fluff, etc.

teen pregnancy series masterlists here!

╭⋅ So, this happens on your third year at higschool, you guys dated since your first and at first it was good, but... im a sucker for "fuckboy!atsumu" allegations and agst so...

╭⋅ Atsumu definitely has that charming, cocky persona, and he’s known to flirt with anyone who catches his eye. But when he’s with the you, he can be surprisingly soft and genuinely sweet. Still, it’s a struggle for him to drop the “playboy” act completely, which causes a lot of tension in u guys relationship.

╭⋅ You guys always break up- and come back- break up- and come back-

╭⋅ Despite breaking up (thing he regrets everytime) he hates seeing you with someone else and can’t stand the thought of u moving on.

╭⋅ The pregnancy news hits him harder than he admits, and he starts questioning whether he’s ready to be a father and whether he deserves the chance to make things right with you-

╭⋅ DEFINITELY struggles with the idea of being a father, especially because he’s used to living a carefree life. He’s not sure he’s capable of stepping up, but as the pregnancy progresses, he realizes he might have to.

╭⋅ Before he fully realizes the gravity of the situation, Atsumu might initially avoid facing the pregnancy news because he’s scared of what it means for his future. He doesn’t know how to balance his carefree attitude with the responsibility that comes with having a child. It’s a huge step for him to admit he’s not ready, but once the reality sets in, he’ll struggle to find his place in the reader’s life again.

╭⋅ And in case you are curious this takes place in the same "universe" as osamu's teen pregnancy storie mwhaheheh

It’s been two months since you and Atsumu broke up—again. The same cycle, the same arguments, the same bullshit promises since you were in your 1st year. He’d swear he’d change, swear he was done flirting with other girls, done making you feel like you were just another option. And maybe he meant it in the moment, but he never followed through. So, you ended things.

But, of course, Atsumu never really left you alone.

Even now, as you sit in the classroom with a classmate, laughing at something dumb he said, you can feel Atsumu’s eyes on you. He’s standing by the doorway, pretending to talk to one of his teammates, but you know he’s watching.

Your classmate nudges you. “Miya’s glaring at me.”

You sigh. “Let him.”

Truthfully, you have much bigger problems than Atsumu’s jealousy. Like the positive pregnancy test sitting at the bottom of your school bag, wrapped in tissues and regret.

You haven’t told anyone. Haven’t even figured out how to process it yourself. But the weight of it is suffocating, pressing against your ribs, making every interaction with Atsumu feel ten times heavier.

When the bell rings, you head out quickly, but you barely make it a few steps down the hall before a familiar hand grabs your wrist.

“You’ve been avoidin’ me,” Atsumu mutters, his grip firm but not tight. There’s that usual cocky smirk on his lips, but his eyes flicker with something else.

“I don’t owe you anything,” you reply, pulling away.

His jaw clenches. “Who’s that guy?”

You blink. “What?”

“The guy you were sittin’ with,” he says, voice dropping. “You datin’ ‘im?”

You let out a sharp laugh. “Oh my god, Atsumu, are you serious? You’ve spent the last two months acting like I don’t exist, and now you’re mad because I sat with someone else?”

“I never acted like ya didn’t exist.” His voice is quieter now, rough around the edges. “Yer the one who walked away.”

You exhale slowly, gripping the strap of your bag. This is pointless. He’s always like this—possessive when it suits him, distant when it doesn’t.

You should just walk away. But the words are already clawing their way out of your throat.

“I’m pregnant.”

The hallway noise fades. Atsumu just stares at you, his expression unreadable. Like his brain is still buffering, trying to process what you just said. Finally, he breathes out a short, shaky laugh. “What?”

You hold his gaze, refusing to repeat yourself. His smirk wavers, and then, for the first time in all the years you’ve known him, Atsumu looks genuinely lost.

You don’t wait for him to process it. You turn, your feet carrying you down the hallway, away from him, away from everything. Your heart is pounding, each step feeling heavier, but you don’t stop. You can’t stop. Atsumu doesn’t say anything more. Not that you’d expect him to. He’s still standing there, frozen, his mind racing, but no words come out.

As you step outside, the cool air hits your face, and you breathe it in, trying to steady yourself. You have a plan. Sort of. You’ll figure this out, somehow. You always do.

But then, you hear his voice again.

“Wait.”

It’s soft, hesitant—definitely not the usual Atsumu, not the cocky asshole he always is.

You don’t stop.

“Hey,” he calls, louder now, more desperate, his tone slipping into something unfamiliar.

This time, you force yourself to pause but don’t turn around.

Atsumu’s footsteps echo behind you, and he catches up quickly, standing a few feet away. You still don’t look at him. You don’t want to.

“I—” He hesitates, and you hear him swallow. “Is it mine?” You freeze, your blood running cold for a split second, before everything inside you snaps. You turn around sharply, fury building up in your chest.

“Of course it’s fucking yours, Atsumu,” you snap, your voice cutting through the air. “Unlike you, I don’t go sleeping around with people after I end a relationship.” (I have a question guys, english people, is it “unlike you” or “like you”. ?? Confused at 100% hope is understandable tho)

His face goes pale. He opens his mouth to say something but falters, clearly not knowing how to respond to that. You can see the guilt in his eyes, the regret, but you’re too far gone to care.

“You think I’d come to you with this if there was any doubt?” Your voice shakes, but you keep your gaze steady. “I’m not some fucking idiot who plays games like you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long while. He just stands there, staring at you as if you’ve slapped him across the face. And maybe, in some ways, you have.

Finally, he takes a step forward, his voice quieter now, as if he’s trying to find his footing. “I’m sorry.”

But you don’t want his apology. Not this time.

“I don’t need your apology,” you reply coldly, turning to walk away. “I need you to stop pretending you care when you don’t.”

Atsumu doesn’t follow you. Not this time. You hear him stand still, the silence heavy between you two, and for the first time, you don’t feel the slightest urge to look back.

Taglist:

@chilichopsticks @dreadnoughtus101 @starykari @staygoldsquatchling02 @alpha-mommy69 @curlyhairkk @b1xi @reuka1

if you want to be part of the taglist you can always DM me or coment! also if u only want to be tagged on specific characters.

-if i forgor someone pls tell me and dont be shy, i get really lost with the taglist thingy ahhh

I HATE THE TWINS SO BAD (jk i love them) i always get confused on who is who, who is pee pee head whois poo poo hair anyways huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh sprry for late update, im doing a few other stuff lately but i. uh. i deeply apolgzhe!!

[accio-victuuri]

my thoughts on xz’s spring festival debut and loch 📝

“Every role leaves something in me or takes something away from me. The character of Guo Jing is very powerful. His perseverance and persistence subtly gave me a lot of support and faith later on.” - xiao zhan

just a few disclaimers before i start:

1. i’m a cpf. this is a cpf blog but i also identify as xz and wyb’s career fan. meaning i care about the impact of their works to the general public. i’m tagging this post with xiao zhan on it cause it’s mainly about him, but if you already hate cpfs, then save yourself the trouble and scroll along. if you still read this and wanna say something, do it on your own blog.

2. this is not the place to compare xz and wyb’s spring festival bo debuts. nor is this a place for conspiracies.

3. i haven’t watched loch. i am not well versed in the whole lore behind it.

okay, now i can start 😅😅😅

As soon as XZ was announced to play the role of Guo Jing in Tsui Hark’s new movie — we all knew that it’s a great opportunity and at the same time, a huge responsibility. Legend of The Condor Heroes is a beloved story/franchise with multiple remakes so this movie had to bring something fresh to the audience. Tsui Hark is a celebrated director, but it’s not a guarantee of excellent results. I’m personally not familiar with his works ( yep, cause i’m uncultured lol ) so at the time i was okay, cool. However, i trusted the people both fans and the public who had mostly good things to say.

It was also pretty obvious that this movie will be screened during Spring Festival. It’s a no brainer. A big IP and movie like this should be released during the biggest box office day in China.

You also have Xiao Zhan. The god of wealth. A traffic star who brings in the money and is a talented Actor. He also has a solid and dedicated fanbase.

However, to those of us who are familiar with how the SF box-office works, fans alone cannot sustain it. The key is to capture the General public’s favor to grow the numbers and to get more cinemas to screen your Movie during the SF holiday. They call it “word of mouth” — when people give good reviews, more people will be encouraged to give it a try. If you are someone on SF holiday, you can probably watch 1-2 ( 3 at most possibly ) movies from the lineup. So it’s critical that LOCH will come up as something you would wanna watch based on what you read online ( or offline ) even if it’s not your 1st choice. I was hoping LOCH fans will come in, but i was also afraid cause they will be the most critical. They know the source material, they possibly watched all the iterations, so they will be the toughest to please.

The showing came later than we anticipated but it was fine. Editing and all the special effects always take up most of the time anyway. ✨

Weeks before the holiday, Nezha 2 announced it was gonna join the Spring Festival line up. This alone was a sure bet that this movie was gonna dominate the Box Office. no question. It’s a popular character and a family-friendly film. A first choice kind of movie if you will. There’s also Fengshen Part II with it’s own set of fans and considering how big the first movie earned, you would think they were gonna come back for Part II.

LOCH still prevailed tho, The pre-sale numbers dominated 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

in reality, these are mostly fans. which is not a bad thing at all. having LOCH at the top of the pre sales creates a good buzz around it. if you are someone thinking of what to watch, and don’t know much about the line up, it would be good to pick the most anticipated film 🫶🏼

(this photo does not represent the final numbers before opening)

I wanna add too that this year’s promotion for SF movies is next level. They have really done well in making sure that the public knows what movies are out there for them to watch.

The first day for a movie like LOCH with a big pre-sale will show a small rise because people who wanna see it on Day 1 mostly have bought it already. It was still steady tho, It broke 14 box office records which is mostly for the martial arts genre ✨

There are also mostly positive reviews about XZ’s performance like this one ( i will share more on my blog as they come ) and critics. Which is fine. we know it’s not gonna be all praises anyway. One review that went high up on HS was from Nanfeng daily, which is more of a discussion on the story’s flaws. I won’t share it here anymore, but the article was talking about the weak plot and how the two leads having basically no chemistry. I also looked into this other blogger ( who is pretty consistent with reviews and not just one who popped up lately ) one which I think fairly described the shortcomings —-

The film adapted the content of chapters 34-40 of the original novel. It is a story about the integration of the martial arts world into the post-war world, involving the love line of Guo Jing and Huang Rong + the national war line + the martial arts line. The main part of the martial arts line is the previous situation before the 34th chapter, which is the foreshadowing of love and war. It can't be less, nor more. The question that needs to be considered here is how to explain so many martial arts stories before, flashbacks? Arrange information in the lines? Connect events and insert back? Or is there a more clever method?

As a result, The Legend of the Condor Heroes didn't think so much, and just went straight to the "PPT". The first hour was a long, fragmented and incomplete account of the story, and the two leading actors took turns to read the narration to tell the previous story. This is not called The Legend of the Condor Heroes, but "Reading most of The Legend of the Condor Heroes in x minutes".

This is not enough. I don't know if Tsui Hark is taking revenge on someone. It's already a PPT, and the two protagonists are reading letters to each other in the air, with narration superimposed on narration. The audience is like a class in the first half.

AGAIN. I haven’t watched the movie but I think, i get where this going. It seems to me that the screenwriter should have done better. Xiao Zhan can only do so much hard work and bring in talent, but if the story is all over the place, it’s gonna be hard to market to a random viewer.

As of writing, LOCH is on HS and the topic is about the supposed deleted scenes. Getting rid of those didn’t help the flow of the story obviously. There is a post going around that talks about that I will partly share below:

In the original script, Guo Jing's expedition to the west and return to the south are closely integrated. The complete character arcs of all the main characters in the movie, the Western Expedition is also in the film.

The film has spent a lot of effort and resources to visualize Wu Mu's will, war, and animals. The essence of the play, this entire section was taken away for review, and a lot of the plot needs to be reviewed later. The dubbing of the previous part continues, and some memories and inserts of the previous part are added. The broadcast becomes even more fragmented, resulting in incoherent plots.

Guo Jing experienced the suffering of all living beings in the war, and Huang Rong's role of leading the Beggars' Gang is gone, and the early adaptations make it even more miserable.

Some of the character arcs are incomplete.

Then it goes to talk about the cuts ( censorship ) caused by sensitive subjects that may cause diplomacy issues.

We still have a few more days for things to take a turn and I will update this blog for that. LOCH can also run even beyond this season and get more Box Office numbers. I have to admit this post i’m making is premature cause we are only days in, but by experience, the early days will usually tell you what’s gonna happen moving forward.

( as of writing, nezha leads with 1.5 billion and loch at 500 million )

A few more points:

• The film was promoted heavily around Tsui Hark being the director. It didn’t live up to expectations and this is why some negative reviews are coming. This is such a big production with lots of moving parts and it seems like it didn’t all fit. Some antis are saying that XZ fans are “blaming” again but this time i guess it’s valid. i’m not saying XZ was perfect either, i’m sure there is room for improvement but he can’t fix the story.

• 🍤🍤🍤 were too confident. it’s not a secret that I have no love for these sea creatures but they were boasting a lot. AND NOW HERE WE ARE.

this has always been my frustration. the karma is getting them. but is also directly affecting XZ who worked hard on this film. who didn’t tell them to do these nasty things. i also see people who wouldn’t even consider LOCH cause at some point 🍤🍤🍤 were rude to their bias before.

it’s like, people wanna see the 🍤 fandom fail. not xz. just the nasty 🍤🍤🍤 who offended a lot of people online at some point.

my god. they really don’t deserve XZ 😭😭😭😭

• the issue of unfair screening times and slots are also being brought up by fans. all i have to say is, welcome to the spring festival clownery. welcome to the movie world, you all must be new here. it doesn’t mean people can’t complain and be frustrated. what i’m saying is LOCH isn’t the first movie to experience this. it happens every year. it happens every big film holiday. this is not the land of dramas where streaming and rating works. Movies are different. if there is anything I learned, it’s more vicious.

• some are also complaining about cinemas refunding their tickets saying there is technical issues. only to find out that they are replacing the showing for a different movie. this is so shady 💀 but again, it’s all about the money. T___T

• the theme of the movie is also not popular at the moment. TH was saying it’s time to bring back films & stories like this again. I found this article that explains my point:

Jin Yong is an idol of previous generations. In their eyes, he has gradually become a tall but distant statue. Tsui Hark's embrace of Jin Yong's IP again is an outlet for the film market to seek a breakthrough in the predicament. He tried to add mainstreaming, genre innovation, traffic stars and other means to revitalize Jin Yong's IP. There is a logical component, but there is also the possibility of success and risk.

The younger generation of audiences who are not Jin Yong fans have not actually broken off their understanding of the martial arts spirit, but they have chosen new works as carriers. For example, the audio novel "Snow Sword" labeled as "martial arts novel" has been played 2.92 billion times on a certain platform, which is far more than the number of audio books of Jin Yong's works. To some extent, the "traditional chivalry" written by Jin Yong is quite different from the "cool martial arts" that the new audience likes, which combines magic, games, and VR.

In fact, from the pre-sale results to the current box office results, it can be seen that the market and the audience still have high expectations and sufficient space for martial arts themes. The altruistic spirit and noble character naturally carried by the martial arts spirit will still make young people curious and have a strong desire to follow and imitate. For the filmmakers, the difficulty of the creative challenge is far greater than the market opportunity-the care and empathy for individual growth, the assumption of social responsibility, etc., still need the work to provide a new interpretation.

After Jin Yong passed away, someone said, "It's not the end of an era, it's the beginning of an era." What this sentence means is that the spirit of martial arts will never become obsolete, but it needs to be updated from time to time. In addition to constantly exploring new forms of expression of martial arts, we must also strive to find new soil for the spirit of martial arts to land. Only in this way can the spirit of martial arts remain high and vigorous in the hearts of generations.

• the goal for xz ( and wyb ) is to be popular and liked by the general public. having a solid solo fandom definitely has it perks but situations like this — they should have a good reputation. the movie/drama must also be exceptional for it to “get out of the circle”. a movie they make should not be “a movie for fans” but for everyone to enjoy.

Let me wrap this up with some good news tho, because international fans can make a difference. To the countries that are going to have screenings, you can contribute by watching and sharing your reviews! 💕 it’s the essence of fandom, to enjoy the content and be happy with the experience. it’s too easy to get caught up with the competitive nature of the SF movie season cause it’s a favorite topic on weibo, but it’s better to celebrate Xiao Zhan’s Spring Festival Movie debut 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

I have absolute faith in XZ’s strength as an actor and that time will tell us the truth. right now, the black propaganda is strong cause they have to manipulate public opinion really quick ( i’m not saying all negative reviews are antis but you know what i mean & viewers are expected to be extra critical of XZ cause of how famous he is! ). His talent will shine through. He will have more movies/dramas that are gonna be better than this and we are here to support him. Box-office numbers is not the measure of XZ’s success in playing Guo Jing. I haven’t seen it but knowing XZ’s care for the characters he plays, seeing the training he went through — he did him justice.

-END.

[pursued-by-the-squid]

vi. wait for the green light

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

word count: 9.3k

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

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

ao3 | masterlist

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

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

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

“What the–?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?”

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

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

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

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

But then, what else could this place possibly be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gi-hun!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is going on?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Player 457.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Consent cannot be rescinded.

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

Consent cannot be rescinded.

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

“Come on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This should be interesting.

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

“Don’t move! Everyone freeze!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s quite a remarkable sight.

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

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

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

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

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

“[___].”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then let us take a vote right now.”

There’s a bit of confusion between the decision to vote and the actual occurrence. As the shock and dissociation from the day’s events begin to wear off, you slowly become more and more cognizant of your surroundings. You note the decreased number of players and the newly accumulated prize money – 356 survivors out of the original 457 and a whopping 9.1 billion won.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guard nods. “Correct.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Marriage Problems Chapter 2

Summary: They’ve been married for 19 years, their 20th anniversary coming up soon.  Older, busier, and stuck on the repeat of their daily lives, Y/N and Bucky are struggling.  Their marriage is good, but feeling rocky the last few years as they’ve settled into this stage of their lives.  Can they get their spark back?  Or is it better to do the unthinkable, and move on without each other?

Warnings:  language, forced kiss, eventual smut

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Bucky rushed home after work that day.  The presentation had gone well, securing his bonus, but had run over the time he’d originally planned.  He had texted Y/N, but never got a response.  He got home as fast as he could, walking into the kitchen to find it empty.  Fuck, missed dinner, he thought, chastising himself as he unloaded his things and cleaned them.  He walked toward the sound of the kids’ voices in the front room.  They were all spread out on the floor doing homework, spouting off endless questions to Y/N, who was trying her best to help them while also mediating between Winnie and Becca, which seemed like a constant these days.

“Mama she won’t stop brushing her eraser shavings on my paper!” Winnie whined, trying to shove the eraser bits back toward Becca.

“Oh my god, you’re so annoying,” Becca whined back.  “Not everything I do is to spite you.  Maybe if you wouldn’t sit so close to me they wouldn’t land on your stuff!”

“Guys, please,” Y/N sighed, rubbing her eyes.

“Hello my loves,” Bucky called out, trying to distract them.

The kids all looked up at him with smiles on their faces, quickly getting up and giving him hugs and greetings before sitting back down.  Bucky moved over and around them to Y/N, kneeling down next to her.  She gave him a small smile in greeting.  “How did your presentation go?” she asked quietly.

“We got it,” he replied, smiling at her.  

“Congratulations,” Y/N’s smile widened.

It was one of the few real smiles he’d gotten from her in a while, and it made his heart soar.  Before he could say anything else the girls were bickering again, and James started firing off questions.

“Quit with the eraser!  Geez, do you just not get it so you keep having to restart?  How stupid can you be?”

“Mama, did you sign that form for the field trip yet?”

“I’m not the stupid one, you are!”

“Nuh-uh!”

“And I have that bake sale coming up, did you sign up for cupcakes?  Or muffins?  Your cookies last year were good.  Oh and my soccer uniform is all grassy, did you wash it yet?”

Y/N shut her eyes tight, trying to breath through the mounting noise.

“Guys,” Bucky said in a warning tone.

“Dad she’s being so annoying.  Why can’t you just leave me alone?  This is why you don’t have any friends.”

“I have plenty of friends.  You wouldn’t know anything about that because all the friends you have are just guys trying to date you.  How does it feel knowing that they don’t actually care about you, just what they can get from you?”

“At least I can get a date.”

“Mama, what does she mean what they can get from her?”

“OH MY GOD SHUT UP!” Y/N screamed, standing up fast and pushing away from them all, covering her ears.  “SHUT UP!  ALL OF YOU!  JESUS CHRIST!”  They all froze, staring at her in shock.  “No, James, I haven’t done any of that yet.  It will get done eventually.  As for you two,” she pointed at the girls.  “I know you’re both in a very weird stage of teen years right now, but if I hear one more mean thing said between the two of you I will ground you both for the rest of the school year, do you hear me?”  They both nodded quickly.  “I cannot stand this anymore.  This constant bickering, the noise, the incessant leaning on me for every little thing.  I’m so sick of the same thing day in and day out!  I’m done!”

Bucky stared at her in shock.  She had yelled at the kids before during rough moments, but this was different.  Y/N looked at them all with a deep look of disgust.  “I love you all very much.  But this is absolutely ridiculous, and I will not put up with it anymore.  I deserve better than this endless, repetitive, tedious bullshit!  Don’t I?”  Bucky stood up and walked over to her.  She had started crying as she spoke, and as he cupped her face in his hands she looked up at him, her eyes pleading and exhausted.  “Don’t I?” she cried.

“Yes, you do,” Bucky whispered, nodding as he leaned down and pressed his forehead against her forehead.  “Just breathe, pretty mama.  Breathe.”

Y/N sputtered, her hands in fists at her sides as she closed her eyes.  She let herself relax against him for a moment, but just as suddenly as it started she shook her head again and pulled out of his grasp, sniffing hard.  “I…I’m fine, I just–” she glanced at them all, her face twisting into a look of horror.  “I’m sorry,” she gasped, then turned and ran up the stairs.

Bucky watched her run, sighing when he heard their bedroom door shut loudly.  He turned to look at the kids, each of them with a look of shock and sadness on their faces.  “It’s gonna be okay, guys,” he said quietly, sitting down on the floor with them again.  “Mama just needs some time.  But she’s right,” he said, looking down at his hands then at Becca.  “Becca, if what Winnie’s saying is true, you need to find better friends.  Boys, especially at this age, aren’t worth it.”  She frowned and looked down.  “Winnie, you need to let Becca have her time away from you.  Just because you’re both close in age and go to the same school doesn’t mean you’re both the same.  She is her own person, and you are your own person.  Does that make sense?”  Winnie’s lips tightened, but she nodded.  “James, I know you mean well, but asking a lot of questions all at once is very overwhelming for Mama, and as much as she is willing to help you, she needs a breather just like everyone else.  Got it?”  James nodded sadly.  “As for all three of you, you’re old enough now, and your mom and I have taught you enough by now, to be able to handle yourselves more.  That means from now on you’re responsible for knowing your schedules, taking care of yourselves with your personal hygiene, cleaning up after yourselves, and as of now you’ll be responsible for getting your lunches for school ready, preparing your own breakfasts, and making sure you’re out the door on time for the bus.  Also, laundry,” he said, glancing at James for emphasis.  “Your clothes, your problem.  Do you all understand?”

They all nodded solemnly.  “Good.  We are going to have to work together to take the brunt of the work off of Mama.  She’s done too much for all of us for too long.  Which makes her an amazing mother and wife–” he stopped, nearly getting choked up on his words, before quickly clearing his throat.  “But it’s too much for just one person to handle.  We are a family, and family loves and supports each other, right?”  They all nodded again.  “Okay.  Are you all done with your homework enough for tomorrow?”  

“Yes,” they all said in unison.

“Great.  Then go get ready for bed,” Bucky said.  “Good night, my spawn.”

They all giggled and gave him goodnight farewells and hugs, gathering their things and putting them away before trudging up the stairs to get ready for bed.  Bucky sighed as he stood up again, stretching before looking around the main floor of the house.  It was mostly pretty clean, so he got to work cleaning up the last few little messes and things he could see that needed to be done, then ate the leftovers from dinner.  

When he was finished the kids had all settled down in bed, and he tucked them each in before heading to his bedroom.  Bucky hesitated at the door, unsure of how to broach what had happened.  He knocked lightly, waiting to hear anything, but after a moment of silence he slowly opened the door.  He peered in and found Y/N already in bed, her soft snores the only sound in the room.  Bucky walked in and closed the door quietly, walking over to her side of the bed and kneeling down.  She was already in her pajamas, and judging from her makeup free face and the puffiness of her eyes, she had cried as she got ready for bed and up until she fell asleep.  Bucky’s heart broke for her.  He and the kids had been leaning on her for everything for so long.  They had taken advantage of her.  She had been suffering silently because she felt like she could only depend on herself to get things done.  He reached up and gently wiped away the last bits of tears that were still wet on her face, then leaned forward and kissed her nose.  “I’m so sorry, pretty mama,” he whispered, nuzzling her cheek with his nose.  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.  I love you.”  

Y/N squirmed a little in her sleep at his touch, but didn’t wake, letting out a short hum as she readjusted herself.  Bucky smiled at her, fixing the blanket around her and tucking her in before getting ready for bed.

@cjand10 @sebastians-love @sherwoodforesttales @shanksstrawhat

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

Guys I LIED it is so incredibly late right now but I actually needed to write this right now or it was going to kill me!!! anywhosies shitty lil sad stevepop fic under the cut >:D

The seal ain’t been broken yet. Creased ‘n torn lightly at the edges ‘n liftin’ at the corners. But not broken. It’s been sittin’ quietly in Steve’s back pocket, ‘n under his pillow, ‘n the inside of his vest beside his heart for three days. The letterin’ on the front is messy ‘n jagged like the writer was in a hurry. ‘N he was. Steve knew. He never did anythin’ slow or quiet. He was fast. Too fast to hold onto.

It’s a draggin’ day in August. A Thursday that aches deep in Steve’s chest like Darry’s knees when it’s bound to rain. He can feel somethin’ comin’. ‘N he knows he’s not ready for it. But that won’t stop it from comin’ anyway.

He sighs, leans back against the counter of the same gas station he’s been workin’ at since he was fourteen. Some days it's hard to remember it's been nearly a decade. Time slips by. ‘N one day you turn around ‘n you’re not sixteen goin’ on seventeen. ‘N you haven’t been for a long time.

The letter is worn down, grey at the edges where Steve has run his fingers around ‘n around. He slides a nail under the flap ‘n doesn’t make one more move to open it. It’s a familiar routine he’s been steppin’ the footsteps of since Darry had put it in his hands.

There’s a storm blowin’ in. The trees lean dangerously far ‘n the wind hisses ‘n whistles. No one else would bother comin’ in tonight. It would be a lonely closer. ‘N he’d go home to a lonely apartment. It followed him. It was company.

He lifts the letter to his face. ‘N Steve swears he can still smell him on it. Horses ‘n gasoline ‘n somethin’ sickly sweet he never could pin down. He puts his mouth in the place Soda’s had once been ‘n tears the seal with his teeth. 

Hey Stevie,

It takes more effort than it should to not fold the damn thing right back up ‘n put it back in its damn worn-out envelope. But he’s done it now.

I don’t know how to go about startin’ this. Y’know, I feel a bit silly. Pony was always the writer. I’m not sure where I’m meant to start.

Anywhere. Start anywhere. Say anythin’. Say what I need you to.

I guess I better tell you what I’ve been up to. You know, you’re a hard man to get a hold of, Steve. Last two times I called Dar said you weren’t around. D’you remember when we were younger? God we were always But the signals real bad out here anyway. So I figured I’d write you. I hear you got a new apartment. I bet it’s real swell. Shit. It’s gotta be better than what I got out here. 

A train whistle moans ‘n some shiny silver wrapper tumbles across the parkin’ lot ‘n pins itself to the door. Steve can see the skeleton of his beater in the back corner as it shudders against the gail. He still had cigarette ends ‘n soda pop tops from their junior year tucked under the ashtray. A match of Dallas’. A quarter he owed Johnny. 

He thinks of the drive back across town to his apartment. Filled only with ghosts. Real swell.

I don’t got a room out here right now, but that’s just fine. I sleep out with the horses ‘n I’ll tell ya it’s quieter than the house used to be. What with the way Pony used to get up to all kinds a sleep talkin’ ‘n all of us comin’ ‘n goin’ at all hours. I can’t decide if I like it or not. I don’t sleep real well.

God. Ponyboy. He’d be graduatin’ college this year. Out in the fall. It was funny sometimes. He’d come home to visit ‘n they’d be knee to knee on the back porch steps sneakin’ a cig (Darry claimed the only good thing to come out of all the boys clearin’ out was his home didn’t smell like an ashtray anymore. Steve was obliged to let him tell himself whatever he needed). ‘N sometimes, when the sun hit the hollow lines of his face just right he was fourteen again ‘n hatin’ Steve only as much as Steve hated him. But then he’d blink ‘n they were both a long time from the fall of nineteen sixty-five. 

The people out here are real good. Lotta dead heads ‘n hippies. Always goin’ on about the state of the world. I think Dally woulda hated ‘em. Pony probably digs ‘em. But he was always better at gettin’ the shit I didn’t understand. 

The same folks who had bashed in Steve’s head when they were kids ran around high as kites singin’ about peace ‘n fuckin’ love. Steve couldn’t go for the goddamn hippies. But there was no such thing as a greaser anymore. ‘N it was tuff to slum it. God, Pony’d have somethin’ real smart to say about it.

Anyways. We’re out in El Paso right now. I climbed up the roof last night ‘n I swore I could see Juarez from here. The boy who rides the barrel races said that was stupid. Juarez was still miles ‘n miles away. I suppose he’s right, but he ain’t kind.

Darry always said you don’t gotta like who you work with, you just gotta do the job. Though, don’t tell him that. I bet he’d latch right onto it ‘n insist it was reason enough I come right home. Really. Don’t tell him. ‘Cause I really might just listen.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. He can see himself peelin’ down the street chasin’ the storm, takin’ the front steps to the Curtis home in one leap, openin’ the door Darry still leaves unlocked. He can see himself slammin’ the letter down ‘n watchin’ as Darry picks the phone up ‘n calls him home. 

‘N then he opens his eyes ‘n knows he never will. 

But I can’t complain. I’m pretty well fed (better than the horses) ‘n mostly well paid (certainly better than the horses). I ride in a couple hours. I always get nervous beforehand. I wish you were here.

Steve crumples the paper. Grips it tight ‘n flinches at the sound the door makes as it slams open. No one’s there but the wind. ‘N the shadows of two boys peelin’ in from a rodeo. Or horsin’ around after a long day in September. Or sittin’ in the kind of companionable silence you could only get by knowin’ someone better than you knew yourself.  

Once we finish this circuit, I’ll be home—for a while, at least. I miss you, I miss everythin’.  I’m sorry. For all of it.

‘N he knows. He knows he is. ‘N it doesn’t make a goddamn difference. ‘N Steve’s never been religious but if God was real he was a cruel bastard. To make you be able to hate the thing you loved. And for what? Gettin’ the chance you didn’t. ‘N it makes him sick to his stomach. But Steve’s never been good at changin’. 

I’ll see you soon, Stevie. I got so much to tell you. I lo-

Yours, Sodapop :)

Steve tears the letter straight in half. ‘N then he sinks to the floor ‘n sobs like he hasn’t in many years. ‘N probably won’t again.

just got an absolutely despicable idea for a Stevepop fic I need u guys to know I am making this exact face

[lekopoofball]

“I’m not good at English, so I can’t speak English.” - Dami, in English

[eloquentsisyphianturmoil]

Dear silm fandom, concerning Fandom meta. Might be provocative for some.

‘The silm fandom is misogynistic’ ‘Feanorian fans are misunderstanding the characters’ ‘Silm fans hate Elwing’ And so on.

Can we stop? Your opinions are not better if you like feanorians. Your opinions are not better if you like peredhil. This is not black and white. I won’t argue ‘not all silm fans’, because I recognise that we have problems. But condescension will not fix them. Thank you.

[crazyw3irdo]

do y’all ever think about how yancy knows how to break out of prison and actively chooses not to. do you ever think about how when he breaks us out he knows the way so easily as if he’s been there a million times before. do you ever wonder if at some point he considered breaking himself out and just couldn’t go through with it.

[okcoolthanks]

I feel like my family’s getting sick of me